Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 159

EMILIA

"Do you think it's hot in Italy?"

Tessa groans like the question has personally wronged her. I pull back from our hug, adjusting the tote on her shoulder — her gift, which she's sworn not to open until she lands in Amalfi. Her actual handbag is hanging miserably off Aaron's arm like he's her overworked personal assistant. Not that he seems to mind, he barely takes his eyes off her, like he's only half listening to Liam.

I bite back a smile. Cute.

"Do you want the truth or comfort?" I ask.

"Comfort," she says instantly, eyes wide and doomed.

"It's freezing," I lie smoothly. "Pack a duvet."

She narrows her eyes. "So it's bad."

"It's... warm."

"It's hell, isn't it?" she whispers. "This man is trying to kill me."

He's trying to marry you, but I swallow that whole secret down before it spills like an emotional crime scene across the airport floor.

Honestly? Liam was right not to tell me. Because looking at Tessa now — so in love, so shiny, so stressed about the weather — it takes everything in me not to scream:

"You're getting proposed to on a cliffside, Tess!"

Or:

"Remember when we were failing classes and sharing one antidepressant? Look at you now! You snagged a hockey demigod!"

Or, the classic:

"Thank fuck you didn't settle for Lyle. That would've been the worst downgrade in the history of downgrades."

But I behave.

Barely.

"Don't look a mess on this trip, okay?" I say instead, taking her hands in mine like I'm sending her off to war.

She arches a perfect brow. "I should be telling you that, honeycomb. Where's the irony coming from?"

"I'm serious, Tess." I squeeze her fingers. My voice drops to that soft, dramatic whisper she hates. "You need to look stunning in all the photos. For memories."

She squints at me. "You're being so weird today."

I smile innocently. "Fine. But just... promise me you'll look happy. Gorgeous. Radiant."

"Whatever," she mutters, though she's clearly preening. "You're still weird."

We wave them off as they head for their gate, and once they disappear into the crowd, Liam and I make our way to the car. His hand brushes mine, casual but intentional.

"So," I say, "what exactly were you and Aaron smiling about?"

"Nothing," he says, far too quickly. "I was telling him about the trade rumours."

"Who?"

"Lyle," Liam mutters, shaking his head. "Aaron has a mean grudge. I'll think twice before pissing him off in the future."

I snort. "He doesn't want him on the same team?"

"He doesn't like the thought of him breathing the same air as Tessa."

I burst out laughing. "Figures."

He gives me a suspicious side-eye. "And what were you telling Tessa?"

"I didn't give anything away, I swear. Have more faith in me."

"Emilia Janice Carter."

"Not the government name," I whisper, horrified. "All I told her was to pretty up even more than she already does. Even Aaron will thank me. Her biggest nightmare would be getting proposed to in boxer shorts and an Emily in Paris tee."

We reach the car. Liam opens the door for me—after pressing a soft kiss to my cheek, warm and smug and claiming.

"You know," he says, leaning in just a little, "I'm starting to worry about how much you two conspire."

"Oh, please. Half the time she's threatening to put me in a freezer because I 'run hot.'"

He grins. "And the other half?"

I slide into the seat and tug him down by his shirt just long enough to kiss him properly. "The other half she's telling me how lucky I am."

Liam's smile softens, almost shy. "She's right."

He closes the door gently, like I'm something fragile he's choosing to protect.

And God — of all the moments we've had today, this one feels like home.

* * *

"What do you think of Luther's Cube? For the gallery name."

I rub the side of my forehead, fighting off a wave of mild motion sickness. Liam's been driving us for twenty minutes now — to where, he refuses to say — and if I don't type the idea out now, it'll evaporate. I tap the name into my laptop. "It matches the design aesthetic. Clean lines, neutrals, geometric displays. Lu always loved that look."

"Remember it's your gallery, love."

His voice is warm, grounding. "As long as it feels true to you, I'm here all the way. But... why Luther's Cube? The name fits you, though."

I stop typing and stare out the window. We're rolling through downtown, and when we pass Raven's storefront, nostalgia hits so hard I almost gasp. I want to ask Liam to pull over — to go in, to say hi, to get our makeup touched up like the old days — but the moment passes.

"When I was little, I hated strawberries," I say quietly. "For some reason, Luther used to cut them into the tiniest cubes. I don't know why, but it made me want to eat them. Then I discovered chocolate on strawberries and..." I shrug, fingers sliding along the cool window glass. "The rest is history."

Liam's hand finds my thigh, gentle. "I'm so proud of you, Emilia."

I don't trust myself to answer, so I lean back and close my laptop. Outside, the streets soften into the edge of Pier 17 — the glitter of the water catching sunlight in quick, bright flashes.

He parks.

Before I can ask what we're doing, the radio cuts to breaking news.

"...updates on Zane Whitmoore's trial resuming this week, with Stone Carter's first preliminary hearing for the ongoing sexual assault charges—"

I stiffen.

Liam reaches over and calmly switches the station.

Then he leans in, cups my cheek, and kisses me — long, slow, certain. The kind of kiss that says I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.

When he pulls back, he whispers, "I love you."

I smile, brushing my thumb over his jaw. "Of course you do."

We step out of the car, hand in hand, walking towards wherever he's leading me.

The wind off the East River is softer than I expect — cool, salty, brushing over my skin like a reminder to breathe. Liam leads me down the pier with our fingers laced, his thumb tracing lazy shapes along the back of my hand. I can tell he's excited. His strides give him away; he keeps speeding up and then slowing down like he's afraid I'll catch on.

Then again, he's terrible at hiding anything from me.

"Emilia," he says, pulling me gently to a stop. "Look."

A sleek, white boat rocks gently against the dock — not outrageously big, not flashy, just beautiful. Elegant. Peaceful. Exactly the sort of thing I would've picked out of a catalogue if someone asked me what comfort looked like.

I blink. "This is...?"

"Ours," he says. "For the afternoon. For the week. For however long you want."

My breath leaves me in a slow, stunned exhale. "Liam..."

He steps behind me, arms sliding around my waist as he presses a kiss into my shoulder. "You've been building so many things for everyone else," he murmurs. "Your gallery, your friends, your healing. I wanted to build something for you. Just one thing. Just one moment." Another kiss. Warmer. "Just us."

I turn in his arms, heart kicking hard against my ribs. "This is really corny," I whisper.

"Yeah?" His mouth curves. "And you love it."

I do. God, I do.

He helps me onto the boat — steady hands, steady smile — and once we're both aboard, the engine hums to life beneath us. The city begins to drift away, skyscrapers shrinking to a glittering backdrop while the water opens endlessly in front of us.

For a few minutes, we don't talk. We stand shoulder to shoulder at the railing, the breeze tugging at my hair, my hand tucked into his. Manhattan glows like a promise behind us.

Then he speaks, voice low enough to get lost in the wind. "You know, I still remember the first time I saw you. You terrified me."

I laugh, startled. "I terrify you now."

"Yeah, but back then you terrified me in a different way." He looks down at me, eyes warm. "You were everything I wasn't ready for. And everything I wanted anyway."

The wind quiets around us. Or maybe it just feels like it does.

I swallow. "Liam..."

"I love you," he says simply. "Not the excited playoff version of me, not the broken version, not the one who screws things up. All of me. Every time. Every day. Even the days you make it very, very hard."

My eyes sting. "I make it hard?"

He leans in, kisses the corner of my mouth. "You make me alive."

I don't realise I'm crying until he brushes his thumb under my cheekbone. "Don't," he whispers, brow furrowing. "You'll make me start."

I laugh — a choked, messy, ridiculous sound — and tug him down by the collar of his hoodie for a full kiss. One that tastes like salt and wind and something dangerously close to forever.

When I pull back, I press my forehead to his. "I love you too," I say. "Of course I do."

He smiles. That boyish one he tries to hide and fails every single time. "Good. Because I have a plan."

"Another one?"

"A very important one." He squeezes my hips. "I'm going to spend this entire week making you so happy you'll forget how stressed you are about the gallery's opening and the trial and everything else."

I raise a brow. "The entire week? That's an ambitious schedule, baby."

He shrugs. "I'm extremely talented."

"Oh trust me," I say, tugging him in for another kiss, "I'm aware."

The boat glides further into the water, the city falling behind us, the sun lowering into a warm, golden haze that settles over everything — over him, over me, over the space between us that is no longer a wound but something healed and bright.

I rest my head on his shoulder.

And for the first time in a long time, I let myself feel it fully — the rare, quiet certainty that I am safe, and loved, and finally, finally home.