Faking It With The Hockey Star

Justin’s POV

I frowned at Harper’s phone. The sender’s name made absolutely no sense. Diane. My stepmother. For a second I wondered if I was reading it wrong. Then another message appeared beneath it.

Without thinking, I picked up the phone. "Justin," Harper said, her voice hesitant. I barely heard her. I opened the conversation.

The first message made my stomach twist. Then the second. Then the third. Every single one was worse than the last. Words I wouldn’t repeat. Words no person deserved to receive. The kind of words designed to make someone feel small and worthless and ashamed of existing. My grip tightened around the phone until my knuckles ached.

"What is this?" I looked up at Harper.

She lowered her eyes. "I didn’t think it mattered."

"It doesn’t matter?" My voice came out much sharper than I intended, and I watched her flinch slightly. I forced myself to soften it. "My stepmother has been sending you this?"

She nodded once. Quietly. "Since the office."

I stared at her. "The day we confronted my dad?"

Another nod.

"And you never told me?"

She looked almost guilty. "You already had enough on your plate."

I let out a slow breath. Then another. Of all the things she could have said, that answer was somehow the one that landed hardest. Because it meant she’d been carrying this alone for weeks. Reading these messages alone. Deleting them alone. Pretending they hadn’t affected her. "Harper," I said.

She finally looked at me. "You never have to carry something like this by yourself," I said. "Not ever."

"I know," she said quietly.

"No." I stepped closer. "I don’t think you do. If someone treats you like this, you tell me. Immediately. I don’t care who it is. My father. My stepmother. The President. You tell me."

She gave me a tiny, tired smile. "I’ll remember."

I wasn’t finished. I scrolled farther down the conversation, reading every message she’d been absorbing in silence while smiling at me like everything was fine. Something tightened painfully in my chest. She’d sat through dinners with me. She’d laughed with me. She’d held my hand through everything going on with my father. And the entire time, Diane had been doing this.

Then another name caught my eye. My jaw tightened. I read it again. Then looked back at Harper. "Vanessa?"

She blinked. "What?"

"It says Vanessa’s dating Ethan now."

Harper frowned. "I didn’t know that."

"I thought Ethan was with Chloe," I said.

"So did I."

"What happened?"

She shrugged helplessly. "I honestly have no idea."

I rubbed a hand over my face. "This whole thing is insane." Every layer I peeled back revealed something worse underneath. My stepmother harassing my girlfriend. My stepsister circling back to the one person who’d already hurt Harper once. It felt deliberate. Coordinated. Like someone was trying to dismantle everything around me while I wasn’t looking.

Harper reached for my arm. "Justin."

I looked at her.

"Don’t," she said quietly.

"What?"

"Don’t let them ruin tonight."

I laughed, and the sound came out bitter. "They’re doing a fantastic job."

She squeezed my hand firmly. "They’re trying to. But they don’t have to succeed."

I looked down at her phone again. Every instinct I had wanted to call my father right now. Demand an explanation. Demand accountability. Demand something. Instead, I took screenshots of every message, one after another, methodical and deliberate. Harper watched quietly.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Saving them," I said.

"Why?"

I looked her straight in the eyes. "Because tomorrow I’m sending every single one of these to my father. If Diane thinks she can harass my girlfriend without consequences, she’s about to learn otherwise."

Before Harper could answer, my phone rang.

Coach.

I closed my eyes briefly. The timing couldn’t have been worse. I forced myself to breathe before answering. "Coach."

"Justin." His voice was unusually serious, the kind of serious that made you sit up straighter without being told to. "You got a minute?"

"Of course."

"I wanted you to hear this from me before anyone else," he said.

A strange feeling settled in my stomach. "What happened?"

"A scheduling change."

I frowned. "What kind of scheduling change?"

"The scouts."

Everything inside me went still. "They’re not coming next month."

For one ridiculous second, I felt almost relieved. Maybe they weren’t coming at all. Maybe this whole thing had been postponed and I’d have more time to sort my head out.

Then Coach finished his sentence. "They’re coming next week."

Silence. I couldn’t speak. Next week. Seven days. The thing I’d been working toward since I was eight years old, watching hockey on my mother’s living room floor, telling her I was going to play in the NHL one day while she laughed and said she believed me. One week.

"You still there?" Coach asked.

"Yeah," I said. My voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far away. "I’m here."

"I figured you’d need a second."

I laughed quietly, though nothing about this was funny. "You figured right."

Coach’s tone softened in the way it only did when he meant something. "I’ve watched you all season. Physically, you’re ready. Your skating is clean. Your numbers are strong. Any scout worth their job is going to see that."

I closed my eyes. "But?"

"But mentally?" He paused. "You’ve been distracted."

I looked across the room at Harper. She was watching me with her full attention, worry written clearly across her face, but she didn’t interrupt. Didn’t push. Just waited. The way she always did.

Coach continued. "I don’t know what’s happening in your personal life. And frankly, I don’t need to know. But whatever it is, you’ve got one week. Figure it out. Because this opportunity," another pause, deliberate and heavy, "will change the rest of your life."

I swallowed hard. "I understand."

"I know you do," he said. "So show me." The call ended.

For several seconds I just stared at my phone. Everything I’d worked toward since childhood. Every early morning skate. Every injured practice I’d pushed through. Every fight with my father about whether hockey was a real future. Every moment I’d spent on the ice instead of the boardroom, choosing my own life over the one that had been planned for me.

One week.

Harper walked over quietly. "What happened?"

I let out a long breath. "The scouts." She searched my face. "They moved it." "When?" "Next week."

For a second neither of us spoke. The weight of it sat between us, enormous and real. One week to fix everything that had been unraveling for months. One week to get my head straight while my stepmother sent slurs to my girlfriend and my father played power games with a hospital and my stepsister apparently found her way back to the one person on campus with a vendetta against Harper.

Then Harper reached for both of my hands. "Justin." I met her eyes. "Listen to me. My phone. Your stepmother. Your dad. Ethan. Vanessa. All of that will still be there next week. But this?" She squeezed my hands tightly. "This is your dream. You’ve worked too hard to let anyone steal it from you." A small, certain smile touched her lips. "You’ve got this."

I looked at her. "You sound awfully confident."

"I am," she said simply.

"Why?"

"Because I’ve seen how hard you work." The smile stayed. "I’ve filmed it."

That made me laugh, a real one, the first one in the last twenty minutes that didn’t feel hollow. She leaned forward and rested her forehead against mine. "And besides," her voice softened, "you don’t have to carry everything alone anymore. You’ve got me."

The knot in my chest loosened just enough for me to breathe again. One week. Seven days. One chance at the life I’d chosen for myself over every other option I’d been handed.

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