Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 88: Chapter 88

EMILIA
We eventually find the air hockey table — tucked between a photo booth and a flashing wall of pinball. After absolutely obliterating Liam (and celebrating like I’d just won an Olympic medal), I start to feel like myself again.
We move from game to game — racing sims, whack-a-mole, that ridiculous fruit-slicing thing — and in between, we pause. We watch other people play. We laugh at a toddler trying to wrestle a ticket out of the prize dispenser. And we talk.
Sometimes we don’t.
Liam gets recognised more than a few times. A group of girls near the claw machine freeze mid-squeal when they spot him. A couple of guys at the racing game do double takes. He simply smiles, takes the photos, signs napkins and receipts and phone cases like it’s nothing — which, for him, maybe it is.
But what gets me is that he never lets go of my hand.
Not once.
It doesn’t matter if someone tries to slide in beside him like I’m invisible. It doesn’t matter when I catch a whisper or two behind someone’s phone case. Liam doesn’t entertain any of it.
He stands close to me — like he’s anchoring me there, beside him. Like I’m the only thing that deserves to be seen.
It makes ignoring the stares easier. Let them whisper. Let them speculate. Liam’s attention hasn’t wavered all night.
I catch myself grinning.
“Will that happen a lot?” I ask softly, as another pair of fans trail past us, phones half-raised, giggling into their sleeves.
He sighs, glancing at me with something close to guilt. “Probably. I’m sorry.”
I shake my head. “Should it bother me?”
His hand squeezes mine — not hard, just enough to remind me it’s there. “Why would it? I know who I’m leaving with.”
And just like that, I’m warm all over. Like someone lit a match in my chest.
“Okay,” I mumble, tugging my gaze away before I get too obvious about it. “I’m going to the bathroom. Don’t let anyone steal our tickets.”
He flashes a grin. “I’d like to see them try.”
I head toward the restroom, half-expecting a moment of peace. Instead, I end up gripping the sink for a full minute, just breathing. When that doesn’t help, I dig through my purse for my lip gloss and swipe it on — slow and deliberate — like that’ll settle the nerves crawling under my skin.
It doesn’t.
“I know you’re there,” I say, keeping my tone even. “You’re not exactly subtle.”
One of the stalls creaks open.
The woman who steps out isn’t a woman at all.
It takes a second for my brain to catch up. Long red wig. Lumpy chest stuffed under a sweatshirt. Broad shoulders. Wide eyes and trembling hands. But it’s the glint of metal — the thin silver edge of a knife at his side — that really hits me.
I freeze.
Then I bolt.
I shove the door open and sprint, but he’s fast. He’s right behind me — I can hear his breath, feel the space between us closing — and without thinking, I grab the handle and swing the door back as hard as I can.
It slams into him with a sickening thud.
He stumbles, swearing, clutching his face.
I don’t hesitate — I scream, loud enough to shake the walls.
LIAM
“Having you here’s always good for business, my boy,” Oldie says, flashing a grin that’s mostly gums and one stubborn tooth.
I laugh, because the timing and the delivery are so Raven it’s uncanny. “You only miss me when I’m bringing in customers.”
“That’s a filthy lie.” He chuckles, tapping his cane on the floor. “I miss the good ol’ days. When your mama used to drag all of you down here. The Calloways practically paid my rent.”
My mouth tugs into a smile. “Happy to be of service.”
“How’s your mama? Still hitched to that buffoon?”
“You mean my dad?”
He scoffs. “If that’s what you call him. I would’ve treated her better. Woman never gave me a shot.”
“Yeah, I can’t imagine why.”
Oldie — probably not even his real name — is somewhere in his seventies now. He never corrected us when we called him that as kids. He just wore the nickname like a crown.
He was a fixture in my childhood. Some of my best memories happened in this arcade, usually with sticky fingers, noisy machines, and the smell of burnt popcorn lingering in the air.
It’s why I brought Emilia here. Not just to win her over. But to let her in.
I want her to know everything. If she’s willing.
“So this girl of yours,” Oldie says as we slowly walk the aisle between a broken DDR machine and the neon glow of skeeball. I have to physically retrain myself from reaching out to keep him from swaying. If I did, he’d probably slap me on the head. He taps his cane once. “You gonna marry her?”
The question doesn’t surprise me. Neither does my answer. “That’s the plan.”
He stops walking and eyes me like I just told him I wanted to join a convent. “Willingly? She know you want a whole football team running around your house?”
I smile. “I’m trying not to scare her off. It’s still new.”
Oldie clicks his tongue, unimpressed. “If she knows about that Jessica girl and she’s still sticking around, you might wanna give her a little more credit.”
The smile slips from my face. Just for a second.
But he catches it — of course he does.
He sighs, leaning a little heavier on his cane. “You might be grown now, Liam, but to me, you’ll always be the kid who cried when his tokens ran out. So let me give you something no machine in here can spit out.”
I look at him. He’s not teasing anymore.
“I’ve known you a long time. Long enough to say this without mincing words — you’re used to steering away the women in your life. Your mama. Your sisters. Every girl who thought they could keep up.” He squints at me. “But this one’s different. You brought her here. That means something. You love her?”
I nod. The answer’s immediate. “Yeah. I do.”
His expression softens, just a fraction. “Then tell her the truth. All of it. Don’t wait for it to catch up and bite you in the ass. Keeping secrets is never a good idea, especially when it’s not just your heart on the line. You are technically that kid’s father.”
My mouth opens — but the words don’t come.
Because right then, I hear it. A scream.
Not just any scream. Emilia.
And every instinct in me kicks in at once.
I’m already moving, shoving past the nearest pinball machine, ignoring Oldie’s shout behind me.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate.
I run.
Because wherever she is—
She needs me.