Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 86: Chapter 86

EMILIA
The thing about being incredibly good at something is that no one sees it coming when you decimate them.
Especially not smug, tall, completely-soft-on-the-inside boys who talk like they invented charm and arcade games.
“You’ve played this before,” Liam says flatly, staring at the Dance Dance Revolution machine like it just personally betrayed him.
I shrug, failing (barely) to hide my grin. “Maybe. Once. Twice. Seventeen times. Who’s counting?”
He narrows his eyes. “You lured me in. You knew you were going to win.”
“I warned you. You didn’t listen. That’s not on me.”
“You baited me with false vulnerability.”
I place a hand over my heart. “You think I’m capable of manipulation? I’m flattered.”
He groans like he’s actually in pain. “You’re evil.”
“I prefer morally flexible,” I say sweetly.
“Same difference,” he mutters, but it sounds more like he’s trying to reassure himself than insult me. “I told you I’d let you win the first round. Don’t expect the same kindness twice.”
I gasp. “Oh my God, you’re a sore loser.”
“I’m an athlete,” he says, with the solemn dignity of someone giving a TED Talk. “You might not know this, but we pride ourselves on sportsmanship and healthy competition.”
I almost double over laughing. “Oh my God. You are a sore loser!”
“And you’re infuriating.”
“Must be all that character development you keep bragging about.”
In a rare display of goodwill, I let Liam pick the next game. He goes straight for Mario Kart.
I’m practically vibrating with excitement as I pick Princess Peach.
Liam raises a brow. “Seriously?”
“Don’t hate. She’s about to mop the floor with your ass in five seconds flat.”
He picks Yoshi and slouches dramatically into the seat like he’s been preparing for this moment his whole life.“Just don’t come crying to me when you’re spinning out in eighth place.”
“I think that’s your insecurity talking.”
“Oh yeah? Is that what you think?”
“Absolutely. It’s okay to lose, Lili. You did a great job at it in the first round — real inspiring stuff.”
His face twitches like he just tasted sour milk. “Do not call me that again.”
I grin sweetly. “Sure, Lili.”
The game starts, the countdown begins, and I slam on the accelerator with the kind of focus usually reserved for bomb defusal. For the first lap, I’m killing it. I hit every boost pad, drift around corners like I’m auditioning for Fast & Furious: Mushroom Kingdom, and even manage to launch a green shell directly into Wario’s smug, oversized kart.
Liam’s unnervingly quiet beside me. Which is always a bad sign.
“What place are you in?” I ask, not looking over.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says casually. “I’m pacing myself.”
“Pacing— oh my God, are you gating me right now?”
He says nothing. Which is worse than denying it.
And then it happens.
Red shell.
Red shell.
Another red shell.
“THREE?!” I screech, gripping the wheel like I can somehow force the game to understand the injustice. “Three red shells in a row? That’s illegal. That has to be illegal. You’ve hacked the system. Admit it.”
“I’m just good,” he says way too calmly as his Yoshi skids past me, smug little tail wagging. “Didn’t we grow up on stories like this? You know — the ones about learning humility?”
I lunge for the side of his seat. “You sold your soul to Nintendo. That’s the only explanation.”
“Nintendo wishes.”
“Or you’re sleeping with the game developer.”
He’s laughing now, full-body, obnoxious laughter. “Or maybe you’re just bad at losing.”
I gasp. “I am not bad at losing.”
“Right,” he says, as his kart crosses the finish line in first. Mine rolls in three seconds later, painfully in third. “That sounded really convincing.”
I cross my arms and glare at the screen. “You cheated.”
“There, there,” he coos, reaching over to ruffle my hair. “You did your best.”
I swat his hand away. “I’m going to destroy you in the next game.”
“Of course, love.”
“You’ll be on your knees, begging for mercy.”
“Is that so?”
“Oh, absolutely. I’ll pretend to go easy on you — give you hope. Then I’ll crush you.”
He just smirks. “Can’t wait.”
I don’t obliterate him in the next game. Or the next three after that. But it’s fine. I’m just... pacing myself.
It doesn’t help that we’re both unhealthily competitive. We’re tied in basketball hoops. It makes absolutely no sense why we’re both breathless, and throwing like our lives depend on it. The machines are blaring countdowns, the plastic balls keep slipping from my fingers, and my arms? My arms have straight-up filed for divorce.
“Slowing down already?” Liam’s breathing is a bit heavy, but he’s not full-on panting like I am — who willingly participates in sports, anyway? Professional athletes are such (AKA Liam) weirdos — while launching another shot like a man possessed.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I throw one, overshoot. “I just believe in giving the elderly a head start.”
“Oh, I see how it is.”
He throws another. It bounces off the rim and I smirk, even though I’m about to collapse. “God humbles us all.”
I hate how I’m mostly talking from experience.
Screw it all.
“Oh, I don’t need God to do that. I’ve got you.” He tosses another — and lands it. “My own personal ego check.”
“Such backhanded flattery will get you nowhere, Calloway.”
“You sure? It’s got me about twelve hoops ahead.”
I make a dramatic gasping noise and chuck the ball at him instead of the hoop. It hits him square in the shoulder.
He looks absolutely betrayed.
“Foul play!” he yells, grinning. “I demand a rematch.”
“Too bad. I’m retiring. My arms are jello and my pride is hanging on by a thread. I need snacks.”
“Aw, come on.” He steps closer, all ‘professional athlete’ smugness and bouncing adrenaline. “We were just getting started.”
I hold up a hand. “If I do one more game, my limbs will file a lawsuit.”
He taps his chin, mock thoughtful. “Then let’s settle it with something lower impact.”
I narrow my eyes. “Like what?”
“Air hockey. Pure wrist. No cardio. Perfect for a sore loser like you.”
I gasp. “You take that back.”
“Make me.”
And just like that, we’re off again.