Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 83: Chapter 83

TESSA
By the time I finally work up the nerve to text Lyle, the workday’s over — and for once in my life, I don’t stay late.
Mr. Harris looks at me like I’ve just announced I’m leaving to become a wizard’s assistant in Hogwarts. Full confusion. Slight concern. Mostly disbelief.
But I don’t even register it. I’m too busy spiraling into what is absolutely not a mid-life crisis. Just a very responsible, slightly dramatic, late-twenties breakdown.
Totally different thing.
“Oh— Cam! Wait up!” I brighten as soon as I spot that familiar mop of reddish-brown hair turning the corner.
He glances over his shoulder, spots me, and immediately grins. One of those big, golden-retriever kind of smiles that makes you feel like sunshine. He throws an arm around my shoulders like it’s second nature.
“Tessie Bear,” he says, shaking his head. “I’d be excited to see me too, but reel it in. People are gonna start rumours.”
I snort. He smells like body wash and fresh sweat, like he just got out of the shower after practice. “Relax, Romeo. I’m not here to propose. Have you seen Lyle?”
His smile fades. He actually scowls. “Sometimes I really, really hate you.”
I grin. “That’s not a no.”
“He’s grabbing a drink before he heads out. Why? You planning to chase heartbreak before dinner?”
I roll my eyes, ignoring the way my stomach twists. “Actually, I’m done for the day.”
That gets him. He stops walking and stares at me. “Wait. You? Off work? Before dark? Is this... are you dying?”
“Funny. No. I just wanted to catch up to Lyle, that’s all.” I wave it off like it’s nothing. Like my heart isn’t pounding and my confidence isn’t rapidly deflating.
Cam watches me carefully. “Liam told me about your idea.”
“You two need a new hobby.”
“Gossiping about you is the hobby. And for what it’s worth, I agree with him.”
“Let me guess. Lyle is—”
“Promiscuous. Emotionally bankrupt. Wears expensive shoes that make him look like a Ken doll.”
“All words I’ve used before,” aside from the last one. It is kind of true, though, but mostly Cam’s insecurity about his shoe size talking. “I’ll be fine, Cam. I’m wearing my emotionally bulletproof underwear today.”
He sighs. “Just don’t give him your heart and expect him to treat it like anything other than a disposable lighter.”
I shrug, already spotting Lyle near the vending machines. “Thanks for the Italian, by the way. How’d you know I was craving pasta?”
Cam frowns. “I didn’t—” His phone buzzes. He glances at it, then laughs under his breath. “Never mind.” He reaches out and taps me on the forehead like I’m five. “I’m glad you liked it. You should eat more, Tessie. And sleep more. And stop wasting your time on guys who wear size forty-five. There are guys out there with perfectly normal sized feet, too.”
His words make me laugh, but I can taste the seriousness in his ridiculousness.
“I’ll try,” I mumble. “After I waste my time on this one.”
If I ever decide to stop wasting my time on him, that is. I like to think I can waste my time on him for the rest of my life.
He gives me a crooked smile and heads up the stairs — straight toward Aaron, who I hadn’t even noticed leaning against the wall.
He’s holding his phone in one hand, watching us.
Or more specifically, watching me.
And that look on his face?
That unreadable, razor-sharp kind of focused?
Yeah. That one makes my pulse skip for an entirely different reason.
Creep, much?
I pointedly ignore him and head for Lyle.
I smell him before I see him — woodsy cologne and a little too much confidence. His hair’s still damp, pushed back like he’s just stepped out of a hair commercial. He’s all clean lines and expensive taste. Every inch of him screams Ken doll, down to the spotless sneakers and emotionally unavailable expression.
I almost laugh. Actually laugh. But I pull it together just in time to say, “Hey. Didn’t you get my message?”
He’s sipping a Gatorade like he’s training for a half-marathon instead of ghosting girls for fun. His strawberry blonde hair glints under the hallway lights, and when he runs his tongue over his lower lip and glances at me—
Boom. Fireworks. My stomach becomes Times Square on New Year’s Eve.
God, I hate how pretty he is. I hate it more that he knows it.
“Sorry, Tess. My battery died.”
He gives me a smile, cool and sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk.
My stomach flips. And not in the cute, rom-com way. More like an Olympic-level gymnastic routine I didn’t ask for.
“It was marked seen, Lyle.”
“I must’ve opened it by accident.”
I blink. “You just said your phone was dead.”
He pauses. Shrugs. Doesn’t even bother to look guilty.
Here we go again.
I’ve met both versions of Lyle by now.
Version One: magnetic, flirty, melts you like butter in a microwave when he wants you beneath him.
Version Two: detached, vaguely irritated that you dared speak to him in public like you matter.
And here’s the thing — I know what this is. I know what I am in this story.
I’m not the girl he’ll choose. I’m not the ending he’s dreaming about.
He’s the kind of guy who’ll settle when she comes along. The mythical right girl who changes everything.
And like Cam’s said a thousand times, I’m not her.
And I’m okay with that. Really.
But until she shows up — and until he says it’s over, officially, like ripping off a Band-Aid soaked in delusion — what’s the harm in letting my heart get bruised a little more?
“If you didn’t want to come,” I say, voice tight, “you could’ve just said so.”
Lyle arches a brow.
“You don’t have to play the whole Oops, I missed your message game. I wouldn’t throw a tantrum. It’s just an engagement party.”
He stares at me for a second, unreadable. Like maybe somewhere deep inside him, something small wants to care. But it’s buried too far under the ego and the avoidance and whatever it is that makes him so good at leaving people hanging.
“I never said I didn’t want to come.”
“Right,” I say, flat.
He actually frowns. “I mean it. I just wasn’t gonna reply right away because I’m… you know.”
I tilt my head. “Busy getting ready for Lola’s party?”
He winces like I’ve caught him in a lie he didn’t get to tell yet. “Yeah, but Tess, I really wish you’d stop assuming the worst about me.”
His hand comes up, brushes my cheek like he has any right. His touch is soft and familiar.
I don’t lean into it, but God, I want to. I miss the way this version of him feels. The one who pretends he cares.
“I’d love to come,” he says. “Really. Meeting your family could be… cool.”
Cool?
That’s the last word I’d use to describe subjecting someone to my cousin’s nasal voice and her husband’s unsolicited crypto advice.
Theo wouldn’t have called it cool.
He would’ve said, If it gets too bad, I’ll fake a medical emergency and carry you out bridal style.
Theo would’ve brought snacks.
The thought makes me smile before I can stop it.
Lyle must take it as something it’s not, because his thumb strokes over my cheek like he’s trying to memorise me. “Text me the details, yeah?”
And here’s the thing—
I know what this is.
I know I’m not the girl he’ll cancel plans for. Not the girl he chooses when no one’s watching.
But I’m also not clueless.
This isn’t some fairytale fall. This is love with disclaimers. Love with warning signs flashing like Vegas. It’s me knowing exactly what I’m doing — walking headfirst into a heartbreak I’ll write a hundred sad songs about, and doing it anyway.
I almost tell him not to come. That it’s fine. That I get it.
But then I remember my mother’s voice and her threat about Dimitri, and I swallow the protest.
“Sure,” I say instead.
He leaves. I wait a beat, then turn toward the exit too.
Except… I can feel the stare.
Aaron.
He’s burning holes into my back with that annoyingly intense gaze he always reserves just for me, like I’ve offended his ancestors by existing.
I whirl around, annoyed. “If you’ve got something to say, say it. Don’t just stand there like the sight of me ruins your day.”
His eyes widen slightly. “I’m not—”
I roll my eyes before he can finish, pull out my phone, and walk away like I’m not shaking a little.
Outside, I text Theo. Somehow, he’s the only man in my life with some silver of common sense.