I never asked for the spotlight. It just came with the jersey. Rookie of the year, golden boy, poster child for the future of hockey — that’s what they call me. What they don’t mention is how every photo, every headline, every rumor ends up twisting who I am. One smile at a girl, one conversation at a bar, and suddenly I’m the league’s new Casanova.

Truth is, I’m not. Yeah, I’ve had my moments, but I’ve never been the guy who plays with hearts. I don’t have the time or the patience for it. I care about the game — about winning, improving, making it to the top without losing myself. But lately, the media’s been making that impossible. That’s when she came in.

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She wasn’t impressed when we met. In fact, she rolled her eyes before I even finished my first sentence. I talk a lot — I know that. She doesn’t. She’s quiet, composed, the kind of person who doesn’t waste words. A ballerina — graceful, disciplined, and completely out of my chaotic world. But she needed something too. Money. Exposure. A name that could open doors.

So, we made a deal.

Fake dating. My reputation gets a reset; hers gets a spotlight. Easy enough. Except it wasn’t.

She’s small but fiery — red hair, freckles, eyes that could kill with one glance. She’s serious, but when she teases me, there’s that spark — sharp, playful, and addictive. I like pushing her buttons, watching her try not to smile when I say something stupid. And maybe I started liking that too much.

The whole “fake” thing got blurry fast.

Tonight, after a long road game, we arrived back on campus earlier than expected. I was dead on my feet, still half in uniform, my bag slung over my shoulder. I didn’t even think twice — I called her.

“Nick? It’s three in the morning,” she answered, voice half-asleep, half-annoyed. “What happened?”

“The team arrived earlier than expected,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “I’m exhausted. All I want is my bed and a good night’s sleep.”

There was silence. Then: “Did you call me just to say that?”

“Yes,” I said, grinning. “And to ask you to open the door. I came to get you to sleep with me.”

A pause. Then her sigh — the kind that says you’re unbelievable.

“Nick,” she groaned, but I could hear the faint laugh in her voice. “You can’t just—”

“I’m already outside your dorm,” I cut in. “If you don’t open, I’ll freeze to death. Then your career will be ruined for being the girl who killed a national treasure.”

That made her laugh — a small, tired sound that made my chest tighten. A moment later, the door opened. She stood there, hair messy, one of my old hoodies hanging off her shoulder.

“Fine,” she muttered. “But you’re sleeping on your side.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and climbed into her bed. The second my head hit the pillow, I felt her shift beside me, careful to keep her distance. But then her foot brushed mine — an accident maybe, but I didn’t move away.

For the first time in weeks, the noise faded. No cameras, no headlines, no pretending. Just her steady breathing in the dark.

She’ll still call me annoying tomorrow. She’ll still roll her eyes and act like this means nothing. But I know the truth now.

Somewhere between the fake smiles and staged photos, I fell for her — hard.