Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 77: Chapter 77

LACEY
“There’s no gun,” I say, voice calm, smile stretched tight across my face. “But it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
My fingers twitch, aching to hurt her in some way — something to make her feel a fraction of what she’s done to me.
Then I catch Liam’s look — worried, wary — and watch him press a kiss to Emilia’s palm before guiding her away. It douses the fire just enough to remind me I’m not completely unhinged. Not yet.
Still, it kills the high. Like someone switching off the music at a party just when the beat drops. Sanity — boring, exhausting sanity — pulls me back in before I get the satisfaction I want.
But I stay. I face her.
Céline’s eyes flicker. She doesn’t know what I’m capable of, and that’s enough. The fear is real. I can see it.
She tries to scoff, but her voice is tight. “You’re fucking crazy.”
I tilt my head, the smile never moving. “Thank you.”
I step closer, slow and steady. A final warning.
She knows I could still burn everything down. And maybe one day, I will.
“Out of curiosity,” I say, tilting my head, “how much did Eric pay you for a ni—”
“I’m not a fucking whore!” she snaps, ripping herself from my grasp. Her voice shakes. Her lips tremble. For the first time, she looks lost — really lost.
And for a second, I almost pity her.
Almost.
“What are you then?” I murmur, pulling out my phone. “Because you sure fooled me.”
She opens her mouth to bite back, but I’m already holding the screen out for her to see. My hands are damp, and my chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself, but I push through it. Because this — this is power. It’s pain and control all at once, and for the first time in years, I feel alive.
Her face drains of colour. “Is that…?”
“Fifteen million,” I say evenly. “Get out of my sight, Céline. While I’m still in the mood to be generous.”
I turn before she can speak again, walking in the direction Liam and Emilia disappeared. The heel of my sneakers click softly against the floor, but inside, everything is quiet.
There’s nothing left to cling to now — no friendship to salvage, no child to grieve, no marriage to fight for. I’ve given up the version of myself I spent years building. The woman who held it all together. The woman who smiled through betrayal, who forgave too much and asked for too little.
Who am I now, if not a best friend? Not a wife? Not a mother?
Just Lacey.
And maybe, finally, that’s enough. Maybe not today. But someday.
I wipe at the corners of my eyes, not caring if the mascara’s smeared. I’m done performing. I’m done bleeding for people who’d never take a paper cut for me.
Then she calls out, voice thin and wounded. “So that’s it? You won’t beg me to stay? You won’t even ask why?”
I don’t stop. I don’t turn.
“Make sure you take Stone with you,” is all I say.
No screaming. No sobbing. Just finality.
I keep walking.
And behind me, a door that’s taken years to close finally slams shut. And in the silence it leaves behind, I can breathe.
LIAM
“It’s too early to get drunk,” I say, offering her the red Solo cup anyway.
Lacey takes it, sniffs, then lets out a short laugh that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“This is beer, Calloway.”
“The kind you can drink without ending up on the news. Think of it as emotional support.”
She takes a long sip. Emilia stays quiet beside me, her body pressed close, our knees just barely touching. It should be enough contact to feel grounded. It isn’t. She keeps glancing between me and Lacey, like she’s waiting for her to fall apart.
Then finally, she speaks, voice soft. “Are you… are you really okay?”
We’re at the stools by the poolside bar. Most of the ship’s still in the gym, and the few people who wander in and out of the pool look more like ghosts than guests. Even the conversations around us feel muted out here.
Lacey places her empty cup on the counter and stares out at the water. “I’m just on my first drink. I won’t know until at least the sixth.”
“Bold of you to assume there’ll be a second,” I say, but when she slides her cup back to me, I fill it anyway.
She doesn’t thank me, just takes another drink like it’s medicine.
Three cups. That’s the limit. She’s earned that much.
“I’ll stop drinking soon,” she mutters. “Just… not tonight. Let me feel numb. Just this once.”
Her voice isn’t slurred, but her shoulders have dropped the way they do when you stop pretending you’re fine.
I look at her, then at Emilia. Emilia, who still hasn’t let go of my hand. Lacey, who trusted someone enough to get gutted by them.
“It’s still the afternoon,” I say, my tone dry.
Lacey meets my eyes. “I can count on one finger the fucks I give.”
And because I don’t have the energy to fight her, and because grief comes in layers, I let her have it. She doesn’t need discipline or a lecture. She needs a moment where no one expects her to hold it together.
I wave the bartender off. I’d rather handle Emilia’s drinks myself. Took me all of two nights to figure out she pretends to like stronger stuff, but can’t stand anything that doesn’t taste like juice. She never says it out loud, but I’ve learnt to read the tiny signals: the wrinkle in her nose, the soft hum when something’s just right.
So I mix her beer with Coke, adjusting it until I get a quiet nod of approval. She sips again. Another hum. I don’t say anything, just keep watching her expression and tweaking the balance between bitter and sweet.
This — doing things for people I care about — has never felt like a chore. Julie always hated it. She thought I was too soft for volunteering to stay home with our siblings or handling every late-night meltdown.
But I liked it. I still do.
Honestly, it’s the only thing I miss about home.
The crying, the chaos, the clean-up — it never felt like too much.
Even when Maya was juggling boyfriends like they were drinks at a bar, or when Luka needed a full bedtime routine after every nightmare at two in the morning. I just did it. No questions asked.
Sometimes, when Julie’s tearing me a new one, which is more often than not, she reminds me of this flaw that really won’t be a flaw if I knew how to control it. When she’s particularly pissed and cruel, she brings up Jessica too.
I didn’t mind not getting into a relationship, it was what Jessica needed. I was okay with sacrificing whatever feelings I might have for her mental health.
But with Emilia, it’s different. She doesn’t ask me to sacrifice anything. Still, I find myself wanting to. She doesn’t have to speak for me to pick up the pieces. When she leans into me with that lopsided smile, cheeks flushed, curly hair falling over one eye, I don’t think about what I’m giving — I think about how full I feel just being near her.
She kisses the back of my hand, barely a brush of her lips, and it sends a current through my entire body.
I don’t move right away.
I just look at her — really look at her — and wonder how I got this lucky.
I wipe the corner of her mouth with a napkin, then wrap an arm around her and draw her into my side like she belongs there. Which, at this point, I think she does.
Lacey, true to form, ruins the moment.
“Fucking weirdos,” she groans dramatically. “I’m in emotional ruin and they’re cuddling like extras in a goddamn rom-com.”