Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 31: Chapter 31

LIAM
The drive to the airport is quiet. Not the comfortable kind of quiet—the kind that sits heavy in the air, making it hard to breathe.
Emilia shifts beside me, her fingers playing with the hem of her skirt. I can tell she wants to say something, but every time she glances my way, she looks down at her lap instead.
I tap my fingers against the steering wheel, debating whether to turn on the radio. Maybe music would make this less awkward. But before I can, I hear Emilia take a slow breath.
“You sleep okay?” I ask. My voice comes out rougher than I intended.
It’s such an awkward question. I don’t think I’ve ever even asked anyone this before.
She exhales a laugh, barely more than a breath. “Not really. You?”
“Same.”
Silence again.
A car honks somewhere behind us, breaking the tension for half a second. But the quiet settles back in, just as heavy as before.
I want to say more. Ask her if she’s been eating well, if she’s okay, if we’re okay. But the words knot in my throat, and I can’t seem to untangle them.
Emilia clears her throat. “I, uh, almost missed my alarm. Mrs. Beckett came by before you did, and we were up late talking.”
I nod, my grip loosening just a little. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s good. Theo too.” She pauses. “She told me not to go back to my horrible ex.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “Smart woman.”
This time, when Emilia laughs, it sounds real. I risk a glance at her, catching the way her shoulders relax just a little.
For the first time in days, the air between us feels a little lighter.
Then the GPS announces a turn, and I realize—I don’t want this ride to end just yet.
As awkward and unsure as things are now between us, I would rather we sit in this car and stumble over our words than catch that flight to Chicago and watch her ex get married.
I wonder if she thinks this too.
The tires glide to a stop outside the airport terminal, and I shift the car into park. Neither of us moves.
Outside, people rush past with suitcases, dragging them behind or balancing coffee cups on top. Some are reuniting with family, others are saying their goodbyes. It’s busy, loud, chaotic—everything that the inside of this car isn’t.
I clear my throat. “We should—”
“Yeah,” Emilia cuts in, reaching for the door handle.
She leaves and I send Cam a message to pick up my car—he offered to drive us here, but I wanted time alone with Emilia—then stretch over to the backseat to grab the black cap and face mask I tossed in this morning before pulling them on.
This will do nothing to chase the paps away, but we can’t make it seem like we’re too desperate to be photographed together.
And yeah, maybe for once I’m not exactly ready to have cameras shoved in my face. Not after the week I’ve had.
It won’t do to think about it so I shove the thought away.
I exhale through my nose and step out, moving to the trunk to grab our bags. The moment I hoist Emilia’s suitcase onto the curb, she reaches for it, her fingers brushing mine.
Neither of us pulls away immediately.
Her lips part like she’s about to say something, but then she just takes the handle, adjusting her grip. “Thanks.”
I nod. “Yeah. You should probably cover up too. I have an extra cap in the back.” She listens and pulls open the door to grab the cap. She tries to put it on, but I’m faster, taking it from her hands and placing it on her head.
My fingers brush against her temple and it might be my imagination, but I think her breath hitches.
That can’t be right. I shake off the ridiculous thought.
The cap does nothing to hide her curls and it’s only hard to see her eyes because of the height difference between us, but it’s more than nothing.
“Thanks.” She says again.
I grab my bags, mostly to keep my hands busy, trying to ignore the tingling sensation erupting through my fingers just from the feel of her warm skin beneath them.
“It’s nothing.”
We head inside.
The inside of the airport is even more crowded than outside. People weave around us, chattering in different languages, flight announcements crackling over the speakers.
Emilia tugs her suitcase closer, glancing at the departure boards. I don’t think she notices the way she instinctively stands closer to me. But then again, it might not mean a thing, I’ve never been one for overthinking it doesn’t make sense to start now.
Besides, it would be unusual if we were photographed and we weren’t close to each other.
So I slip my free hand into hers, half expecting her to push me away. She stiffens at the touch and turns to look at me, but I can’t make out the look on her face with the cap pulled so low.
She doesn’t pull away.
“We should check in.”
“Right.”
We make our way through the line, and the silence between us isn’t as heavy as before, but it still lingers. I want to fill it, to make some kind of joke, but nothing comes to mind.
When it’s our turn, the airline employee scans our tickets, then gestures toward security.
“Guess this is it,” Emilia murmurs.
I glance at her. “What do you mean?”
Her fingers tighten around the suitcase handle. “The point of no return. The moment we actually go through security, we’re stuck with each other for the next month.”
Something about the way she says it makes my chest tighten. Is that a bad thing?
Before I can ask, she sighs. “Let’s just get this over with.”
I watch her for a beat longer before nodding.
×××
Security is a nightmare.
Not because of the long lines or the invasive pat-downs—I’ve dealt with worse. It’s the proximity.
Emilia stands close beside me, her arm brushing mine every so often as the line inches forward. Each time, my skin prickles with awareness, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Or if she does, she’s pretending not to.
I wish I could do the same.
We reach the conveyor belt, and Emilia huffs out a sigh as she unties her sneakers, balancing on one foot. She wobbles slightly, and without thinking, I reach out, steadying her with a hand on her waist.
She freezes. I do too.
For a moment, we just stand there—my hand on her waist, her fingers curled slightly around my wrist like she’s debating whether to push me away or hold on.
Ahem.
A throat clears behind us.
It’s a woman who looks like she’s in her early twenties, from the way she watches Emilia and I with a spark in her eyes, I realise there’s a high chance she knows who we are, but she says nothing and loads her stuff.
We jolt apart like we’ve been caught doing something we shouldn’t. Emilia ducks her head, pulling her cap further down and focuses on taking off her other shoe, while I turn toward the conveyor belt, busying myself with loading our bags.
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake the feeling of her warmth off my skin.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
We make it through security without further incidents, aside from Emilia glaring at the security officer who made her remove her cap. I chuckle under my breath, and she shoots me a look. “Not funny.”
“Not laughing.”
Her eyes narrow, but the corners of her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. And just like that, the tension between us shifts.
Not gone, not even close. But it’s so much lighter now.
We grab our things and head toward the gate, weaving through the terminal. I don’t realize how used to moving in sync we are until we navigate the crowd effortlessly, her small frame slipping into step beside me without either of us needing to say a word.
When we reach the gate, she glances at me. “Food?”
I nod. “Definitely.”
We stop at a café nearby, the air thick with the scent of coffee and fresh pastries. Emilia orders something ridiculously sweet—a caramel macchiato with extra whipped cream—while I stick to black coffee.
She catches me staring as she stirs in more sugar.
“What?”
I shake my head. “Nothing. Just thinking about how your drink is basically dessert.”
She shrugs. “Some of us like to enjoy the best things life has to offer, Liam.”
I smirk. “Some of us like coffee that actually tastes like coffee.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue. Instead, she takes a sip, eyes fluttering shut like she’s in heaven. I look away, pretending I don’t notice how her lips part slightly around the straw, how a little bit of whipped cream sticks to the corner of her mouth.
God help me.
I clear my throat. “We should head back.”
She hums in agreement, but when I move to stand, she doesn’t follow right away. Instead, she fidgets with her cup, glancing at me like she’s working up the nerve to say something.
Before I can ask, the overhead speaker crackles. “Now boarding Flight 172 to Chicago.”
Emilia exhales, shaking her head. “Guess that’s us.”
We grab our bags and head toward the gate.
×××
The plane is packed.
I let Emilia take the window seat, mostly because she looked like she needed it. She tucks herself into the corner, pulling out a book as I settle beside her.
The space between us is small—too small. Our arms brush when she shifts. Our knees bump when I adjust my seatbelt. Every accidental touch sends a spark of awareness through me.
The worst part? I don’t think it’s one-sided.
She’s pretending to read, but I can see the way her fingers grip the edges of the pages too tightly, the way her eyes flick to me when she thinks I’m not looking.
I should say something. Make a joke. Break the tension.
But then the plane jolts as we taxi down the runway, and Emilia’s hand shoots out, gripping my arm.
I glance down at her, surprised. “You okay?”
She nods quickly. Too quickly.
It rings every single alarm bell in my head.
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re scared of flying?”
“No,” she says, but her fingers tighten.
I bite back a smile. “Right. Totally believe you.”
She scowls but doesn’t let go.
The plane lifts off, the pressure pushing us back against our seats. Emilia inhales sharply, her nails digging into my forearm.
I shift slightly, turning my palm up as an invitation.
She hesitates. Then, slowly, carefully, her fingers slide into mine.
My breath catches.
I don’t look at her, and she doesn’t look at me. But neither of us pulls away.
Minutes pass. The plane evens out, the seatbelt sign dings off.
She could let go now. She doesn’t.
I tighten my grip just a little, just enough for her to know I’m here.
Just enough to let myself believe—for now—that maybe, just maybe, she wants to hold on too.