Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 158

EMILIA

"I must be hallucinating," I tease, leaning against the doorway and watching my very shirtless, very distracting boyfriend navigate the kitchen. "For some reason, I'm seeing my boyfriend. That can't be right. Mr. MVP has been far too busy to bother with his lonely, boring girlfriend."

I'd woken up in the best way possible — his side of the bed slightly messy, the faint scent of breakfast in the air, and none of it is Tessa's doing.

Now he's in nothing but shorts and an apron, the evidence of his hand-squeezed orange juice long forgotten. He glances back at me, doesn't even startle, and strides over. His lips crash onto mine, hard, demanding, until I can't help but let out a soft moan. He trails kisses down my neck, nips at my collarbone, and then grins, devastatingly.

"It's not like that, my love."

"Oh?" I arch an eyebrow.

"I made you breakfast. You're just in time."

Two plates of avocado toast with perfectly poached eggs and a glass of orange juice sit on the counter. The gesture alone almost melts me — but I let him kiss me anyway.

"So... this isn't an apology?"

"Of course not," he says softly, thumb brushing my cheek. "It's an I love you."

My stomach growls on cue — traitor — and I slide onto a stool like I'm doing him a favour by even sitting down. "Funny. I can't remember the last time someone told me that."

Liam snorts. "I tell you every day."

"Do you? Huh. Must've missed it."

He moves behind me, arms wrapping around my waist, chin dropping onto my shoulder. He smells like citrus and sleep and something warm that always makes my chest feel too small. He presses slow, lazy kisses into my hair, then — because he likes to ruin me first thing in the morning — he kisses the shell of my ear.

I shiver so hard he laughs under his breath.

"I love you," he murmurs. "And I'm sorry. But you're only allowed to decide if you forgive me after you eat my breakfast. Please?"

I pretend to think about it for a heroic three seconds.

Which is how I end up with him in the stool beside me, his own plate ignored, spoon‑feeding me like I'm a toddler or a brat being coaxed. Probably the latter, knowing him.

"Ah," he says, holding up a bite.

Some part of me flickers — déjà vu, a memory I can't quite touch — but I open my mouth anyway. The second the toast hits my tongue, I close my eyes to keep an embarrassing sound inside my throat.

When I look again, he's biting his lip to hide a smile.

I scowl. "What? What's funny? The toast is not good enough to win my forgiveness, you know."

"Of course," he says immediately, nodding solemnly, like I can't see his lower lip twitching.

"Good. Now—ah." I open my mouth.

He feeds me another bite.

This time he cracks. A full laugh, head tipped back, stupidly gorgeous. I pinch his side for the disrespect, but it only makes him lean in — slow, deliberate — and lick the crumbs right off my bottom lip.

My entire body malfunctions. I don't even remember how to scowl. My breath stutters, my pulse jumps, and his eyes flick down to my mouth like he's starving.

He drags his tongue across his own lower lip, tasting the trace of me he stole, and exhales—low, rough, wanting.

"Well," he murmurs, voice dipping, "that's unfair."

I blink, catching his words seconds late. "W-what is?"

He doesn't answer right away. He just presses his forehead against mine, close enough that I feel his breath brush my lips. My heart is pounding so loud I'm afraid he hears it.

"You're still chewing," he finally says, eyebrow lifting.

I swallow—quickly. "I was savoring it."

He hums, amused, his lips almost touching mine. "Savoring the toast?"

"Yes," I lie boldly.

"Not me?" he asks, teasing, smug, way too pleased with himself.

I try to roll my eyes, but he's too close, and my body betrays me, leaning toward him like he's gravity. "Don't flatter yourself," I say, but the words come out breathier than intended.

His smile curves against my skin, barely-there contact that sends heat shooting down my spine.

"Too late," he whispers, lips brushing mine without fully kissing. "Way too late."

He drops a hand to my thigh, slow, light, not crossing the line but teasing, testing me. I shift closer, matching him, daring him to do more.

"And here I thought breakfast was the main event," I tease, heart hammering, but it's already irrelevant.

"Oh, it's just the opening act," he murmurs, teeth grazing my earlobe. "Main event comes after we clean up this mess."

I bite my lip, trying not to give anything away, but I'm failing spectacularly. My fingers curl into the edge of the counter for balance, or maybe to keep from grabbing him entirely.

He smirks, sensing my surrender, and leans in again, this time a little firmer. Our lips meet, and it's soft at first, teasing, exploratory... then deeper, slower, more insistent, the kind of kiss that says we've waited too long for this morning.

I melt against him, one hand tangling in the back of his hair, the other brushing over his chest, feeling the warmth of him through just an apron. He groans softly into the kiss, and I know I'm done for — breakfast forgotten, time irrelevant.

When we finally pull back, gasping just slightly, his forehead still pressed to mine, he whispers:

"Stay here. Don't move. I'm not done with you."

And in that moment, I don't want to move anywhere else. Not for coffee, not for work, not even for life. Because Liam, sexy, messy, perfect Liam, is right here.

And he's all mine.

* * *

I haven't felt this loose in weeks. Liam leans over me to buckle my seatbelt, all gentle efficiency and stupidly good cologne, before I immediately claim the radio.

"So you're officially on break?" I ask.

"Never been more unemployed, my love."

I squint at him. "Unemployed unemployed? Like... nothing on your schedule? No interviews? No ads? No endorsements?"

"Not that unemployed." He grins, pulling us out of the driveway. "But this entire week is ours alone."

I hum, scrolling through stations until a trap song kicks in. "Where's Aaron taking Tessa again?"

"Amalfi Coast."

"Is that why they're making such a big deal about us seeing them off?" I click my tongue. "I'm a little jealous. I want us to go on vacation too."

He throws me a look. "So what exactly do you call what we're going on now? Huh?"

I consider it. "Fair."

"Besides," he adds, "Aaron wants you to witness the final moments of Tessa not having a ring on her finger, probably."

I whip my head to him. "You mean—?"

"Yup. He even asked me to help with ring shopping."

"Liam!" I shriek, and he laughs. "You didn't even tell me!"

"Because you'd react exactly like this, then accidentally tell Tessa. And then the surprise wouldn't be a surprise anymore." We stop at a red light, and he picks up my hand, kissing the back of it—once, twice, three times—before tracing lazy patterns along my skin. "I'm sorry, love."

"That's the second time you've apologised today. I don't trust you anymore."

"Fair. But I also didn't tell you because I wasn't sure if it was too early. They haven't even been together that long. He's been in love with her for years, but still."

I mull it over before shaking my head. "Honestly? His tactic is genius. Tie her down early before she starts doing her usual spiral and talking herself out of happiness. And she'd never say no. I've never seen her this in love. They're different, but on the exact same wavelength."

Liam glances at me, that soft, unbearably tender smile tugging at his mouth. "Like you and me?"

"Exactly, baby." I squeeze his fingers. "Just like you and me."

We pull over by a tiny gift shop, the kind that sells everything from postcards to questionable jewellery. I'm here for the final touches to Tessa's goodbye gift — and, honestly, a peace offering for blowing off our friendship vacation for the sixth, seventh, I-don't-even-know-th time. She really is going to kill me one of these days.

While I wander the aisles, Liam stands outside talking to a small crowd of fans who've recognised him. He's been extra busy lately — barely home, constantly travelling — but that also means he's been extra famous too. His name has been in every headline since the playoffs. Every radio station. Every group chat.

I shake it off, focusing on the task at hand. This is about Tessa.

After debating between six different cards (all equally ugly), I finally pick the one with enough blank space for my sappiness.

Inside, I write:

I know you'll be too busy staring at Aaron's chest to read this, but in case you do: don't forget who your first soulmate was.

I slide it into her travel survival kit slash tote bag — which is half apology, half emotional support package. Herbal teas instead of wine, since we're both actually taking therapy and AA seriously these days. A silk sleep mask. A mini journal for all her unhinged thoughts. Hydration packets. Her favourite snacks. And the tiny framed photo of us from the playoff finals — cheeks flushed, eyes puffy, smiles ridiculous.

The kind of picture that proves we survived something together. And we're still choosing each other, even as everything in our lives keeps changing.

I zip the tote up just as Liam finally breaks away from his fans and heads toward me, sunlight catching in his hair, that stupidly gorgeous smile aimed only at me.

For a second, the world shrinks down to something small and easy. Just him, just me.

I wave to the little crowd behind him, all cheerful like I'm not completely whipped.

"Done?"

"Yeah." He reaches out, palm open, eyes soft in that way that ruins me.

"Take my hand, love."

Always.