Faking It With The Hockey Star

Harper’s POV

I closed my laptop slowly, the mechanical snap of the hinge sounding loud in the quiet room.

For a few long seconds, I just sat there in the silence, staring at the polished dark casing. My heart was still doing a rapid, uneven rhythm against my ribs. I couldn’t fully process it I had actually found something. Real, undeniable proof.

For the first time since my father’s unnerving silence had begun haunting me, the suffocating weight of powerlessness lifted from my shoulders. I had no idea whether I would ever actually be forced to unleash the information I’d unearthed, but just knowing I possessed it knowing that I wasn’t an defenseless target standing exposed in his crosshairs allowed me to draw a full, deep breath for the first time in days.

I pushed the computer away, sliding it across the desk.

"Okay," I muttered, pressing the heels of my palms against my tired eyes. "Enough internet detective work for one morning."

Right on cue, my stomach let out an ungraceful, hollow growl that echoed in the quiet space.

I let out a breathless laugh. "Apparently, my stomach agrees."

Grabbing my phone, I stood up and padded softly down the hallway. The house was wrapped in an unusual, serene stillness. Mom was fast asleep in her room, her door cracked open just an inch. It didn’t surprise me she’d been tiring easily over the past few weeks as her body continued its delicate, post-recovery healing process. I wanted her to rest as much as humanly possible before we started setting up lights and cameras.

Emma was nowhere to be seen, likely off with friends, which left Noah. He was undoubtedly tucked away in his sanctuary upstairs, glued to his gaming setup. If I couldn’t hear him shouting tactics into his headset, I would have checked his pulse.

I walked into the kitchen, the cool tiles soothing against my bare feet, and pulled open the double doors of the refrigerator.

I stared into the brightly lit shelves.

Empty.

I shifted a container of leftover chicken marinade and a half-used tub of butter. Still empty. I lowered my gaze to the bottom drawer. Nothing but a solitary, slightly wilted head of lettuce.

"You have got to be kidding me," I groaned.

I peered deeper into the back, half-expecting food to magically materialize under my intense glare. There were raw vegetables, a couple of sparkling waters, and random condiments, but the actual, quick-fix meal leftovers from yesterday? Completely vanished.

I let out a dramatic sigh, letting the cold air wash over my face. "My greedy siblings ate every single thing."

Giving up on the main fridge, I opened the freezer. At least there was a tub of vanilla yogurt. I grabbed it, then raided the pantry for a bag of crunchy honey granola and a handful of freeze-dried berries.

"Good enough."

I pulled out a white ceramic bowl and carefully assembled a quick, simple breakfast. Yogurt on the bottom, berries in the middle, granola sprinkled heavily on top. Nothing fancy, but it would keep the hunger pangs at bay.

Spooning a bite into my mouth, I grabbed the bowl and headed back toward the stairs. But halfway up the flight, my feet slowed, my thoughts dragging me back to the laptop screen sitting on my desk.

The heavy discovery was burning a hole in my mind. I needed to tell someone. I couldn’t just keep carrying this heavy, volatile secret alone in my head.

Not Mom, though. Definitely not yet. She had enough emotional weight pressing down on her as she mentally prepared to dive back into her past for the documentary. Bringing my father’s toxic double life into her space right now would ruin the peace she’d fought so hard to find.

Noah.

He was grounded, logical, and protective. He was the right person.

I walked down the upper hallway to his door and gave it three quick knocks.

"Come in!" his voice boomed over the faint sound of automatic gunfire from his game.

I pushed the door open with my elbow, carrying my bowl. Noah was sitting exactly where I’d pictured him hunched forward on the edge of his beanbag, a glowing controller gripped tightly in his hands, his eyes locked onto the large television mounted on his wall.

"Hey," I said softly.

He didn’t look away from the screen, his thumbs moving in rapid, practiced motions. "What’s up, Harp?"

"Can I talk to you for a second?"

Something in my tone must have given me away, because his thumbs froze mid-action. He hit the pause button, the game audio dropping to a low hum, and glanced up at me. "That sounds serious."

"It kind of is."

Noah shifted, turning his entire body to face me properly, his brow furrowing. "What happened? Is Mom okay?"

"Mom’s fine, she’s sleeping," I reassured him quickly, walking over to sit on the edge of his unmade mattress. "It’s about Dad. I found his new wife."

Noah’s eyebrows shot straight up into his hairline. "What?"

"I found her," I repeated quietly. "Her family, too. Her parents, their company, their lifestyle... and the kids."

Noah stared at me, dumbfounded, as if I’d just announced I’d found alien life. "How?"

"I was looking through Dad’s old Facebook tags and tracking down connections."

He gave me a weird, half-amused, half-suspicious look. "Why were you creeping on his life?"

"I wasn’t creeping on his life!"

"Harper, you literally just admitted you tracked down his wife, her parents, their corporate empire, and their children."

"I was doing strategic research!"

"That is a remarkably fancy word for internet stalking, Harp."

I rolled my eyes, fighting a small smile. "Can you please be serious for two minutes?"

He chuckled softly, tossing his controller onto the bed beside me. "Okay, okay. Sorry. Continue. What did you find out?"

I took a deep breath and laid it all out for him. The immense, eye-watering wealth of her family’s construction empire. The old, archived Instagram posts. The pristine wedding photos. And then, the darkest part the timeline. The fact that Dad had been leaving flirty comments and liking her photos six months before he packed his bags and walked out on our family, and was taking her on dates less than two weeks after abandoning us.

As I laid out the dates, the lighthearted air in Noah’s room evaporated completely. His jaw clenched, his eyes hardening into a dark, familiar scowl.

"Damn," he said quietly, the word heavy in his throat.

"Yeah."

"And you’re a hundred percent sure about the dates?"

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