Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 49: Chapter 49
You are reading Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player, Chapter 49: Chapter 49. Read more chapters of Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player.
EMILIA
Anger rolls through me in thick, uncontrollable waves.
Who the hell does he think he is? Judging me like he’s any better? Like I’m the one who’s screwed up here?
I stalk down the deck, barely aware of where I’m going. The ocean breeze whips against my skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire in my veins.
All the words I should have said claw at my throat. I should have told him exactly what I thought of him. Of his arrogance. His entitlement. His complete inability to take anything seriously unless it benefits him.
At least I got over my ex. At least I didn’t leave the girl saving my career alone for two weeks while my psychotic fans harassed her.
My nails dig into my palms as I turn into a corner.
I pass Johnson — the tech bro from karaoke — and force myself to smile, giving him a small wave. He grins back, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
Because the moment I do, my mind goes right back to him.
Liam.
That stupid, infuriating, reckless man-child.
Why do I let him get to me like this? Why does one argument with him feel like it’s stripping me bare, like he sees too much of me when I want him to see nothing at all?
I storm past the pool deck, past the couples swaying to soft music under the string lights, past the bartender who’s watching me like he already knows I need another drink, then I pause and retrace my footsteps.
Maybe I do need a drink.
A strong one.
Because if I let myself think — if I let myself feel — I’ll march right back to Liam and slap him again. And this time, I won’t stop at one.
I take a seat in front of the bartender. “I’ll take the strongest thing you have.”
He takes one look at me and wordlessly pours something dark and smoky into a glass. I down it in one gulp. It burns, but I barely flinch.
Another.
Then another.
It’s reckless, stupid, even, but I don’t stop. Maybe I don’t want to.
Would Liam judge me for this too?
The thought alone makes me grab another drink.
Like he has any right.
Like he wasn’t the one acting like touching me was some horrible mistake. Like I was some desperate mess who’d ruin a wedding just because my ex was within arm’s reach.
God.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the ache in my chest doesn’t go away.
Why does it hurt?
It shouldn’t.
I slide my phone out of my pocket, taking another deep gulp of my drink. No new messages from Tessa. Not that I expected any.
When she’s mad — really mad — I’d be lucky if she didn’t delete my number entirely.
I let out a sigh, rubbing a hand over my face as the memory of that day creeps in. I hadn’t meant to drop that bomb on her like that. Or maybe I had, but I hadn’t expected her to react the way she did. Then again, I should’ve known better.
The plastic fork in Tessa’s hand snaps clean in two.
I freeze.
She stares at the broken pieces like they personally offended her. Then her left eye twitches — the way it always does when she’s furious — and I know I’ve messed up. Badly.
“What did you just say?” Her voice is dangerously calm.
I lower my own fork, suddenly not hungry. “Zane came to my bakery.”
She nods. Once. Twice. Then she slowly sets the broken fork down, folds her hands on the table, and levels me with a look that could probably stop time.
I rush to explain everything, not daring to hold anything back. It’s better to get it all out now than have her find out later. But by the time I’m done, her expression hasn’t changed. If anything, she looks worse.
“Tess—”
“So when exactly were you planning to tell me this?” she asks. She’s smiling now, but it’s the kind of smile that makes my stomach drop.
“I just—” I swallow. “It wasn’t worth talking about. I’ve moved on. You were right, he’s not worth it, and I finally realised that.”
“Well, good for you for finally seeing the light,” she says, voice tight, “but I can’t exactly bring myself to care about that right now.”
My throat dries.
“Your ex-fiancé broke into your bakery and hurt you,” she continues, voice rising, “and instead of telling me — so we could call the fucking cops on that bastard — you lied to me. Repeatedly. You brushed me off when I was concerned. And now you’re just dumping this on me like it’s casual dinner conversation? What exactly do you expect me to do here? Say thank you for finally telling me? For taking your sweet time keeping me in the dark while you were assaulted?”
“Tessa!” I choke out, but I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
Her hands slam onto the table. “No. Don’t Tessa me.”
I shrink back.
God, I really messed up.
“You know what?” Tessa says, pushing back her chair so fast it scrapes against the floor.
I jump up too. “Tessa, I’m sorry—”
“Save it.” She doesn't even look at me. “You didn’t tell me for a reason. It’s fine.”
It doesn’t sound fine.
She turns on her heel and heads to her room. I reach for her arm, but she sidesteps me effortlessly, walking away like I’m not even there.
Then — click.
Her bedroom door shuts.
My shoulders slump. The sting behind my eyes burns harder, but I refuse to let it spill over. Instead, I sink back into my chair, pick up my plastic fork, and force down the rest of Tessa’s terrible pasta.
I chew. Swallow. Repeat.
I don’t know if it’s the awful taste, the way my mind keeps flashing back to that night in the bakery, or the look in Tessa’s eyes before she left — but my throat tightens, and my vision blurs.
I blink fast. Not now.
I finish every last bite of her horrible cooking and clean up the dishes, rinsing them until my fingers go numb under the water.
An hour later, my stomach revolts. I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m throwing up everything.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, panting, waiting for the relief to come.
It doesn’t.
Still, I send Tessa my usual check-in messages — the ones she never replies to — and open Instagram.
My vision swims for a second, but I manage to scroll. Nothing interesting. Nothing—
I pause. Squint. Zoom in.
Huh, isn’t this face kinda familiar?
It takes my sluggish brain a few extra beats to realise why.
It’s me.
My stomach dips. The post has hundreds of thousands of likes and nearly twenty thousand comments.
That can’t be good.
I blink hard, trying to focus, but my head feels like it’s full of fog. Still, my brain finally catches up.
In the picture, I’m holding one of the plushies I thought about giving Tess as a bribe, my face lit up in a big, open-mouthed smile. I look... happy. Like, genuinely happy. I don’t even remember the last time I saw myself like that.
Then I check the account.
Liam.
My fingers fumble as I tap on his profile. The timestamp says he posted this over five hours ago.
I try to read the caption, but the letters won’t stay still. They blur, shifting like they’re running off the screen. I tilt my head, blink hard, but it doesn’t help.
Why would he post me on Instagram? And he never said anything about it, too.
My heart picks up its pace and I scowl.
No, there’s nothing special about this. He doesn’t even care about me.
Not that I want him to. This is all just pen on paper.
For a moment, the alcohol fades enough for guilt to slip in.
The fight replays in my head, and my stomach twists.
Should I even have said any of that?
God. I was practically throwing gasoline on a fire. And what I said about Mar and Elijah...
Why did I even say that? I don’t even know what they think of him.
But the way he looked at me — like he wasn’t surprised at all. Like he’s used to people thinking the worst of him.
And then he still apologised.
He looked... hurt.
And that does something weird to my chest, but I shake it off.
No. Whatever. He’s a complete jerk.
Even if... even if sometimes when he looks at me, it’s like the rest of the world falls away. Like I don’t have to be anything but myself
My chest warms up at the thought of him. Somehow he’s always right there when I need him—
I scowl. What the hell, Emilia? It wasn’t that long ago when he completely ignored your existence. For two weeks straight.
Ugh. No. That was just the tequila talking.
Right?
Anyway. This is definitely a sober, tomorrow problem.
I press the rim of my next drink to my lips, Liam already kind of forgotten, but the room tilts, and I giggle — actually giggle — because wow, okay, maybe I had a little too much.
A hand wraps around my wrist before I can take another sip.
I barely stop myself from flinching. That slight touch feels so.. wrong.
“Drowning your sorrows?”
That voice. I know that voice.
My brows furrow. My thoughts are slow, messy. Like my brain is wading through syrup.
Is it Liam?
No. Not possible. I think.
He wouldn’t be here.
And yet—
I blink up at him. He’s real. Standing right in front of me, watching me with that unreadable look.
Then I blink again and he’s smiling. Once more and his blond hair is brown. The last time his smile is predatory.
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut for a second. When I open them, everything looks normal again.
Too much tequila. That’s all.
I must have had more to drink than I thought.
My breath catches, but I quickly scowl, yanking my wrist from his hold. “What do you care?” I mumble, swaying slightly as I bring the glass to my lips again. “You’ve already made it clear I don’t mean anything to you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while and I look back at him, but my vision’s a bit blurred. “You know that’s not true.”
I scoff, swirling the drink again. My limbs feel heavy, my head light. “Oh yeah? Because it sure sounded true when you basically called me desperate for my ex.”
A hand brushes my wrist.
The touch is rough and warning alarms go off in my head, but they’re sloppy at best.
I flinch. “Don’t touch me,” I snap. “You don’t get to act like you care, Liam. Not after—” My voice cracks, and I hate it. I hate him.
The hand pulls back.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he drawls and I try not to think too deeply about how weird all of this is.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Then why do you always do it?”
A beat of silence.
Then—
“Because you make it too easy, princess.”
My stomach drops.
My heart slams against my ribs.
For some reason, all the alcohol leaves my veins and I can finally think clearly.
That’s not Liam’s voice.
My breath stutters as I force my head up now that my vision isn’t so blurred anymore.
And sure enough, it’s not Liam.
It’s Stone.
Anger rolls through me in thick, uncontrollable waves.
Who the hell does he think he is? Judging me like he’s any better? Like I’m the one who’s screwed up here?
I stalk down the deck, barely aware of where I’m going. The ocean breeze whips against my skin, but it does nothing to cool the fire in my veins.
All the words I should have said claw at my throat. I should have told him exactly what I thought of him. Of his arrogance. His entitlement. His complete inability to take anything seriously unless it benefits him.
At least I got over my ex. At least I didn’t leave the girl saving my career alone for two weeks while my psychotic fans harassed her.
My nails dig into my palms as I turn into a corner.
I pass Johnson — the tech bro from karaoke — and force myself to smile, giving him a small wave. He grins back, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
Because the moment I do, my mind goes right back to him.
Liam.
That stupid, infuriating, reckless man-child.
Why do I let him get to me like this? Why does one argument with him feel like it’s stripping me bare, like he sees too much of me when I want him to see nothing at all?
I storm past the pool deck, past the couples swaying to soft music under the string lights, past the bartender who’s watching me like he already knows I need another drink, then I pause and retrace my footsteps.
Maybe I do need a drink.
A strong one.
Because if I let myself think — if I let myself feel — I’ll march right back to Liam and slap him again. And this time, I won’t stop at one.
I take a seat in front of the bartender. “I’ll take the strongest thing you have.”
He takes one look at me and wordlessly pours something dark and smoky into a glass. I down it in one gulp. It burns, but I barely flinch.
Another.
Then another.
It’s reckless, stupid, even, but I don’t stop. Maybe I don’t want to.
Would Liam judge me for this too?
The thought alone makes me grab another drink.
Like he has any right.
Like he wasn’t the one acting like touching me was some horrible mistake. Like I was some desperate mess who’d ruin a wedding just because my ex was within arm’s reach.
God.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the ache in my chest doesn’t go away.
Why does it hurt?
It shouldn’t.
I slide my phone out of my pocket, taking another deep gulp of my drink. No new messages from Tessa. Not that I expected any.
When she’s mad — really mad — I’d be lucky if she didn’t delete my number entirely.
I let out a sigh, rubbing a hand over my face as the memory of that day creeps in. I hadn’t meant to drop that bomb on her like that. Or maybe I had, but I hadn’t expected her to react the way she did. Then again, I should’ve known better.
The plastic fork in Tessa’s hand snaps clean in two.
I freeze.
She stares at the broken pieces like they personally offended her. Then her left eye twitches — the way it always does when she’s furious — and I know I’ve messed up. Badly.
“What did you just say?” Her voice is dangerously calm.
I lower my own fork, suddenly not hungry. “Zane came to my bakery.”
She nods. Once. Twice. Then she slowly sets the broken fork down, folds her hands on the table, and levels me with a look that could probably stop time.
I rush to explain everything, not daring to hold anything back. It’s better to get it all out now than have her find out later. But by the time I’m done, her expression hasn’t changed. If anything, she looks worse.
“Tess—”
“So when exactly were you planning to tell me this?” she asks. She’s smiling now, but it’s the kind of smile that makes my stomach drop.
“I just—” I swallow. “It wasn’t worth talking about. I’ve moved on. You were right, he’s not worth it, and I finally realised that.”
“Well, good for you for finally seeing the light,” she says, voice tight, “but I can’t exactly bring myself to care about that right now.”
My throat dries.
“Your ex-fiancé broke into your bakery and hurt you,” she continues, voice rising, “and instead of telling me — so we could call the fucking cops on that bastard — you lied to me. Repeatedly. You brushed me off when I was concerned. And now you’re just dumping this on me like it’s casual dinner conversation? What exactly do you expect me to do here? Say thank you for finally telling me? For taking your sweet time keeping me in the dark while you were assaulted?”
“Tessa!” I choke out, but I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
Her hands slam onto the table. “No. Don’t Tessa me.”
I shrink back.
God, I really messed up.
“You know what?” Tessa says, pushing back her chair so fast it scrapes against the floor.
I jump up too. “Tessa, I’m sorry—”
“Save it.” She doesn't even look at me. “You didn’t tell me for a reason. It’s fine.”
It doesn’t sound fine.
She turns on her heel and heads to her room. I reach for her arm, but she sidesteps me effortlessly, walking away like I’m not even there.
Then — click.
Her bedroom door shuts.
My shoulders slump. The sting behind my eyes burns harder, but I refuse to let it spill over. Instead, I sink back into my chair, pick up my plastic fork, and force down the rest of Tessa’s terrible pasta.
I chew. Swallow. Repeat.
I don’t know if it’s the awful taste, the way my mind keeps flashing back to that night in the bakery, or the look in Tessa’s eyes before she left — but my throat tightens, and my vision blurs.
I blink fast. Not now.
I finish every last bite of her horrible cooking and clean up the dishes, rinsing them until my fingers go numb under the water.
An hour later, my stomach revolts. I barely make it to the bathroom before I’m throwing up everything.
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, panting, waiting for the relief to come.
It doesn’t.
Still, I send Tessa my usual check-in messages — the ones she never replies to — and open Instagram.
My vision swims for a second, but I manage to scroll. Nothing interesting. Nothing—
I pause. Squint. Zoom in.
Huh, isn’t this face kinda familiar?
It takes my sluggish brain a few extra beats to realise why.
It’s me.
My stomach dips. The post has hundreds of thousands of likes and nearly twenty thousand comments.
That can’t be good.
I blink hard, trying to focus, but my head feels like it’s full of fog. Still, my brain finally catches up.
In the picture, I’m holding one of the plushies I thought about giving Tess as a bribe, my face lit up in a big, open-mouthed smile. I look... happy. Like, genuinely happy. I don’t even remember the last time I saw myself like that.
Then I check the account.
Liam.
My fingers fumble as I tap on his profile. The timestamp says he posted this over five hours ago.
I try to read the caption, but the letters won’t stay still. They blur, shifting like they’re running off the screen. I tilt my head, blink hard, but it doesn’t help.
Why would he post me on Instagram? And he never said anything about it, too.
My heart picks up its pace and I scowl.
No, there’s nothing special about this. He doesn’t even care about me.
Not that I want him to. This is all just pen on paper.
For a moment, the alcohol fades enough for guilt to slip in.
The fight replays in my head, and my stomach twists.
Should I even have said any of that?
God. I was practically throwing gasoline on a fire. And what I said about Mar and Elijah...
Why did I even say that? I don’t even know what they think of him.
But the way he looked at me — like he wasn’t surprised at all. Like he’s used to people thinking the worst of him.
And then he still apologised.
He looked... hurt.
And that does something weird to my chest, but I shake it off.
No. Whatever. He’s a complete jerk.
Even if... even if sometimes when he looks at me, it’s like the rest of the world falls away. Like I don’t have to be anything but myself
My chest warms up at the thought of him. Somehow he’s always right there when I need him—
I scowl. What the hell, Emilia? It wasn’t that long ago when he completely ignored your existence. For two weeks straight.
Ugh. No. That was just the tequila talking.
Right?
Anyway. This is definitely a sober, tomorrow problem.
I press the rim of my next drink to my lips, Liam already kind of forgotten, but the room tilts, and I giggle — actually giggle — because wow, okay, maybe I had a little too much.
A hand wraps around my wrist before I can take another sip.
I barely stop myself from flinching. That slight touch feels so.. wrong.
“Drowning your sorrows?”
That voice. I know that voice.
My brows furrow. My thoughts are slow, messy. Like my brain is wading through syrup.
Is it Liam?
No. Not possible. I think.
He wouldn’t be here.
And yet—
I blink up at him. He’s real. Standing right in front of me, watching me with that unreadable look.
Then I blink again and he’s smiling. Once more and his blond hair is brown. The last time his smile is predatory.
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut for a second. When I open them, everything looks normal again.
Too much tequila. That’s all.
I must have had more to drink than I thought.
My breath catches, but I quickly scowl, yanking my wrist from his hold. “What do you care?” I mumble, swaying slightly as I bring the glass to my lips again. “You’ve already made it clear I don’t mean anything to you.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while and I look back at him, but my vision’s a bit blurred. “You know that’s not true.”
I scoff, swirling the drink again. My limbs feel heavy, my head light. “Oh yeah? Because it sure sounded true when you basically called me desperate for my ex.”
A hand brushes my wrist.
The touch is rough and warning alarms go off in my head, but they’re sloppy at best.
I flinch. “Don’t touch me,” I snap. “You don’t get to act like you care, Liam. Not after—” My voice cracks, and I hate it. I hate him.
The hand pulls back.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” he drawls and I try not to think too deeply about how weird all of this is.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Then why do you always do it?”
A beat of silence.
Then—
“Because you make it too easy, princess.”
My stomach drops.
My heart slams against my ribs.
For some reason, all the alcohol leaves my veins and I can finally think clearly.
That’s not Liam’s voice.
My breath stutters as I force my head up now that my vision isn’t so blurred anymore.
And sure enough, it’s not Liam.
It’s Stone.
End of Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 49. Continue reading Chapter 50 or return to Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player book page.