Faking It With The Hockey Star

Harper’s POV

The apartment was unusually quiet. Not awkward quiet. Comfortable quiet. The kind that only existed when two people had stopped feeling like they needed to fill every second with conversation.

Rain tapped softly against the windows. A mug of coffee sat beside my laptop, already half cold because I’d forgotten about it. The brand-new camera Justin had given me rested carefully on the dining table beside me. I’d spent almost an hour setting everything up. Testing lenses. Organizing memory cards. Reading enough of the manual to avoid accidentally deleting something important. I still couldn’t believe it was mine. Every time I looked at it, I felt the same mixture of excitement and disbelief.

Across the room, Justin sat sprawled on the couch with one leg stretched over the armrest, a textbook balanced on his lap. Every now and then he’d underline something, mumble under his breath, then flip another page. It was strangely domestic. If someone had told me three months ago that this would become my life, I would’ve laughed in their face.

"Okay," I whispered to myself. "Let’s see what we’ve got."

I plugged the camera into my laptop. Folders appeared across the screen. Practice footage. Locker room interviews. Training drills. Campus shots. I clicked the first folder. Justin’s face filled my monitor. Not the version everyone else saw. Not the captain shouting instructions across the ice. Just Justin, laughing because Mason had nearly slipped carrying three hockey sticks at once.

I smiled without realizing it. "You smiling over there?" Justin called from the couch.

I glanced toward him. "Maybe."

"That’s suspicious."

"I found something," I said.

"What?"

"You looking like an idiot."

He gasped dramatically. "I’ve never looked like an idiot."

I clicked play. Mason walked into frame carrying equipment. Three seconds later, one stick slid free and smacked Justin squarely on the shoulder. Justin doubled over laughing. On-screen, Mason looked around before shouting, "Nobody better put that in the documentary!"

I couldn’t stop laughing. Justin groaned from the couch. "I forgot you filmed that."

"Oh, it’s staying," I said.

"It absolutely is not."

"It absolutely is."

He sighed. "I created my own downfall."

"You really did," I agreed.

Another hour slipped by. Music played quietly from my laptop speakers while I trimmed clips together. Cut. Fade. Color correction. Audio balancing. The world disappeared. I barely noticed time passing. I barely noticed Justin closing his textbook, or setting it aside, or standing.

It wasn’t until I reached for my coffee that I realized he was no longer on the couch. Instead, he was standing behind me. Watching. I turned around. "What?"

He blinked. "What?"

"You’ve been staring at me," I said.

"I have," he admitted.

"So what are you looking at?"

He smiled a little. "You."

I rolled my eyes. "Very funny."

"I’m serious," he said. He nodded toward my laptop. "I’ve never actually watched you work before."

I looked back at the screen. "It’s not exactly exciting."

"I disagree," he said, pulling out the chair beside mine and sitting down. "I thought making documentaries was mostly filming."

I laughed. "Editing is where the story actually gets made."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

I clicked between two clips. "Anyone can record something. But deciding what people feel, that’s editing." I trimmed a reaction shot. "If I hold this shot two seconds longer," Justin’s quiet smile filled the screen, "people connect with you." I cut to another angle. "If I cut too early, the emotion disappears."

Justin watched the screen now instead of me. "So the camera captures the moment," he said slowly.

I nodded. "But the edit decides what the audience remembers."

He sat there for a long moment. Then quietly said, "You’re really good."

Heat crept into my cheeks. "I’ve got a lot to learn."

"I didn’t say you knew everything," he replied. "I said you’re good."

Something about hearing it from him made it harder to dismiss. He wasn’t saying it because he loved me. He was saying it because he’d been watching. "Have you started applying anywhere?" he asked.

I shook my head. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

"My portfolio isn’t strong enough. It was mostly student projects." I glanced toward the new camera sitting beside us. "But that’s changing."

His eyes followed mine. "You already have a plan."

"I do," I said. "I want to make short films after graduation. Not just documentaries. I talked to Ava and Mia. Mia wants to direct. She’s amazing with scripts. Ava loves cinematography and sound. We thought maybe," I laughed nervously, "we could build something together."

Justin’s face lit up. "I love that."

"You do?"

"I do," he said, leaning forward. "That’s exactly how people start. One project. Then another. Then suddenly they’ve built a portfolio."

I smiled. "I hope so."

As I continued sorting footage, another clip appeared. Ethan. Standing near the rink entrance, just talking to someone in the background. For a second, my fingers stopped moving. Justin noticed. Neither of us spoke. Quietly, I dragged the clip into a folder labeled Unused. Then kept editing. Justin didn’t comment. He didn’t need to. He simply reached over and squeezed my knee once. A silent I’m here. It was enough.

Nearly another hour passed before Justin spoke again. "You know," he said. "I know a producer."

My head snapped toward him. "What?"

"He mentors young filmmakers. I could introduce you."

"No," I said immediately.

He frowned. "Why not?"

"You’ve already done enough. You paid for Mom’s treatment. You helped me get this documentary. You bought me a camera. You—"

"And?" he interrupted.

I stared at him. "And that’s enough."

He shook his head gently. "If I can help, why shouldn’t I?"

"Because I can’t keep taking things from you," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because it makes me uncomfortable."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Harper. You know what all of this costs me?"

I hesitated. "No."

He smiled. "Almost nothing. And I don’t just mean financially."

"You keep talking like you’re taking from me," he continued. "But you’re not. You already give me things."

"Like what?" I asked.

"You make my social media content. You spend hours filming, editing, planning. You support me too. You just don’t put a price tag on what you give."

I stared at him. "I still want to repay you."

"You can’t," he said.

"What?"

"I don’t want repayment," he said. "I want partnership. I want to help because you’re talented. Not because I expect anything back." He reached over and closed my laptop.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"Making you listen," he replied.

I laughed. "You are impossible."

"I know," he agreed. "So. Will you let me introduce you to him?"

I sighed dramatically. "I can never win an argument with you."

His smile grew. "No. You really can’t." Before I could think of another comeback, he leaned across the small space between us and kissed me. It was soft. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that said more than words ever could.

When he pulled away, he picked up his textbook again as though nothing had happened. "I should study," he said.

I stared at him. "That’s it?"

He looked over the top of the book. "What?"

"You kiss me and then start reading?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I’ve got an exam next week."

I laughed, shaking my head. "You are unbelievable."

"So I’ve been told," he replied.

I reopened my laptop, still smiling. Just as I reached for the mouse, a vibration broke the silence. My phone lit up on the table between us. Justin glanced down automatically. His expression changed instantly. The smile disappeared. His brows pulled together. He looked from the screen to me, then back to the screen again.

"Harper," he said quietly, his voice confused. Almost alarmed.

I looked up. "What?"

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he slowly turned the phone toward me. "I don’t understand," he said, his eyes meeting mine. "Why is my stepmother texting you?"

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