The ballerina on my couch has a bun so tight it’s giving me sympathy headaches, and legs longer than my PR list of “don’ts.” Don’t party. Don’t hook up with fans. Don’t miss the puck four games in a row.

The last one’s a sore subject.

“I’m serious,” Elisa says, arms crossed like I’m about to tell her this is the dumbest idea ever. Which is fair, because it is. Fake dating? Really?

Still, I don’t say no.

Not right away.

Instead, I study her. She’s sitting like someone who’s been trained her whole life to take up less space—back straight, knees tucked, polite smile nailed in place. Except for her eyes. Her eyes are fire and teeth.

“What do you need from me exactly?” I ask slowly, because if I’m doing this, I need rules. I need boundaries. I need a way to keep my hands to myself when she’s wearing those leotard things that are practically painted on.

She shrugs like this is no big deal. “A few pictures. Some light PDA. A couple of well-timed posts to make it look convincing. You’re the hot shot with a messy image. I’m the underdog who can’t get the spotlight.”

“And this helps you get the lead in your ballet thing?”

“Aurora,” she corrects, brows raised. “And yes. They care about relevance. Visibility. If I’m dating Beckett Westbrook, it makes me ‘interesting.’”

She says my name like it’s a curse word. Like she can’t believe she has to do this. Like she’d rather swallow glass.

Which would sting more if I didn’t get it.

I’m a hockey player with a brand problem. She’s a dancer who needs a bigger platform. It’s transactional. Clean.

And still, I ask, “Why me?”

“Because you’re safe,” she says simply. “You’re too busy tanking your rookie season to fall in love with me.”

Ouch.

I grin anyway, because if I don’t, I might throw something.

“And you?” she asks, sharper now. “What do you get?”

The real answer is privacy. Maybe a little control back. Maybe a chance to shut everyone up about who I’m sleeping with by giving them an answer so neat it’s boring.

“You,” I say, “get your ballet people off your back. I get every gossip site off mine.”

Elisa extends a hand like we’re making a deal over property lines. “So we’re agreed. We fake date until I get cast and you score your goal. And then we break up, clean and easy.”

“No mess,” I agree, shaking her hand. Her palm is soft, but her grip? Brutal. Girl’s got steel in her bones.

“No emotions,” she says.

I nod, even though I’ve already noticed the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking. The way her laugh is rare, but stupidly pretty. The way I kind of want to be the one who gets to hear it on repeat.

“No getting attached,” she finishes.

And I agree to that too, like I don’t already feel a thread pulling tight in my chest.

Like I don’t already know I’m screwed.