Faking It With The Hockey Star

Harper’s POV

"I cross-referenced her archived posts with our old family text threads from the month he left," I said, my voice dropping. "There’s no mistake, Noah. He was cultivating a whole secondary life while sitting at our dinner table."

Noah nodded slowly, staring at the carpet, his chest heaving with a deep, frustrated breath. "So... what are you going to do with all this? Are you going to send it to her?"

"Nothing," I said firmly.

He frowned, looking up at me. "Nothing? After finding all that?"

"Not unless he forces my hand." I took a small spoon of yogurt, chewing thoughtfully before continuing. "I’m not looking to burn his life down for revenge. I’m actually far more concerned about Mom’s documentary right now."

Noah leaned his back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "The project about her illness and recovery?"

"Yeah." I looked down at the swirling berries in my bowl. "Since my formal internship doesn’t start right away, I wanted to create something meaningful. Something that honors what she survived her diagnosis, the brutal treatment, the emotional toll, and her recovery."

"It’s a great idea, Harper. It really is."

"I know, but..." I swallowed hard, looking up at him. "I have this sickening feeling that once it’s finished and out there, Dad is going to react. He’s going to see it."

Noah’s expression shifted, a protective edge creeping into his eyes. "You think he’ll try to come after you legally? Or personally?"

"I don’t know," I admitted, shaking my head helplessly. "That’s what’s terrifying me, Noah. I don’t know what he’s capable of anymore. He’s spent months trying to control us, and now he’s gone completely radio silent."

Noah stayed quiet for a moment, processing my words. "Are you planning on using his name in the video?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Then why would he even care? If it’s focused on Mom’s health, he shouldn’t even be in the picture."

"Because his ego won’t allow him to differentiate between Mom telling her truth and a direct attack on him," I explained softly, a faint tremble in my hands. "Even if I don’t say his name, her story inherently highlights his absence. It highlights how we were left to drown while she was fighting for her life. If people watch it and start asking obvious questions about where her husband was... he’s going to feel cornered. And I don’t want to bring another nightmare to Mom’s doorstep."

"You’re not bringing anything to her doorstep," Noah said firmly, his tone cutting right through my rising panic.

I looked at him, my eyes wide. "Noah, I’m serious. If this blows up in our faces "

"Harper, listen to me," he interrupted gently, stepping off the wall and looking me dead in the eye. "You are helping Mom tell her story. Her truth. If she wants to share what she went through, then whatever collateral damage hits Dad’s fragile ego is entirely his own fault. You aren’t creating the mess he created it years ago."

I let out a slow, trembling breath, nodding weakly. "Still... it’s scary."

Noah studied my face for a long second, his eyes softening with genuine brotherly warmth. "Are you scared of him?"

I hesitated, looking down at my lap before whispering the truth. "A little bit. Yeah."

He gave me a small, reassuring smile, reaching out to pat my knee. "Then just move carefully. Be smart about it."

"I will."

"And if you need any technical help or a bodyguard you tell me."

A genuine laugh escaped my lips. "Technical help? Like what?"

"Lighting. Carrying equipment. Editing. Whatever," he offered, tossing his head back.

"Are you actually volunteering to help me work?" I teased, raising an eyebrow.

"Hey, don’t get wild. It’s a limited-time offer."

I nudged his ankle with my foot, a sweet warmth filling my chest. "Thank you, Noah."

He nodded, giving me a slight wave of his hand. "So... have you drafted the actual interview questions for Mom yet?"

"Not entirely," I replied, checking the time on my phone screen. "I have a general arc written in my head, but I need to sit down with a fresh notebook and map them out properly so she feels comfortable."

"Good. Then stop eating my granola and go prep."

I grinned, standing up from his bed. "Bossy."

"I’m a very busy man, Harper. My team needs me back in the lobby."

"You’re literally shooting virtual pixels on a screen."

"It’s high-stakes operational strategy," he deadpanned.

I laughed out loud, shaking my head as I walked toward his bedroom door. "Right. Sure it is."

As my hand touched the brass doorknob, Noah’s voice called out behind me, dropping its playful sarcasm.

"Harper?"

I stopped, turning back to look at him over my shoulder. "Yeah?"

Noah looked at me with an intensity that surprised me. "Don’t let his ghost scare you out of doing something you care about. Don’t let him win before you even start."

I stared at my younger brother, my heart swelling with intense pride and gratitude.

I gave him a soft, resolute nod. "I won’t."

I stepped out into the quiet hallway and gently pulled his door shut behind me.

The moment the latch clicked into place, the lighthearted smile slid right off my face.

Because as much as I wanted to be brave for Noah, the cold, undeniable reality was still echoing in my chest. I was scared.

Not of the creative process. Not of sitting across from Mom with a camera. Not even of uploading the final cut to the internet.

I was terrified of the unpredictable aftermath.

I walked slowly back toward my bedroom, my feet heavy against the floorboards, my mind anchored entirely on my father’s phantom presence.

There was something deeply, profoundly unsettling about the absolute silence he had maintained over the past several weeks. When a toxic person is actively screaming, texting, making threats, and causing scenes, they are predictable. You know where they stand. You can track their anger. You can anticipate their next strike.

But this complete absence of noise? This sudden, total radio silence?

It felt like a predator crouching motionless in the tall grass.

There was nothing more frightening than someone who had spent years inflicting emotional damage suddenly going silent.

What was he doing right now? Was he watching us from afar? Was he quietly consulting lawyers? Was he building a case? Or was he simply waiting for us to make one wrong move so he could pounce?

I reached my room and stopped in the doorway, my eyes landing on the leather-bound planning journal sitting quietly in the center of my desk.

The documentary suddenly felt ten times larger, ten times heavier than it had just yesterday morning. It wasn’t just a creative outlet. It wasn’t just a productive way to fill the gap before my internship started.

It was a line drawn in the sand. It was Mom’s truth versus his years of constructed lies. And once I turned that camera on and pressed record, there would be no going back.

I walked over to my desk, pulled out my chair, and picked up a black ink pen.

I flipped the journal open to a crisp, blank white page. At the top, in clean, bold lettering, I wrote:

MOM’S STORY: THE TRUTH OF ABOUT HEALING

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