Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 62: Chapter 62

EMILIA
The silence makes my skin crawl.
I anxiously drum my fingers against the railing, while Adrian stays quiet on the other end. It takes a few long, fumbling seconds before I finally hear him breathe out, “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Um— shit. Sorry. I just… wasn’t expecting this. At all.” He sounds like he's scrambling, words tripping over each other. “How are you? Wait — no, is that even the right thing to ask? Should I still call you Emily? Or it’s Emilia now, right? God, I’m messing this up, aren’t I?”
“Adrian,” I laugh softly, almost despite myself. The awkwardness in his voice is achingly familiar. Some things really don’t change. “Emily, Emilia — it doesn’t matter. And you can relax. My parents still don’t know you’re the one with the rest of his sculptures.”
I hear the nervousness leave him all at once, like a balloon deflating. “Oh. Well… that’s a relief.”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” I ask, guilt creeping in. “I can call back later if—”
“No! No, you’re fine. It’s fine.” Honestly, I would have been more surprised if he was asleep. A beat. Then quieter: “I just didn’t expect to hear from you. But… it’s really, really good to hear your voice. I’ve been worried. You know, with everything that’s been online.”
Now that catches me off guard.
The Adrian I remember — the one Luther was obsessed with — barely knew how to use social media. All he cared about was video games and breaking into encrypted systems for fun. A genius with messy hair, dark circles under his eyes, and no filter.
My smile is as good as gone. “Yeah, that’s actually what I was calling about. I need a favour.”
The rain is slowly coming to a stop. “You know all you have to do is ask.”
But does that still apply to me, even now?
It was different back then. Adrian used to drag himself out of his dark room just to hang out with me, his boyfriend’s little sister. He was always tired, always holding a can of soda, but he showed up.
It was different when I still had Luther. When I hadn’t lost my brother and stolen away the love of his life.
The guilt stings, but I don’t let it show. “Do you still want the rest of his sculptures?”
I hear him breathe in, sharp and surprised. “You’re serious?”
I always thought it was unfair. Most of Luther’s sculptures were inspired by one person. The same person he never stopped looking at. Adrian.
They should’ve gone to him. But my parents never knew who Adrian was. They just packed the art away after Luther died, like that would help them forget.
“I want to ruin someone,” I say. My voice is calm. “Ruin him so badly he loses everything. No love. No power. Nothing left.”
Adrian doesn’t even pause. “If he’s that high up, it won’t take much to bring him down.”
“That’s the problem,” I say. “People like him are protected. I need to destroy his reputation so badly no one ever wants to be near him again.”
I can hear the smile in Adrian’s voice. “Luther would be proud.”
His words hit me hard.
There are so many things I want to ask him. Are you okay? Do you still miss him? Do you still love him? Will you ever stop?
But all I say is, “Help me. Even if you don’t… the sculptures are still yours.”
They always were.
— — —
It takes me two days to catch Toby alone — surprisingly easy, once I remember how loud his life is.
He’s always been the centre of every room. The kind of person who radiates that relentless, golden energy that makes you wonder if anything ever really touches him.
But he was one of the few who ever saw me — not as a pocket girlfriend or a burden, but as a person. Someone with thoughts and feelings and a voice that mattered.
So when I finally find him leaning against the gunnels, cigarette dangling from his lips, something sharp and unexpected twists in my chest.
He spots me approaching, pulls the cigarette from his mouth, and offers a crooked smile.
“Emilia? Wow. It’s been a while.” It has. But time doesn’t change everyone — not really — and the warmth in his voice can’t quite disguise the tired sadness in his eyes. He glances at the cigarette like it’s just occurred to him, then laughs under his breath. “Shit. Let me ditch this.”
“No— no, it’s fine,” I say quickly, before he can walk away. “I’m the one intruding.”
He doesn’t argue. He just shifts over a bit, making space.
I lean next to him, letting the silence settle for a second. The air smells sharp and bitter, like burned paper and something sour beneath it.
“That’s going to kill you one day,” I say quietly.
He exhales, a long, slow stream of smoke. His eyes are darker than I remember. And sadder. He’s always been easy on the eyes. Dark brown skin, eyes close to kohl and short curls on his head I’m sure no longer grow. “Better death than my own hands, then. Do you smoke?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
He shrugs. “Suit yourself.” I want to get to the point, but I’m still turning it over in my head, trying to figure out how to say it. How to get him to believe me. But before I can open my mouth, he suddenly says; “If you have something to say, just say it.”
I pause. Then: “You know she’s hooking up with Stone, right?”
He doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t need to. His whole body tenses, jaw clenched like he’s grinding down his own thoughts.
“I don’t know anything,” he says, voice tight. “And neither do you. Don’t drag whatever shit you have with Stone into this.”
I click my tongue. I guess it would be a bit hard to believe.
The articles have done more harm than good to my reputation, although social media is a white noise I’ve learnt to tune out.
I’ve officially mastered the ancient art of scroll-past-the-drama. All the hate, all the “poor Stone got trapped by the evil siren” comments? Yeah, no thanks. I’ve built up a nice, shiny layer of not-giving-a-crap.
And I’ve given no explanation. I haven’t debunked any of the rumours either.
I’m not ready to hand over my story to the internet so it can be twisted into a circus act. I’ll go to the station with Tessa when we get back and file a report.
Make it have more impact while I watch his career go down the drain.
But my silence has given way to different rumours and lies that I haven’t cared enough to debunk.
With time, everyone will get exactly what they deserve.
The thought fuels me and steels my resolve.
“Even you don’t believe that,” I say.
“They’re just friends.”
“Are they?”
His hand curls into a fist.
Silence falls again. This time, it’s heavier.
Then finally, he asks, barely above a whisper: “How did you find out?”
I look down at my hands. Finally, something is going right. “He told me himself the night he assaulted me.”
If possible, Toby’s body freezes up even more.
I turn to look at him, meeting his eyes, the hurt behind them and smile. “I know exactly where to hit Stone. Where it hurts,” I search his eyes for something I can’t explain. “Will you help me?”