Faking It With The Hockey Star

Harper’s POV

Justin pulled into the long driveway just after ten in the morning. His grandmother’s house looked exactly the way I remembered it. Beautiful flower beds. Perfectly trimmed hedges. The same white porch swing where she’d sat the last time we visited. It already felt peaceful before I’d even stepped out of the truck.

Justin parked and climbed out first. "I’ll walk you in," he said.

"You were invited?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

He looked genuinely offended. "I’m family."

We walked hand in hand to the front door. Before Justin could even raise his fist to knock, it swung open. His grandmother stood in the frame wearing a pale blue cardigan and an expression of polite amusement.

"Oh." She looked directly at Justin. "I didn’t invite you."

I covered my mouth immediately.

Justin placed a hand over his heart. "Grandma."

"What?" she replied pleasantly.

"I’m your favorite grandson," he said.

She nodded thoughtfully. "You are."

Justin grinned. "I knew it."

She smiled sweetly. "You’re also my only grandson."

His grin disappeared. "That doesn’t sound as special."

"It isn’t," she agreed.

I burst out laughing. Justin pointed between us. "You two planned this."

Grandma winked at me. "Maybe." She stepped aside. "Harper, come in." Then she looked back at Justin. "You," she said, pointing toward the driveway, "can leave."

"Wow," Justin said, sighing dramatically. "I feel so loved."

Grandma folded her arms. "You may raid my refrigerator before you go."

His entire face transformed immediately. "Now we’re talking."

Less than a minute later, Justin was standing in the kitchen with a sandwich in one hand and an apple in the other. "I’ll call you later," he mumbled around a mouthful.

Grandma stared at him. "Chew," she said.

He obediently chewed. Then looked at me. "I’ll pick you up this evening."

I smiled. "I’ll be here."

He leaned down and kissed my forehead. "I love you," he said.

"I love you too," I replied.

As he headed toward the front door, Grandma called after him. "Don’t forget hockey practice tomorrow."

"I won’t," he said.

"And stop living off my refrigerator."

"I make no promises," he called back.

The front door closed. The house went wonderfully quiet.

"Now." Grandma clapped her hands together. "I made lunch."

"You didn’t have to do that," I said.

"Oh, nonsense." She waved me toward the dining room. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to cook too much." The table was already covered. Jollof rice. Grilled chicken. Fresh salad. Homemade bread that filled the entire room with the kind of smell that made you forget whatever was worrying you.

I stared at it. "This is enough for ten people."

She smiled proudly. "I know."

We both laughed.

After lunch, I automatically gathered the empty plates. Grandma gently took them from my hands. "No," she said.

"I can help," I said.

"I know you can," she replied warmly. "But you’re my guest." She guided me toward the kitchen island and handed me a slice of cake instead. "Eat."

I laughed. "You’re impossible."

"So I’ve been told," she said.

The afternoon drifted by so naturally that I almost forgot everything happening outside these walls. We talked about films, books, travel, food, things that had nothing to do with hockey schedules or documentary deadlines or mysterious file deletions. Eventually, curiosity got the better of me. "Can I ask you something?" I said.

"Anything," she replied.

"How did you and your husband meet?"

Her entire face softened immediately. "Oh. That’s a dangerous question."

"Why dangerous?"

"Because old people love telling stories," she said.

"I love listening to them," I replied honestly.

She smiled. "We met in university. He spilled coffee all over my notes."

I laughed. "Really?"

"He insisted on buying me a new notebook." She shook her head fondly. "I refused. I thought he was arrogant." "Were you wrong?" I asked. "Completely," she admitted. "What changed?" She smiled. "He kept showing up. Not with flowers. Not with expensive gifts. Just kindness." I smiled to myself. "That sounds familiar." She noticed immediately. "Doesn’t it?"

..

A little later I asked, "What was Justin’s mom like?"

Grandma laughed immediately. "Stubborn." Then she looked at me pointedly. "I wonder where Justin gets it." I smiled. "Exactly." She grew warmer. "She was fearless. The kind of little girl who’d climb every tree she wasn’t supposed to." She paused. "And Justin was a handful from the beginning." "I believe that," I said. She smiled knowingly. "No. You’ve met the healed version."

That sentence caught my attention completely. "What do you mean?" I asked.

She grew quieter. "When he was little, he carried so much anger. He rarely smiled. He trusted almost no one." She looked toward the family photographs lining the hallway. "So whenever he came here, I tried to love him enough for the days he wasn’t getting it elsewhere."

Emotion caught in my throat. She looked back at me and smiled. "I haven’t seen him laugh this much in years."

I felt warmth spread through my chest. "I don’t think that’s because of me," I said.

"It is," she replied, with complete certainty.

..

Just then her phone rang. She glanced at the screen. "Oh. My grocery delivery. I completely forgot." She stood and grabbed her keys. "I have to meet them at the front gate. This neighborhood has ridiculous delivery rules." She pointed at me playfully as she headed for the door. "Don’t let the house burn down."

"I’ll do my best," I said.

She laughed and disappeared outside. The house fell silent around me.

I wandered slowly through the hallway, looking at the old family photographs. Justin as a little boy. His mother smiling beside him. Christmas dinners. Birthdays. Graduations. The walls held generations of memories so warmly that I could almost feel them.

As I turned the corner toward the back of the house, something caught my eye. A door. Unlike every other room, this one was closed. The brass handle was slightly tarnished. A thin layer of dust rested along the frame. I frowned. Every other room in the house was spotless.

I walked closer. A small wooden plaque hung beside the door. The writing had faded with age. I couldn’t quite read it. Curiosity tugged at me gently and insistently until I rested my hand on the handle.

"It’s probably nothing," I whispered.

The handle turned easily. The door creaked open. A faint smell of old paper and cedar drifted out. Sunlight filtered through half-closed blinds, catching floating specks of dust. The room looked completely untouched. A large wooden desk. Bookshelves lining every wall. Boxes stacked neatly in one corner.

And on the desk, sitting beneath a thin layer of dust, was a framed photograph. Turned face down.

I stepped inside slowly. The floor creaked beneath my feet.

"Whose office is this?" I whispered. "And why has nobody used it in years?"

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