Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 81: Chapter 81

TESSA
I know I’m screwed before I even check the caller ID.
But when I do, I take a deep breath, let the self-pity simmer, and force my voice into something that sounds like warmth. “Yes? Tessa speaking.”
“Of course it’s you. Whose number did I dial, if not yours?” My mother’s voice slices through the line, sharp and annoying all at once. I tilt my head back, staring at the ceiling of my home office, hoping God gives me strength or strikes the phone tower down. “Твой отец тоже был не очень умным, жаль, что ты пошла в него.”
(Your father wasn’t very smart either. It’s a pity you take after him.)
That gets a crooked smile out of me. “Ой, мама, это ты?”
(Oh, Mum, is that you?)
“Taisiya Ivanovna Orlova.”
“Wow, the full government name. We’re serious today.” I mutter while turning back to my laptop, where Liam’s latest Instagram post is still up. One picture of Emilia stirring something on a stove. Another of her curled up against him, nose in a book.
I read the book title and Google it. Smut, obviously. Of course.
I would expect nothing less, truly.
The comments are turned off. I make a mental note to commend Liam for it when it’s a ‘reasonable’ time in the morning (Emilia’s words, not mine). But his fan accounts are already reposting, and their comment sections are another story.
It only takes a scroll and a half before I sigh. The whole point of this campaign was to clean up his image — not to turn Emilia into some manipulative siren who tricked poor Liam into playing house.
Which is hysterical, considering Emilia wouldn’t know how to seduce a plant, let alone a man.
I, unfortunately, know this firsthand.
“Ты знаешь, какой сегодня день?” my mother cuts in.
(Do you know what day it is today?)
I fire off a draft of my new Emilia-rehab pitch to Florence, then check my messages with Adrian. Emilia introduced us when we decided to go scorched earth on that walking dumpster fire, Stone.
I’ve insulted him so thoroughly I’ve had to start recycling phrases. Scum, rat, emotional garbage fire — you get the idea.
Adrian’s a godsend, though. Finally, someone who thinks insomnia is a lifestyle. I can send him a forty-page PDF at 3 AM and he’ll send back comments by 3:05.
I glance at the clock. “It’s 2 AM on a Thursday. Which means 9 AM in Moscow. Unless the Kremlin collapsed, I doubt it’s urgent.”
Her exhale is loaded with judgment. “It’s 2 AM and you’re alone. Working. Women your age are with their husbands. Making babies. Planning meals. Building families. But you’re in your office. Looking at that glowing screen. No man. No child. Just—”
I snap. The fake sweetness drops. “You’re calling because I forgot to send Dad the money, right? I’ll transfer it. And yours too, for whatever designer nonsense you’re planning to waste it on. But unless the world ends, don’t call me again. I’m too busy financing your lifestyle to play perfect housewife for an imaginary husband.”
“You ungrateful little— how dare you speak to your mother like this—”
“Хорошего дня, мам. Не забудь не звонить. Хотя, я и не жду, что ты будешь меня слушать.”
(Have a good day, Mum. Don’t forget not to call. Then again, I don’t expect you to listen anyway.)
I hang up before she can finish the sentence.
In true Orlova fashion, she calls back immediately.
I answer again, voice tight. “Yes? It’s Tessa sp—”
“Taisiya, Anastasia is getting married.”
I blink. “What?”
She repeats it like it’s common knowledge. I stare at my phone, waiting for the punchline. “Are you sure the poor man double-checked who he’s marrying? Maybe he meant to propose to someone else.”
My mother says nothing.
I rub my temple. “Anastasia is a horrible person.”
And that’s me being polite. My cousin — who only gets away with being called pretty because she looks like me — is one of the most vindictive people I’ve ever known.
In high school, she slept with guys I was seeing — don’t let anyone tell you that’s a coincidence. She stole my skincare, started a rumour I had HIV when I caught the measles, and once mixed hot pepper into my medicated cream.
That wasn’t even the worst of it. She told my crush I had schizophrenia, and sent a school-wide video of me running half-naked from a cockroach. Years later and people still bring it up.
“She’s getting married,” my mother says again, with that familiar bite in her voice, “while you can’t even keep a man long enough to consider you a serious option.”
That one hits. Hard. And I hate that it does.
“I’m not interested in—”
“You will not embarrass us further. You’ll attend the engagement party and bridal shower next week.”
“I have work, Mum. I’m running a—”
“I don’t care. You’ve been working for years and where has that gotten you? A few bags, a lonely apartment, and no husband. An unmarried woman is invisible, Taisiya. You will attend, and you will be presentable. I’ve already arranged everything.”
I scowl. “Arranged what, exactly?”
“You’ll go to Anastasia and Akim’s engagement party with the intention of finding a husband.”
I freeze. “Akim?”
The name tastes familiar. And bitter.
“That’s someone I dated,” I mutter. “Back when I was still in Moscow. I dumped him when I left.”
Of course it’s him. Of course.
“She’s still obsessed with my leftovers,” I say, more to myself than anyone else.
“He’s marrying her, not you. That’s what matters.”
“Right. Because men are the prize now.”
“They always have been. You just didn’t listen. Dimitri will be your date. If you can’t find someone by the end of that week, I’ll be encouraging him to propose.”
“Dimitri?” My stomach turns. “You mean the guy who groped me and then cried to you when I broke his nose?”
My mother doesn’t reply. She doesn’t need to.
A cold shudder crawls down my spine. Knowing her, she’ll find a way to trick me into signing a marriage certificate if I’m not careful.
Her voice crackles through the speaker, sharp and certain. “One day, when you’re settled down, you’ll thank me, Taisiya. You’ll see why I’m doing this. Marriage is the best thing that can happen to a woman. It’s what defines her. A husband is a blessing, a—”
“Maybe I’m not so eager to give up my free will just because someone has a penis,” I cut in, pacing the room. “Or maybe it’s because all my life, the only ‘husband figure’ I had was your sorry excuse for one.”
“You don’t talk about your father like that,” she says sharply. “You don’t talk about a man like that at all. How did I go so wrong with you?”
I stop walking. My grip tightens on the phone. “You didn’t go wrong,” I say quietly. “You just didn’t show up. And forgive me if I think the reason you want every woman around you married is so you’re not the only one who’s miserable.”
The silence on the other end isn’t from poor reception.
My stomach twists. I hate this part. I lash out, then get crushed under the guilt of it.
“I’m sorry,” I sigh. “I shouldn’t have said that. What I meant is… I already have a date.”
There’s a pause — sharp and stunned — and then—
“What?! You have a boyfriend?” Her voice jumps. “Are you serious? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I should be the first to know when a man shows interest! What if he’s awful — what if he supports Montana?”
I stare at the floor, heat rising up my neck.
Why did I lie? I don’t even know what I’m doing.
“Actually…” I swallow. “He plays for New York.”