My "Broke" Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God

HARPER'S POV:

My hand trembled violently as I pushed the half-open bedroom door wide.

The scene that met my eyes didn't just break my heart; it shattered my entire reality into jagged, bleeding pieces.

They were bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Mason was hovering over her, his broad, muscular back flexing as he moved. His hands—the hands I knew so well, the hands that had held mine just days ago—were gripping Kennedy's hips with a desperate, hungry possession. Kennedy's head was thrown back against the pillows, her fingers tangled in his dark hair, her lips swollen and parted as she pulled him down for a deep, lingering kiss. The raw, undeniable heat between them was suffocating.

My boyfriend. And my best friend. The two people I trusted most in this world, destroying me together.

A strangled, pathetic gasp escaped my throat.

Kennedy shrieked, a sharp, panicked sound, violently shoving Mason off her and fumbling to drag the duvet over her bare chest.

Mason's head snapped toward me. The heavy-lidded passion on his face instantly curdled into shock. "Harper? What are you doing here?"

A roaring sound filled my ears, drowning out the world. I stared at the man I had loved for two years, the man I thought I would marry. Then I looked at Kennedy—the girl who was like a sister to me, knew all my secrets.

A wave of pure, acidic nausea churned in my gut. I couldn't breathe.

The walls felt like they were closing in on me. I turned on my heel without a word and stumbled blindly down the hallway.

I made it to the kitchen, my movements stiff and robotic. My tear-filled eyes landed on the pristine white bakery box sitting on the kitchen island.

Six hours.

Just an hour ago, I had been so incredibly happy. I had spent six grueling hours in my kitchen, tossing out a burnt first batch and meticulously tempering dark chocolate for the second, all to create the perfect chocolate lava cake for Mason's twenty-sixth birthday.

He had canceled our last three dates, blaming exhausting hockey practices and endless team meetings. Captain's duties, he had texted, brushing off my disappointment. But I had foolishly told myself today would be different. I just knew he'd carved out this one night for us.

I had slid my spare key into his apartment door, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm of anticipation. I had slipped inside, quiet as a mouse, whispering a soft "Surprise" to the empty, dim living room.

But instead of Mason's boyish smile, I was greeted by an unfamiliar perfume—a rich, intoxicating blend of vanilla and sandalwood. Kennedy's signature fragrance.

Then I saw her familiar denim jacket tossed carelessly over the sofa.

I had tried to rationalize it, telling myself she just dropped off a gift early.

But then came the soft, breathless moans. The low, gravelly murmurs. The discarded clothes on the floor.

I had walked into this apartment overflowing with love, only to be suffocated by the stench of their betrayal.

"Harper, wait!"

Mason's voice, laced with panic, snapped me back to the agonizing present.

He came running out into the kitchen, a towel wrapped hastily around his waist, his chest still heaving. "Harper, listen to me. It's not what you think."

"Not what I think?" A bitter, jagged laugh tore from my throat, scraping my vocal cords. "What is it, then? Were you two practicing your hockey checking techniques in bed?"

Kennedy appeared in the hallway behind him, clutching one of Mason's oversized button-down shirts around her trembling frame. Tears streamed down her face, a pathetic picture of fake innocence. "Harper, please... it was an accident! We didn't mean for this to happen. It just... it was a mistake!"

"An accident?" I repeated, the sheer audacity of the word leaving a metallic taste of blood in my mouth. My sorrow instantly hardened into blinding, white-hot rage. "You accidentally stripped naked and fell into my boyfriend's bed?"

I looked down at the cake box again. Six hours of love, patience, and blind trust. Wasted on a lie.

Without a second of hesitation, I opened the box, lifted the heavy, perfectly baked pastry, and smashed it directly into Mason's face.

Rich, dark chocolate and warm lava filling exploded across his stunned features, splattering onto his bare chest and the hardwood floor. Kennedy let out a horrified gasp, jumping back.

"Happy birthday, Mason," I said, my voice as cold and dead as the future I had just lost.

"We're done."

I didn't look back. I wrenched the front door open and ran into the night.