Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 82: Chapter 82
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TESSA
I wait until 10 AM to call Emilia, right as I’m walking to work. Growth, if you ask me.
I could’ve called her at 7, when I was still stewing in bed. Or at 8, when I nearly threw my phone across the room. But no—10 AM. That’s self-control.
I choose to walk. Thought it might help. Walking clears my head. Brings a sense of order. Reminds me that I make terrible, terrible decisions.
Still, I stop at a quiet café near the office for caffeine. And maybe because calling Emilia from my office means I’d have to admit to myself that this is serious.
She starts judging me rather quickly. “You were doing so well! What happened to all that talk about not letting your parents ruin your life?”
I sigh. “I thought you said no judgement.”
“I lied. But more importantly — have you forgotten a key detail? You don’t have a boyfriend. And if you did, he wouldn’t be playing for Team Orlov.”
I hear clinks on her end — probably digging through her cabinets. My stomach growls in betrayal. Loudly.
A few people glance my way. I shoot them a look and they mind their business. Emilia goes quiet. Then: “Was that your stomach?”
“Of course it was. I’m operating on stress fumes and half a glass of wine from last night.” I shift in my seat and lower my voice. “But this isn’t really a problem, Emilia. Lyle’s free next week. I know his schedule. He can come with me to the party.”
She’s quiet.
“I mean it,” I add. “This could be the moment I prove to him I’m not just a fun distraction. I can be… an option.” I say, taking a page out of my mother’s dictionary.
“WHAT?!”
A pause, muffled talking. Probably Liam.
“No, I’m fine,” she tells him, then comes back to me. “I’m just stunned. Absolutely stunned. Why haven’t you eaten yet? Go order something. Please. Maybe once your brain has some fuel, it’ll remind you how catastrophically dumb this plan is.”
“I’m not hungry. And I’ve spent nearly eight hours thinking it through. If it were a disaster, I’d have caught on five hours ago.”
Emilia exhales — long, tired. She’s most likely on the brink of a breakdown. “How are you supposed to make good decisions when you barely sleep or eat? I’ve told you — again and again — to take care of yourself.” She pauses, then breathes in sharply. “When was the last time you had actual food? Not wine, not cup noodles. Real food. And when was your last full night of sleep?”
I bristle. “I made that chicken salad from your recipe.”
“Oh? When?”
I hate lying, and I’ve used up my quota for the day. So I tell her the truth. “Three days ago.”
Silence. The kind that says she’s judging me hard.
I push through. “And yeah, I might have passed out last week, but I got ten hours of sleep after that, so—”
“I’ve ignored your terrible taste in men because you’re a grown woman, but now I have to ask — are you trying to kill yourself?”
That’s Liam. Jumping into the call like this is his business. My voice goes cold.
“Emilia, am I on speaker?”
She fumbles. “There wasn’t a non-seafood option at breakfast so I’m cooking. I couldn’t hold the phone… I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“And when did you two get so close?” I narrow my eyes even though she can’t see me. “I was happy about the Instagram posts, but this—?”
“Why don’t you ask Aaron to be your date instead?” Liam interrupts, and it shuts me up completely.
I blink.
Of all people.
Aaron?
I actually laugh out loud. “And have him laugh in my face? No thanks.”
“I think he’d be thrilled if you asked.” Liam replies and he’s dead serious too.
“Sometimes, I swear everyone else knows a different Aaron than I do. That man hates me just for existing,” I shrug off the ridiculous comment and add, “And he’s completely different from Lyle.”
Liam snorts. “Thank God for that.”
Already bored with the conversation, I update Emilia on the progress Adrian and I have made. She fills me in on the whole Céline situation. I sip my coffee and ask, “Do you think your sister would sell you out?”
“Dia? She might hate me, but Vanderbilts have a very... how do I put this? Questionable moral compass. If she wanted to, she’d have blown up the bakery with me in it or tampered with evidence to get me a death sentence for murder — nothing that would hit the news, reveal my past and tie back to our family.”
I take a moment to process that — although questionable, makes sense — before we say our goodbyes and I start heading toward the office.
Me: Diana’s off the suspect list. Unfortunately.
Adrian: Told you. Dia can’t even kill a fly.
I roll my eyes.
A second later, I get a DM from @thEodotrink. I grin. He’s sent a post about some Alberta player caught dealing to minors, then messaged:
“I call dibs on the press release being something about defamation and suing the preparators.”
Me: Quite bold of you to assume it won’t just be ‘player unavailable to confirm or deny.’
Theo: Come on, you know that’s way too messy. The regular season’s starting in less than a month.
Me: So? Maybe they need the PR boost to fill seats.
Theo: Be real with me, Rov. Who’s actually buying tickets to see Alberta?
Me: Unless they’re playing at home against New York, right?
Theo: Damn right.
When I got out of college and started working, I was halfway into a breakdown — crushed under inhumane hours, living states away from my best friend, and waking up to the lovely revelation that I was now my parents’ retirement plan.
To cope, I joined a sports forum under a fake username and started ranting.
Mostly about PR disasters in the league.
Think burnout meets wine-soaked rage-posting. Therapeutic, in a deranged kind of way.
One night, after a particularly hellish shift — Mr. Harris had the entire office calling me Olaf (and yes, I now hate that snowman with a passion) — I posted a long, semi-coherent breakdown on how badly managed PR crises can ruin a player’s career.
It read more like a threat than a thinkpiece. The energy was very much ‘give me a raise or I’ll destroy your brand equity’. But people conveniently ignored the meltdown part and focused on the analysis.
Theo replied with a shockingly smart rebuttal.
We argued in the thread for three days straight. Then we moved to DMs.
Somewhere between stat breakdowns and sarcastic insults, it became a routine. Daily check-ins. League gossip. Crisis hot takes. Mental health spirals. Childhood baggage. We never exchanged real names — just usernames and that quiet kind of trust that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention.
It’s how I know Theo’s allergic to fur but still volunteers at an animal shelter every Sunday after morning mass (the timing is crucial, don’t ask), once tried the Keto diet in seventh grade and gave up the second his dad offered to teach him how to cook, and is hopelessly in love with a girl in his office who, apparently, has no idea.
And why he now knows my mother’s trying to marry me off like I’m some kind of cursed family heirloom.
Theo: I still don’t think this is a good idea.
Me: That’s just your brain being dramatic. When have I ever had a bad idea?
Theo: Do you want a list? Because I have one. But even then, it’s never been this bad. Every time you mention this guy, he sounds less like someone who actually sees you. Or wants to. What makes you think this’ll magically change things?
Me: You don’t know that. People show affection differently.
Theo: That’s one way to say “he doesn’t care.”
Me: Okay, wow. Is this you calling me delusional?
Theo: About 200%. But only because someone needs to be honest with you when you won’t be.
Theo:
Theo: I wish I could be your date instead.
Me: Oh? You think you’d do better?
Theo: I know I would.
Theo: I’d show up early. Know your drink order. Tell you you’re beautiful before you even ask how you look.
Theo: I’d laugh with you at your snotty cousin and her walking red flag of a husband.
Theo: And I’d never make you question if you were wanted.
I stare at the screen longer than I should. Smile creeping in before I can stop it.
Me: You’re kind of impossible, you know that?
Theo: Is that your way of saying you’re scrapping the plan?
Me: Of course not. I’d rather ask him, get rejected and rip the bandaid off. I’ve passed the stage of deluding myself into thinking I’ll ever get over him.
Me: I just meant you’re also one of the best people I know. And I really hope your mystery office girl realises that before someone else does.
He doesn’t reply right away. Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.
Theo: Yeah. Me too.
I wait until 10 AM to call Emilia, right as I’m walking to work. Growth, if you ask me.
I could’ve called her at 7, when I was still stewing in bed. Or at 8, when I nearly threw my phone across the room. But no—10 AM. That’s self-control.
I choose to walk. Thought it might help. Walking clears my head. Brings a sense of order. Reminds me that I make terrible, terrible decisions.
Still, I stop at a quiet café near the office for caffeine. And maybe because calling Emilia from my office means I’d have to admit to myself that this is serious.
She starts judging me rather quickly. “You were doing so well! What happened to all that talk about not letting your parents ruin your life?”
I sigh. “I thought you said no judgement.”
“I lied. But more importantly — have you forgotten a key detail? You don’t have a boyfriend. And if you did, he wouldn’t be playing for Team Orlov.”
I hear clinks on her end — probably digging through her cabinets. My stomach growls in betrayal. Loudly.
A few people glance my way. I shoot them a look and they mind their business. Emilia goes quiet. Then: “Was that your stomach?”
“Of course it was. I’m operating on stress fumes and half a glass of wine from last night.” I shift in my seat and lower my voice. “But this isn’t really a problem, Emilia. Lyle’s free next week. I know his schedule. He can come with me to the party.”
She’s quiet.
“I mean it,” I add. “This could be the moment I prove to him I’m not just a fun distraction. I can be… an option.” I say, taking a page out of my mother’s dictionary.
“WHAT?!”
A pause, muffled talking. Probably Liam.
“No, I’m fine,” she tells him, then comes back to me. “I’m just stunned. Absolutely stunned. Why haven’t you eaten yet? Go order something. Please. Maybe once your brain has some fuel, it’ll remind you how catastrophically dumb this plan is.”
“I’m not hungry. And I’ve spent nearly eight hours thinking it through. If it were a disaster, I’d have caught on five hours ago.”
Emilia exhales — long, tired. She’s most likely on the brink of a breakdown. “How are you supposed to make good decisions when you barely sleep or eat? I’ve told you — again and again — to take care of yourself.” She pauses, then breathes in sharply. “When was the last time you had actual food? Not wine, not cup noodles. Real food. And when was your last full night of sleep?”
I bristle. “I made that chicken salad from your recipe.”
“Oh? When?”
I hate lying, and I’ve used up my quota for the day. So I tell her the truth. “Three days ago.”
Silence. The kind that says she’s judging me hard.
I push through. “And yeah, I might have passed out last week, but I got ten hours of sleep after that, so—”
“I’ve ignored your terrible taste in men because you’re a grown woman, but now I have to ask — are you trying to kill yourself?”
That’s Liam. Jumping into the call like this is his business. My voice goes cold.
“Emilia, am I on speaker?”
She fumbles. “There wasn’t a non-seafood option at breakfast so I’m cooking. I couldn’t hold the phone… I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”
“And when did you two get so close?” I narrow my eyes even though she can’t see me. “I was happy about the Instagram posts, but this—?”
“Why don’t you ask Aaron to be your date instead?” Liam interrupts, and it shuts me up completely.
I blink.
Of all people.
Aaron?
I actually laugh out loud. “And have him laugh in my face? No thanks.”
“I think he’d be thrilled if you asked.” Liam replies and he’s dead serious too.
“Sometimes, I swear everyone else knows a different Aaron than I do. That man hates me just for existing,” I shrug off the ridiculous comment and add, “And he’s completely different from Lyle.”
Liam snorts. “Thank God for that.”
Already bored with the conversation, I update Emilia on the progress Adrian and I have made. She fills me in on the whole Céline situation. I sip my coffee and ask, “Do you think your sister would sell you out?”
“Dia? She might hate me, but Vanderbilts have a very... how do I put this? Questionable moral compass. If she wanted to, she’d have blown up the bakery with me in it or tampered with evidence to get me a death sentence for murder — nothing that would hit the news, reveal my past and tie back to our family.”
I take a moment to process that — although questionable, makes sense — before we say our goodbyes and I start heading toward the office.
Me: Diana’s off the suspect list. Unfortunately.
Adrian: Told you. Dia can’t even kill a fly.
I roll my eyes.
A second later, I get a DM from @thEodotrink. I grin. He’s sent a post about some Alberta player caught dealing to minors, then messaged:
“I call dibs on the press release being something about defamation and suing the preparators.”
Me: Quite bold of you to assume it won’t just be ‘player unavailable to confirm or deny.’
Theo: Come on, you know that’s way too messy. The regular season’s starting in less than a month.
Me: So? Maybe they need the PR boost to fill seats.
Theo: Be real with me, Rov. Who’s actually buying tickets to see Alberta?
Me: Unless they’re playing at home against New York, right?
Theo: Damn right.
When I got out of college and started working, I was halfway into a breakdown — crushed under inhumane hours, living states away from my best friend, and waking up to the lovely revelation that I was now my parents’ retirement plan.
To cope, I joined a sports forum under a fake username and started ranting.
Mostly about PR disasters in the league.
Think burnout meets wine-soaked rage-posting. Therapeutic, in a deranged kind of way.
One night, after a particularly hellish shift — Mr. Harris had the entire office calling me Olaf (and yes, I now hate that snowman with a passion) — I posted a long, semi-coherent breakdown on how badly managed PR crises can ruin a player’s career.
It read more like a threat than a thinkpiece. The energy was very much ‘give me a raise or I’ll destroy your brand equity’. But people conveniently ignored the meltdown part and focused on the analysis.
Theo replied with a shockingly smart rebuttal.
We argued in the thread for three days straight. Then we moved to DMs.
Somewhere between stat breakdowns and sarcastic insults, it became a routine. Daily check-ins. League gossip. Crisis hot takes. Mental health spirals. Childhood baggage. We never exchanged real names — just usernames and that quiet kind of trust that sneaks up on you when you’re not paying attention.
It’s how I know Theo’s allergic to fur but still volunteers at an animal shelter every Sunday after morning mass (the timing is crucial, don’t ask), once tried the Keto diet in seventh grade and gave up the second his dad offered to teach him how to cook, and is hopelessly in love with a girl in his office who, apparently, has no idea.
And why he now knows my mother’s trying to marry me off like I’m some kind of cursed family heirloom.
Theo: I still don’t think this is a good idea.
Me: That’s just your brain being dramatic. When have I ever had a bad idea?
Theo: Do you want a list? Because I have one. But even then, it’s never been this bad. Every time you mention this guy, he sounds less like someone who actually sees you. Or wants to. What makes you think this’ll magically change things?
Me: You don’t know that. People show affection differently.
Theo: That’s one way to say “he doesn’t care.”
Me: Okay, wow. Is this you calling me delusional?
Theo: About 200%. But only because someone needs to be honest with you when you won’t be.
Theo:
Theo: I wish I could be your date instead.
Me: Oh? You think you’d do better?
Theo: I know I would.
Theo: I’d show up early. Know your drink order. Tell you you’re beautiful before you even ask how you look.
Theo: I’d laugh with you at your snotty cousin and her walking red flag of a husband.
Theo: And I’d never make you question if you were wanted.
I stare at the screen longer than I should. Smile creeping in before I can stop it.
Me: You’re kind of impossible, you know that?
Theo: Is that your way of saying you’re scrapping the plan?
Me: Of course not. I’d rather ask him, get rejected and rip the bandaid off. I’ve passed the stage of deluding myself into thinking I’ll ever get over him.
Me: I just meant you’re also one of the best people I know. And I really hope your mystery office girl realises that before someone else does.
He doesn’t reply right away. Three dots appear. Then vanish. Then appear again.
Theo: Yeah. Me too.
End of Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 82. Continue reading Chapter 83 or return to Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player book page.