The Hockey Star's Runaway Fake Girlfriend

Isla Owens POV:

The scent of honey and spices filled the apartment as I pulled the roast chicken from the oven. Its skin was a perfect, crackling gold.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. The hands had just swept past seven.

My phone buzzed violently on the counter. It was Josie.

I pressed the accept button.

"Babe!" her voice crackled through the speaker before I could even say hello. "I just saw on the campus forum—that asshole Christian is back! He didn't tell you, did he?"

I leaned against the kitchen counter, suddenly feeling the heat from the oven on my skin.

"No, he didn't tell me," I said, my voice flat. But I'd already seen the news that he was coming back through other channels.

"Ha!" Josie scoffed, never one to mince words. "Typical. That's your 'boyfriend' for you. Returns like a ghost and doesn't even tell the girl he's living with."

Josie Silva, my best friend and roommate before I moved in here, was my reliable source for all things Briar University, especially things I didn't want to know.

This was how I always found out about him. Through the campus grapevine, through sports blogs, through everyone except Christian himself.

He was the captain of the Briar hockey team, a star player with a spotlight so bright it often left me standing in his shadow. I'd read about his pre-season training in the school paper before he ever mentioned it to me.

Just last week, a sports blog had named him a "future NHL prospect," a headline I learned about from a classmate's Instagram story.

I subconsciously tugged at the Briar hockey team jacket I was wearing. It was Christian's, number 13 emblazoned on the back.

This was part of our "contract," playing the part of his adoring girlfriend in public.

The deal had been laid out in cold, practical terms: his family covered my tuition, and in return, I wore his jacket, smiled at his games, and never asked for more. But somewhere along the way, the pretending had started to feel too real.

The apartment was terribly quiet, filled only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional car passing outside.

"Well," Josie said, her voice softening slightly, "are you still coming to dinner? I got a bonus and I'm feeling generous."

I looked at the elaborate dinner I had prepared. I'd made his favorites,not because the contract required it, but because some foolish, hopeful part of me had wanted him to come home to me. The rich aroma of the chicken began to fade, the heat dissipating into the cold air. Every dish was a silent mockery of my foolishness. "Maybe next time," I said, my throat tight. "I'll call you next time I go."

After I hung up, I picked up my phone again. My thumb hovered over Christian's contact. I couldn't bring myself to press it. I was afraid of the loud background noise I might hear, or worse, no answer at all.

Instead, I scrolled through my feed. And that's when I saw it.

A video from Tristan Sinclair, his teammate. Just posted.

The background was a dimly lit, crowded frat house party. Tristan was holding the camera, pans across a room full of people, then lands on Christian.

He was wearing a simple black t-shirt, a red solo cup in his hand, leaning in to hear something his teammate, Tristan Sinclair, was saying. A careless smile played on his lips.

The video was timestamped ten minutes ago.

My stomach dropped. So he was back. He just hadn't come back to this place we were supposed to call "home."

The noise and music from the photo seemed to bleed through the screen, a sharp contrast to the silent, cold apartment I was sitting in.

I looked at the elaborate dinner I had prepared, now untouched. Every dish was a silent mockery of my foolishness.

I stood up and walked to the window, staring down at the empty parking spot below. His exclusive spot, reserved for his sports car.

I turned off the warm overhead lights in the dining room, leaving only a single dim floor lamp.

I picked up a plate and mechanically served myself a piece of the lukewarm chicken.

I didn't sit back down at the table. I moved to the sofa in the living room and turned on the TV.

Some mindless late-night talk show was on. I couldn't hear a word of it.

Around midnight, I scraped the barely touched dinner into the trash can. The plate made a dull thud against the bottom of the bag.

I took a shower, went to my bedroom, and left the door ajar. I lay in bed, cradling my little orange cat Apollo,the one I'd adopted from the shelter last week—against my chest, his soft purring a small comfort.

Lying in bed, I could hear the faint, muffled sounds of parties from down the street. This college town never slept.

I don't know how long I lay there. Just as I was drifting off, I heard the sound of a key in the front door.

My heart seized. Was that Christian?

I was instantly awake, my body rigid. I strained to hear.

Heavy footsteps crossed the living room.

The footsteps paused just outside my bedroom door.

I held my breath and did not dare stir, feigning sleep.