Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 57: Chapter 57
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EMILIA
Luther always leaves the kitchen lights on.
Every. Single. Time.
It’s why Diana says he has the stealth of a dying elephant and why Mum cuts his allowance every time she finds out he’s raided the fridge at midnight.
“Everything in life is a choice,” Mum always says, flipping through her morning paper, while Dad rubs her shoulders and nods like she’s preaching gospel. “And unfortunately, that includes your poor career decisions. If you choose to be a criminal, at least be a competent one.”
So yeah — tonight is no different.
I tiptoe down the stairs, socked feet silent on the wood, already mentally preparing my ‘caught you red-handed’ speech.
The kitchen lights are on. The fridge door’s wide open.
And someone’s standing there.
I scowl. Rookie mistake, Luther. Mum would’ve had your head if the staff weren’t all gone for the holidays.
When I walk into the kitchen, I find Luther sitting on the counter.
He’s sketching something on his iPad with his Apple Pencil, completely in his own world. There’s an open milk carton in one hand, and next to him is a pack of strawberries — Diana’s strawberries, the ones she picked fresh from Dad’s garden this morning.
I lean against the doorframe and raise a brow. “You know Dia’s going to murder you, right?”
Luther jumps like he’s been electrocuted.
Milk goes flying.
It spills all over the counter, over his iPad, and right onto Diana’s precious strawberries.
We both stare at the mess.
“Shit,” he mutters, frozen like he’s trying to mentally undo the last three seconds.
I cover my mouth to stop the laugh bubbling up.
He slowly looks up at me like I’m the one who spilled milk all over the kitchen, then lets out the most dramatic sigh I’ve ever heard. He hops off the counter, pushes his glasses up his nose, and drops the milk carton with a wet splat.
“Why the hell are you so annoying?”
I lean against the doorway, arms folded. “It’s a gift.”
He starts wiping down the counter, grumbling under his breath. I watch for a second, then feel a tiny bit bad and step forward to help. But the second I reach for his iPad, he swats my hand away like I’m a fly.
“Okay, rude,” I say, raising my brows. “Sorry for trying to help.”
“You can also say sorry for causing the mess.”
I blink. “Excuse me? Me? If you weren’t acting like a raccoon in the first place, none of this would've happened.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he mutters, shooting me a glare as he dabs at the spilled milk. “I was sketching ideas for the exhibition project. You know, being productive? Something you should try once in your life.”
I smirk. “Aw, look at you. Little artist boy getting all defensive.”
He throws a strawberry at me. I dodge, barely.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters.
“And you love me,” I say sweetly, grabbing a paper towel and helping anyway.
He tries to hide the little smile pulling at his lips. “What? Did you come all this way just to hang out with your incredibly cool, charming older brother?”
I snort. “What? Since when have I ever had one of those?”
He grabs a wet paper towel and chucks it at me. It slaps onto my left cheek with a disgusting splat, and I let out the most offended gasp known to mankind.
“Luther!” I shriek, peeling it off and hurling it right back at him.
It hits the counter and sprays more milk everywhere, making an even bigger mess.
“You’re so mean, Emily,” he grumbles with a pout. “You only come talk to me when you want to gush about that country bumpkin of yours.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Country bumpkin? Really? We’re still doing that?”
He rolls his eyes. “I call it like I see it.”
I open my mouth to defend Zane, ready to fire back with a full-on monologue... but then I remember the Maine incident too.
Yeah. Maybe not tonight.
“For your information,” I say with a dramatic toss of my hair, “I only came down for Diana’s strawberries. But you ruined them.”
He frowns a bit, eyeing me up and down as he tosses out some paper towels. “Isn’t this what they call defamation of character? Slander?”
“Really, Luther? You can’t be serious—” My hand slips while wiping down the counter and hits the carton of milk, spilling the rest of its contents on the kitchen floor.
We stare at each other for a second… then burst out laughing. I shake my head as he tries to clean milk off his sketch screen, mumbling curses the whole time and I start on the mess of milk on the floor.
Even when he’s annoying, even when he throws wet paper towels at me, there’s something kind of perfect about moments like this.
Later, when the kitchen is finally clean (and only smells faintly of milk and regret), we reward ourselves with microwaved doughnuts and Mum’s leftover melted chocolate. It’s not fancy, but it hits the spot.
Luther’s sitting beside me at the counter, barefoot, glasses slipping down his nose, sketchpad back in his lap. He’s all focused again, that little crease between his brows making a comeback.
“I’m thinking of making this one different,” he says suddenly, his voice low but excited. “It’s my final project. My last sculpture before graduation. It has to stand out, you know? Something that’ll make people stop and say, ‘That’s Luther C. Vanderbilt. That’s the one to watch.’”
I lean against him, resting my head on his shoulder, still chewing on a warm piece of doughnut. His body heat is comforting, familiar. The sketches on his screen still look like organised chaos to me — wild lines and sharp curves — but I know better than to say that out loud.
Instead, I smile. “I’m sure Mum and Dad will personally send engraved letters to every art investor on the planet letting them know you’re it, Lu.”
He chuckles, a soft sound that rumbles through my cheek. “You think so?”
“I know so,” I say, nudging him gently. “You’re annoying, dramatic, and impossible to live with... but you’re kind of brilliant too.”
He grins at that, the proud, smug kind. “Kind of?”
“Let’s not push it.”
He laughs again, and for a moment, the whole world feels warm — like the smell of melted chocolate, safe nights at home, and soft things you never want to outgrow.
“You know,” Luther says, still smiling at his screen, “when I first thought of this sculpture, I wanted it to feel real. Like, raw and bold — something that didn’t try to be perfect. Just… honest. Even if it looked a little stupid.”
He glances at me, his grin widening. “Basically, I wanted it to feel like you.”
I sit up straighter, pretending to be offended. “Wait— are you saying I’m stupid?”
He laughs, the kind of laugh that makes me smile even when I don’t want to. “No, dumbass. I’m saying you’re honest and brave. You don’t hide the messy parts of you. That’s what makes you kind of incredible.”
My chest warms a little, but I cover it with a smirk. “So… am I going to be your muse now?”
“Ew. Absolutely not,” he says, scrunching up his face. “But… you can be the inspiration behind it.”
“Rude,” I mutter, closing my eyes again and leaning back onto his shoulder. It’s warm. Safe. “Well, the muse will never compare to me anyway.”
“Totally incomparable,” he agrees, soft and sure.
I smile. “She’ll just have to deal. And when you’re done with this masterpiece, I’ll have saved up enough money to open a whole art gallery in your name. Every wall, every corner — just your sculptures. All of them. People will walk in and immediately know how big of a nerd you are.”
He laughs, nudging me with his shoulder. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I whisper.
And for a second, everything slows down.
Just me and him. In the kitchen. Chocolate on our fingers, dreams scattered across the table. Like nothing ever changed. Like he never died.
“You never got me the gallery, did you?” Luther’s voice is soft this time. Almost like he already knows the answer.
My heart aches. My throat tightens. “No,” I whisper. “No, I didn’t.”
“And… and Adrian…? Do you know if he’s doing well?”
His voice, so heartbroken and longing and regretful, brings tears to my eyes. “No, I don’t.”
His eyes don’t hold any blame. Just that familiar calm. “This isn’t real, is it?”
And just like that, the hole in my chest — that tiny space that felt full again the moment I saw him — rips wide open.
“No,” I say, barely able to get the word out. “No, it’s not.”
He reaches out, fingers gently running through my hair. The way he used to when I couldn’t sleep. When I was scared of thunderstorms. When everything still made sense.
“I love you, Emily. I always will.” He smiles, but it trembles. “But sometimes… sometimes I hate you.”
The world cracks.
“I hate that I had to go. I hate that I’m missing everything. Mum’s laugh. Dad’s stupid jokes. Diana’s singing in the garden. You. Adrian,” his face contorts in pain. “God, I hate missing you both most.”
I shake my head, tears burning. “L—”
“But I don’t regret it,” he says. “I’m sad. I really am. But I’m okay. And even if I had a thousand regrets... you wouldn’t be one of them. Never you, Emily.”
I can’t speak. I can’t move. I just cry. Loud and messy and real. Like I’m seven again and scraped my knee playing tag in the backyard and he was the only one who could make it better.
“There, there,” he murmurs, arms around me, fingers in my hair. “You were always such a crybaby.”
“I miss you, Lu,” I choke out. “I miss you so much it hurts to breathe. I didn’t mourn you. Not really. I thought I had to be strong. I thought if I ignored the pain long enough, it would disappear. But it didn’t. It just got heavier.”
I clutch his shirt. “Why can’t I stay here? Why can’t you stay? Why do I only get to see you in dreams? Why are you so perfect... even when you’re not real?”
Luther pulls back just a little and presses his forehead to mine.
“Emilia is a good name,” he says quietly, smiling one last time.
And then—
He’s gone.
And I scream.
Luther always leaves the kitchen lights on.
Every. Single. Time.
It’s why Diana says he has the stealth of a dying elephant and why Mum cuts his allowance every time she finds out he’s raided the fridge at midnight.
“Everything in life is a choice,” Mum always says, flipping through her morning paper, while Dad rubs her shoulders and nods like she’s preaching gospel. “And unfortunately, that includes your poor career decisions. If you choose to be a criminal, at least be a competent one.”
So yeah — tonight is no different.
I tiptoe down the stairs, socked feet silent on the wood, already mentally preparing my ‘caught you red-handed’ speech.
The kitchen lights are on. The fridge door’s wide open.
And someone’s standing there.
I scowl. Rookie mistake, Luther. Mum would’ve had your head if the staff weren’t all gone for the holidays.
When I walk into the kitchen, I find Luther sitting on the counter.
He’s sketching something on his iPad with his Apple Pencil, completely in his own world. There’s an open milk carton in one hand, and next to him is a pack of strawberries — Diana’s strawberries, the ones she picked fresh from Dad’s garden this morning.
I lean against the doorframe and raise a brow. “You know Dia’s going to murder you, right?”
Luther jumps like he’s been electrocuted.
Milk goes flying.
It spills all over the counter, over his iPad, and right onto Diana’s precious strawberries.
We both stare at the mess.
“Shit,” he mutters, frozen like he’s trying to mentally undo the last three seconds.
I cover my mouth to stop the laugh bubbling up.
He slowly looks up at me like I’m the one who spilled milk all over the kitchen, then lets out the most dramatic sigh I’ve ever heard. He hops off the counter, pushes his glasses up his nose, and drops the milk carton with a wet splat.
“Why the hell are you so annoying?”
I lean against the doorway, arms folded. “It’s a gift.”
He starts wiping down the counter, grumbling under his breath. I watch for a second, then feel a tiny bit bad and step forward to help. But the second I reach for his iPad, he swats my hand away like I’m a fly.
“Okay, rude,” I say, raising my brows. “Sorry for trying to help.”
“You can also say sorry for causing the mess.”
I blink. “Excuse me? Me? If you weren’t acting like a raccoon in the first place, none of this would've happened.”
“I wasn’t doing anything wrong,” he mutters, shooting me a glare as he dabs at the spilled milk. “I was sketching ideas for the exhibition project. You know, being productive? Something you should try once in your life.”
I smirk. “Aw, look at you. Little artist boy getting all defensive.”
He throws a strawberry at me. I dodge, barely.
“You’re impossible,” he mutters.
“And you love me,” I say sweetly, grabbing a paper towel and helping anyway.
He tries to hide the little smile pulling at his lips. “What? Did you come all this way just to hang out with your incredibly cool, charming older brother?”
I snort. “What? Since when have I ever had one of those?”
He grabs a wet paper towel and chucks it at me. It slaps onto my left cheek with a disgusting splat, and I let out the most offended gasp known to mankind.
“Luther!” I shriek, peeling it off and hurling it right back at him.
It hits the counter and sprays more milk everywhere, making an even bigger mess.
“You’re so mean, Emily,” he grumbles with a pout. “You only come talk to me when you want to gush about that country bumpkin of yours.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Country bumpkin? Really? We’re still doing that?”
He rolls his eyes. “I call it like I see it.”
I open my mouth to defend Zane, ready to fire back with a full-on monologue... but then I remember the Maine incident too.
Yeah. Maybe not tonight.
“For your information,” I say with a dramatic toss of my hair, “I only came down for Diana’s strawberries. But you ruined them.”
He frowns a bit, eyeing me up and down as he tosses out some paper towels. “Isn’t this what they call defamation of character? Slander?”
“Really, Luther? You can’t be serious—” My hand slips while wiping down the counter and hits the carton of milk, spilling the rest of its contents on the kitchen floor.
We stare at each other for a second… then burst out laughing. I shake my head as he tries to clean milk off his sketch screen, mumbling curses the whole time and I start on the mess of milk on the floor.
Even when he’s annoying, even when he throws wet paper towels at me, there’s something kind of perfect about moments like this.
Later, when the kitchen is finally clean (and only smells faintly of milk and regret), we reward ourselves with microwaved doughnuts and Mum’s leftover melted chocolate. It’s not fancy, but it hits the spot.
Luther’s sitting beside me at the counter, barefoot, glasses slipping down his nose, sketchpad back in his lap. He’s all focused again, that little crease between his brows making a comeback.
“I’m thinking of making this one different,” he says suddenly, his voice low but excited. “It’s my final project. My last sculpture before graduation. It has to stand out, you know? Something that’ll make people stop and say, ‘That’s Luther C. Vanderbilt. That’s the one to watch.’”
I lean against him, resting my head on his shoulder, still chewing on a warm piece of doughnut. His body heat is comforting, familiar. The sketches on his screen still look like organised chaos to me — wild lines and sharp curves — but I know better than to say that out loud.
Instead, I smile. “I’m sure Mum and Dad will personally send engraved letters to every art investor on the planet letting them know you’re it, Lu.”
He chuckles, a soft sound that rumbles through my cheek. “You think so?”
“I know so,” I say, nudging him gently. “You’re annoying, dramatic, and impossible to live with... but you’re kind of brilliant too.”
He grins at that, the proud, smug kind. “Kind of?”
“Let’s not push it.”
He laughs again, and for a moment, the whole world feels warm — like the smell of melted chocolate, safe nights at home, and soft things you never want to outgrow.
“You know,” Luther says, still smiling at his screen, “when I first thought of this sculpture, I wanted it to feel real. Like, raw and bold — something that didn’t try to be perfect. Just… honest. Even if it looked a little stupid.”
He glances at me, his grin widening. “Basically, I wanted it to feel like you.”
I sit up straighter, pretending to be offended. “Wait— are you saying I’m stupid?”
He laughs, the kind of laugh that makes me smile even when I don’t want to. “No, dumbass. I’m saying you’re honest and brave. You don’t hide the messy parts of you. That’s what makes you kind of incredible.”
My chest warms a little, but I cover it with a smirk. “So… am I going to be your muse now?”
“Ew. Absolutely not,” he says, scrunching up his face. “But… you can be the inspiration behind it.”
“Rude,” I mutter, closing my eyes again and leaning back onto his shoulder. It’s warm. Safe. “Well, the muse will never compare to me anyway.”
“Totally incomparable,” he agrees, soft and sure.
I smile. “She’ll just have to deal. And when you’re done with this masterpiece, I’ll have saved up enough money to open a whole art gallery in your name. Every wall, every corner — just your sculptures. All of them. People will walk in and immediately know how big of a nerd you are.”
He laughs, nudging me with his shoulder. “Promise?”
“Promise,” I whisper.
And for a second, everything slows down.
Just me and him. In the kitchen. Chocolate on our fingers, dreams scattered across the table. Like nothing ever changed. Like he never died.
“You never got me the gallery, did you?” Luther’s voice is soft this time. Almost like he already knows the answer.
My heart aches. My throat tightens. “No,” I whisper. “No, I didn’t.”
“And… and Adrian…? Do you know if he’s doing well?”
His voice, so heartbroken and longing and regretful, brings tears to my eyes. “No, I don’t.”
His eyes don’t hold any blame. Just that familiar calm. “This isn’t real, is it?”
And just like that, the hole in my chest — that tiny space that felt full again the moment I saw him — rips wide open.
“No,” I say, barely able to get the word out. “No, it’s not.”
He reaches out, fingers gently running through my hair. The way he used to when I couldn’t sleep. When I was scared of thunderstorms. When everything still made sense.
“I love you, Emily. I always will.” He smiles, but it trembles. “But sometimes… sometimes I hate you.”
The world cracks.
“I hate that I had to go. I hate that I’m missing everything. Mum’s laugh. Dad’s stupid jokes. Diana’s singing in the garden. You. Adrian,” his face contorts in pain. “God, I hate missing you both most.”
I shake my head, tears burning. “L—”
“But I don’t regret it,” he says. “I’m sad. I really am. But I’m okay. And even if I had a thousand regrets... you wouldn’t be one of them. Never you, Emily.”
I can’t speak. I can’t move. I just cry. Loud and messy and real. Like I’m seven again and scraped my knee playing tag in the backyard and he was the only one who could make it better.
“There, there,” he murmurs, arms around me, fingers in my hair. “You were always such a crybaby.”
“I miss you, Lu,” I choke out. “I miss you so much it hurts to breathe. I didn’t mourn you. Not really. I thought I had to be strong. I thought if I ignored the pain long enough, it would disappear. But it didn’t. It just got heavier.”
I clutch his shirt. “Why can’t I stay here? Why can’t you stay? Why do I only get to see you in dreams? Why are you so perfect... even when you’re not real?”
Luther pulls back just a little and presses his forehead to mine.
“Emilia is a good name,” he says quietly, smiling one last time.
And then—
He’s gone.
And I scream.
End of Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 57. Continue reading Chapter 58 or return to Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player book page.