Chapter 5 The Weight of Fake

MIA

The word fake followed me home that night.

I sat on my bed and stared at the ceiling. The diner's coffee still coated my tongue. Caleb had dropped me off ten minutes ago. He didn't try to hold my hand. He didn't say anything stupid. He just parked the truck, looked at me too long, and said "same time tomorrow."

I didn't answer. I just got out.

My mom was asleep on the couch. I checked her pulse like I did every night. Steady. Weak. The chemo was still in her system, still fighting. I kissed her forehead, pulled her pink beanie back into place, and went to my room.

The contract was still open on my phone. Twelve pages. Six months. Thirty thousand dollars. I scrolled to the signature line. My name was already there. Digital ink. No going back.

I closed my eyes and tried to remember what my life felt like before all this. Before the bills. Before the chemo. Before Caleb Kessler walked into my world with his stupid blue eyes and his bruised ribs and his offer I couldn't refuse.

I couldn't remember.

My phone buzzed.

Chloe: You looked good together.

Mia: It's fake.

Chloe: You almost smiled when he put his hand on your back.

Mia: I was performing.

Chloe: Sure you were.

I threw my phone across the bed and pressed my palms against my eyes.

Chloe didn't understand. Her mom wasn't dying. Her brother's hockey gear wasn't held together by duct tape and prayers. She didn't have to pretend to love someone just to keep her family afloat.

But she wasn't wrong.

When Caleb had looked at me at the diner, when he said "six months" like it was a promise instead of a prison sentence, something in my chest shifted.

Not love. Not even like.

Just recognition.

He was scared too. His father was holding a knife to his throat. Same as mine.

That didn't make us allies. It just made us both trapped.

The next morning, I woke up to a text.

Caleb: Press conference at 2. Wear something that doesn't make you look like you're going to a funeral.

Mia: This is how I always dress.

Caleb: Exactly.

I stared at the screen. Was he flirting? No. He was being an idiot.

I pulled on the same jersey from yesterday. Number seventeen. Wolves colors. It was starting to smell like me now, not him. A small victory.

My mom was already at work. I left a note on the kitchen table. Gone to school. Love you.

Then I walked outside.

Caleb's truck was already there. He was leaning against the hood, arms crossed, a coffee cup in each hand.

"You're early," I said.

"You're late."

"I'm right on time."

He smirked. "Same thing."

I took the coffee. It was warm. Sweet. Exactly how I liked it. I didn't remember telling him that.

"Lucky guess," he said.

"Sure."

We drove to the arena in silence. The press conference was in a small room off the main lobby. Reporters were already setting up cameras. Derek paced by the door.

"Smile," he said. "Touch each other. Don't say anything about the video."

"What video?" Caleb asked.

Derek glared. "Not funny."

The questions started. Easy at first. Caleb answered most of them. His hand rested on my knee under the table. I didn't flinch.

Then a reporter asked: "Caleb, any comment on the allegations that you were involved in a fight last month?"

The room went quiet.

Caleb's jaw tightened. "The allegations were false. The video was edited. The league cleared me."

"Then why the need for a wholesome girlfriend now?"

Caleb looked at me. His blue eyes were cold, but his hand on my knee was warm. "Because she makes me want to be better," he said. "Not for the cameras. For me."

The reporters ate it up. Cameras flashed. I kept my smile frozen.

Under the table, my heart was pounding.

After the press conference, I pulled Caleb into the hallway.

"That wasn't in the contract," I said.

"Which part?"

"The part where you look at me like I'm your salvation."

He stepped closer. "Maybe you are."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things that make this harder."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "Harder to pretend?"

I didn't answer.

He sighed. "My dad wants dinner. Friday night. At the house."

"No."

"It's not a request."

"Then cancel."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because if I don't bring you, he'll know something's wrong. And if he knows something's wrong, he'll pull my funding. And if he pulls my funding, I don't get drafted."

"And that's my problem?"

"It's our problem. You need the money. I need the draft. The contract says we help each other."

I hated that he was right.

"Fine," I said. "One dinner. But I'm not holding your hand."

"You already do that."

"For the cameras."

"Sure."

He walked away. I stood there in the hallway, the coffee cold in my hand.

I wondered when exactly I had stopped hating him.