Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 157

EMILIA

SEVEN MONTHS LATER

"Don't push my lattes — they're steaming, you fucker!" Tessa snarls at the guy in the red Bullhawks jersey shoving past us, and I have to bite back my smile.

We're not even inside the arena yet. Just outside Centre Bell and already it feels like we're standing in the middle of a national emergency. Montreal fans are everywhere — face paint, flags, megaphones, and chants that sound half like French and half like threats.

Julie's clutching her bullhorn-blue scarf like it's a life vest. "Okay... this is actually terrifying."

"That's because Montreal actually cares about hockey," Tessa mutters, still burning holes into Red Jersey's spine. I'm genuinely convinced she's memorising his face for later revenge. "Also because you look like Liam's sister. They can smell it."

Julie snorts. "Please. They're booing at everyone wearing blue."

"No," Tessa says, pointing dramatically at me, "they booed directly at Emilia's face. That was targeted."

"I'm wearing Liam's jersey," I uselessly chip in.

"You could've worn a coat." Tessa grabs my wrist and yanks me forward as another wave of Bullhawks fans surges past, chanting something loudly. I don't bother mentioning she and her precious latte were probably the real targets. She is very publicly dating one of the Titans' star players. And she didn't bother covering her jersey. In late June. When we were sweating buckets an hour ago.

But I can already feel a headache brewing behind my eyes.

"How about we eat before one of us commits a felony?" Julie says, rubbing her temple. "My blood sugar dropped just from listening to you two."

Food always wins over conflict. Always.

We grab hotdogs and fries on the way in, and by the time we're inhaling them, the arena noise fades into background static. Julie lifts her phone mid–chew, fries sticking out of her mouth like antennae. "Lacey's apologising for not being here."

"She should," Tessa mutters, still juggling the two lattes she refused to share. She takes a sip from one... then the other... like she's doing a taste test she paid too much for. "Twenty-eight dollars. For coffee. And she doesn't even show up to drink hers."

I click my tongue and eye her. "As long as she's okay. There's always next year."

Julie shakes her head. "She's fine, she just said she needed to sort something out for work back in Chicago. I don't know what's gotten into her lately—she's barely a workaholic and she's acting like one of us."

"She's been spending too much time with the queen of overwork," Tessa says, jabbing her thumb dramatically at me, the blatant lie makes my eyebrow lift.

"Tessa," I sigh, "you once stayed awake for thirty-one hours because you 'forgot' to stop typing."

She slurps her latte loud enough to echo. "Thanks for the acknowledgment, Ems. Means a lot."

I almost roll my eyes—almost. Instead I give her my sweetest, fakest smile and reach for the untouched latte.

"Since she's not here, can I—"

"No," Tessa says, immediately clutching both cups to her chest like stolen treasure. "They're mine. Go get your own, you entitled gremlin. Go donate a kidney at the concession stand like I did."

I blink at her. "You don't even like lattes in the evenings."

"I do tonight."

Julie snorts into her fries.

We bicker the whole way to our seats, and only when the lights drop and the first roar sweeps through the arena do we snap our mouths shut.

Tessa lifts her latte in a toast. "Welcome to the Stanley Cup Finals, babies. You know what this means?"

"The boys can finally breathe again?" I offer. "We don't have to feel guilty about rejecting all those WAG brunch invitations for the next eight months?"

"Better." She grins. "I can finally go on holiday. Somewhere with no ice. And the world's best left winger."

Fair enough.

Then the teams skate out and every thought leaves my skull. Titans take the ice in a wave of navy and silver, and even from up here, even through the helmets and pads and chaos, I spot Liam. It's embarrassing how fast my heart jumps. Julie screams his name like she's auditioning for a siren role in a disaster film, and I join in — because if there's any night to lose your dignity, it's a Stanley Cup night.

The puck drops and by the first intermission, I'm clinging to the railing like it's the only thing keeping me alive.

"Why is this so stressful?" I whisper.

Julie laughs, but it's the manic, on-the-brink type. "Because it's the Finals? Because my brother is playing like he never wants to sleep again? Because Montreal keeps hitting everyone like they owe them rent?"

"All valid," I say, swallowing hard.

Tessa is vibrating in her seat, half from adrenaline, half from the ungodly amount of overpriced coffee she's consumed. "If Aaron doesn't score tonight, I'm legally changing my name and fleeing the country."

"Wouldn't be the first time," I mutter.

She flips me off half-heartedly. "You want to bet who scores first? Mine or yours?"

I don't even blink. "Liam scores first and I get that limited-edition hardcover for my birthday."

"Aaron scores first and I cash in on that all expense paid bestie trip you promised me when I was mad at you, you bloody lying cunt."

"Deal."

Julie snorts. "Calm your tits, girls. Liam always scores in big games."

"He also loses his mind in big games," I add under my breath, because the last time Liam played Montreal, he nearly broke a man in half.

The second period is worse.

Worse as in Montreal decides the puck is optional and violence is compulsory.

Every hit rattles my bones from three sections up. Every time Liam touches the puck, the Bullhawks swarm him.

And then it happens.

A breakaway. Jesper steals the puck, speeds down the ice. The arena rises in one giant inhale.

Jesper fakes a shot.

Slides the puck across.

Aaron catches it clean and snaps it under the goalie's glove before Montreal even realises he exists.

The red light flashes.

The noise is apocalyptic.

Tessa launches out of her seat. "EXACTLY! SHOW THEM HOW IT'S DONE—"

Julie screams and nearly falls over the railing. I clap a hand over my chest.

"Okay," I gasp. "Okay. I think I tasted blood."

"One–zero!" Tessa crows, shaking my shoulders. "Pay! Up!"

I groan. "Fine. Fine. Enjoy your stupid victory trip."

"You're damn right I will."

But Montreal answers five minutes later with a rebound no one could stop, and suddenly it's 1–1 and the arena wants someone's soul.

By the time regulation ends, I'm sweating like I played the entire game myself.

We grip each other as the horn sounds.

"No," Julie says. "No overtime. I won't live."

But overtime begins anyway.

And it's hell.

Every second is a near-goal. Every shot makes me flinch. Liam has two breakaways, one gorgeous pass from Jesper, one shot off the post that makes Julie scream into her scarf.

But no one scores.

The horn blows again.

Shootout.

Tessa leans forward, wide-eyed. "I hate this. I hate this so much."

"Same," Julie whispers.

I'm silently praying.

Montreal shoots first — saved.

The arena shakes.

Titans send Aaron.

He skates in, drops his shoulder, snaps it glove-side.

Goal.

Tessa scoffs. "He's perfect, this isn't news."

Montreal scores next.

Lyle goes for New York — misses.

Then another Montreal miss.

Then another New York miss.

Julie is trembling. "I can't... I can't watch—"

"You sure?" Tessa asks, eyes glued open and bloodshot. "Because I physically can't blink anymore."

Montreal sends their fourth shooter.

Saved.

If Liam scores, they win.

Everything in me stops.

He skates to centre ice.

Slow. Calm. Composed in that terrifying Liam way.

He starts forward. Stick loose. Head low. A glide, a cut, a drag. The goalie bites early.

Liam waits a half-second—

—then chips the puck over the goalie's blocker like he's tossing a coin into a fountain.

The net ripples.

The arena detonates.

I don't hear Julie's scream. I don't hear Tessa's latte hit the floor. I don't hear anything except twenty thousand people losing their minds as the Titans clear the bench and swarm him.

Liam disappears under helmets and gloves and arms, the whole team piling on top of him.

I cry. I don't even care.

"They did it," Julie whispers, stunned.

"They did it," I echo, barely believing it myself.

Security lets families through. Tessa grabs my hand, giving me a quick, conspiratorial tug forward—but in the blink it takes me to blink back, she's gone, swept into Aaron's arms. His niece clings to his back, bouncing with delight, and his sister's cheeks are streaked with happy tears. My chest swells at the sight, and I let myself smile before turning back to where my own happiness waits.

The ice is cold, slick, unreal under my boots. Players and staff spill everywhere — hugs, helmets, cheers. Liam turns just in time to see me step onto the ice.

His whole face changes.

He stops hearing the world.

He skates to me fast — not fast enough to knock me over, but fast enough to steal my breath. His gloves come off. His helmet hits the bench behind him without him looking.

He cups my face with both hands and kisses me.

Hard. Joyful. Laughing against my mouth.

"We won," he breathes.

"You scored the winner," I whisper back.

He presses his forehead to mine. "You're my good-luck charm."

"That's scientifically inaccurate."

"Still true."

Then he lifts me — actually lifts me — off the ice, spinning me in a circle while the Stanley Cup is carried out behind us.

The confetti falls.

The crowd roars.

And in the centre of all of it, Liam kisses me again as if this whole damn night was always leading here.