Fake Dating the Secret Billionaire Hockey Star

FIONA POV:

"Fiona, don't forget your date tonight at seven! Mr. Henderson is a real catch, a banker, stable! Don't be late!"

The text from my sister-in-law, Jessica, lit up my phone for the tenth time. My stomach clenched. The coffee in front of me was already cold.

Stable.

The word echoed in my head. I pictured the man Jessica described: thirty-five, a receding hairline, a love for discussing stocks. Stable, but utterly devoid of passion. My life shouldn't be defined by that word.

I stared out the window of "The Daily Grind." The Chicago streets were a blur of motion, but I felt like a bird in a cage. All I wanted was to finish my degree at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, to open a small design studio of my own. I didn't want to be some banker's trophy wife.

But Jessica and my brother, Leo, paid my tuition. They paid for my apartment. And in Jessica's mind, that gave her the right to orchestrate my entire life, right down to my choice of husband.

And Jessica wasn't pushing Henderson on me purely out of concern. A banker with money and connections was exactly the kind of brother-in-law she wanted. Once I married someone like him, she could ask me for expensive favors, loans, introductions-whatever she wanted-and call it "family helping family." To her, my marriage wasn't just my future. It was an opportunity she intended to cash in on. The feeling was suffocating. I couldn't breathe.

My fingers idly fiddled with a discarded copy of the Chicago Tribune. The sports section. A photo caught my eye: Beckett Hayes, of the Chicago Rebels. His eyes were intense, sweat tracing a path down his jawline. The headline, however, was less than flattering: Rebels' Playoff Hopes Dim, Hayes's Future in Question.

A forgotten memory surfaced. A few weeks ago, in my dad's garage before he passed, he'd been on the phone with his old friend, Thomas Hayes. Beckett's father. I'd overheard Thomas complaining, his voice weary.

Beckett had been getting hammered in the press lately. He'd been photographed leaving bars alone late at night after losses, had snapped at a reporter who kept pressing him about the team's performance, and had skipped a sponsor dinner without explanation. None of it was exactly scandalous, but the tabloids had stitched it together into a convenient story: Beckett Hayes was volatile, arrogant, and impossible to pin down. Sponsors were starting to question whether he was the kind of man they wanted representing their brands. Thomas had said what Beckett needed was to look settled, dependable, and serious about his future-preferably with a respectable woman at his side, and eventually a wife. He needed a "stable public image," and fast.

A crazy, audacious idea took root in my mind.

What if... what if I could provide him with that "stable image"? And in return, he could provide me with a shield? A "boyfriend" to finally get Jessica off my back?

My hand trembled as I scrolled through my dad's old contacts. There it was: "Thomas Hayes." My heart hammered against my ribs. This was insane.

My phone buzzed again. Jessica. "I already picked out a dress for you, it's in your closet. Remember to wear makeup."

That was the last straw.

I took a deep, shuddering breath and pressed the call button.

"Mr. Hayes? This is Fiona Wagner, Leo's sister. I... I have a business proposition. I was wondering if you and your son might be interested." My voice shook with a mixture of terror and exhilaration.

The silence on the other end of the line felt like an eternity, but Mr. Hayes eventually agreed to a meeting. He gave me an address. The Uber ride from the coffee shop to the nondescript downtown office building felt like a lifetime.

Now, I sat across from him. Thomas Hayes was a mild-mannered man with sharp, intelligent eyes. He listened quietly as I laid out my insane plan: a public relations contract. I play his son's devoted girlfriend to clean up his image. In exchange, I get a "boyfriend" to reclaim my freedom from my family.

"Fiona, are you sure you understand what this means?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. "This isn't a game."

I straightened my spine. "I understand. It's a transaction. I need freedom. Mr. Hayes needs a clean public image. We each get something we need."

Just then, the office door swung open. A tall figure strode in. He wore a faded t-shirt and jeans, his handsome face framed by a pair of simple, rimless glasses. It was Beckett Hayes.

He frowned when he saw me, then looked at his father. "Who is she? I don't have an appointment." His voice was colder than I expected, laced with a natural-born distance.

Thomas explained my "business proposition" in a few brief sentences.

Beckett listened, then let out a short, derisive laugh. "A PR girlfriend? Dad, are you kidding me? And you picked her?" He looked me up and down, his gaze clinical, like he was assessing livestock. It made my skin crawl.

Heat flooded my cheeks, but anger quickly replaced my shame. "Mr. Hayes," I said, meeting his gaze directly. "This is a business contract, not a beauty pageant. I can solve your problem with the media and sponsors. You can solve my problem with unwanted family interference. If you don't think I'm suitable, that's fine. I'm sure there are other athletes in Chicago who could use a 'stable image'."

My retort seemed to surprise him. A flicker of something-was it respect?-flashed in his icy blue eyes before they turned cold again. He was silent, studying me, as if trying to see straight through to my soul.

Thomas stepped in. "Beckett, I think Fiona's proposal has merit. And I know Fiona. She's a good girl."

After a long, suffocating moment, Beckett finally spoke. "Fine. I'll do it."

I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when his next words caught in my throat.

"But I have conditions. If we're going to do this, we do it right. You'll be playing the part of a 'struggling player's girlfriend,' understand? No luxury goods, no fancy restaurants. You'll move into the apartment I keep for prospects."

He was testing me. I understood immediately. He wanted to see if I was just another "Puck Bunny" after his money.

I met his challenging gaze and managed a tight smile. "No problem. That's exactly what I need. My sister-in-law can't stand to see anyone doing better than her. Me being 'poor' will actually make her feel more secure."

The corner of his mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile so fast I thought I'd imagined it. "Good. My lawyer will draw up the contract. Be here tomorrow. Two o'clock."

He turned and left without another word, as if he'd just completed a minor, uninteresting task.

Thomas gave me an apologetic smile. "Don't mind him, Fiona. He's just... used to protecting himself. Welcome to the 'plan'."

Walking out of the building, the cool evening air hit my face. I realized my back was soaked with sweat. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Jessica.

"Don't worry about the dress. I have a date."

Message sent. I stared at the screen, a strange mix of fear and excitement bubbling up inside me. I didn't know if I had just escaped one trap only to walk into a much deeper one.

Tomorrow. Two o'clock. My new life-or rather, my new performance-was about to begin.

FIONA POV:

I arrived at the law firm ten minutes early. Beckett and his father were already in the conference room. Beckett sat at the head of the table, exuding a cold, regal air, his expression unreadable. His lawyer, a man in a perfectly tailored suit, slid a thick document across the polished table toward me.

I took a deep breath, trying to appear calm. I had barely slept, my mind racing through the pros and cons of this decision. But there was no turning back now.

"Miss Wagner, this is the contract," the lawyer said, his tone all business. "Please read it carefully, especially the sections regarding the non-disclosure agreement, mutual obligations, and breach of contract penalties."

I opened the folder. The clauses were terrifyingly specific. A minimum of three public "dates" per week, at locations of Beckett's choosing-usually inexpensive restaurants or parks. At least two "couple photos" posted on social media per month. A requirement to act like a couple in love whenever in the presence of our respective families.

Then one clause made me freeze.

To ensure the authenticity of the relationship, Party B (Fiona Wagner) must, within one week of the contract's execution, move into the residence designated by Party A (Beckett Hayes) and cohabitate with Party A.

My stomach dropped. I looked up at Beckett. He was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He was waiting for my reaction. This was his doing.

Thomas spoke up, his voice gentle. "Fiona, don't worry. It's just to make everything look more authentic. If you're not living together, your family or the media could easily find holes in the story. This is for your protection, too."

He was right, logically, but it still felt wrong. It felt like I was selling a piece of myself.

I bit my lower lip, forcing myself to think clearly. This was my choice. I flipped to the last page and saw the compensation clause. During the contract period, a private trust would cover all my tuition and basic living expenses, ensuring no direct financial transactions between me and Beckett. And upon termination of the contract, I would receive a substantial "severance payment"-enough to open my own studio.

That money was my ticket to freedom. My independence. I needed it.

I stopped hesitating. I picked up the pen and signed my name on the final page: Fiona Wagner. The scratch of the nib on paper was unnervingly loud in the silent room.

I pushed the contract over to Beckett. He picked up a different pen and signed his name with a flourish. In that moment, our "relationship" became legally binding.

The lawyer collected the documents, a professional smile on his face. "A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Hayes, Miss Wagner."

I felt like a piece of merchandise that had just been sold. Beckett hadn't said a single word to me. After signing, he stood up, ready to leave.

"Wait," I said, my voice surprising me with its steadiness.

He paused, turning back to look at me, an unspoken question in his eyes.

"About the move," I said, keeping my voice even. "What's the address? I'll need time to pack."

He reached into his pocket and tossed a set of keys onto the table. They landed with a sharp clink. "The address is on the keychain. You have three days. After that, I don't want to see a single box from your old 'home' in that apartment."

His tone was dismissive, an order, not a request. I clenched my fists under the table, biting back a retort.

Thomas patted my shoulder. "Fiona, he's just got a sharp tongue. Don't take it to heart. The apartment is all set up. It's very safe."

Beckett ignored his father's attempt at an explanation and walked out of the room.

I picked up the keys. The cold metal sent a shiver through my fingertips. The keychain was engraved with an address: 1515 N. Damen Avenue, Wicker Park. A neighborhood I'd never been to.

As Thomas was leaving, he turned to me. "Fiona, I know this isn't easy. But please believe me, Beckett... he's not a bad person. Just give him some time."

I forced a smile that felt more like a grimace. "I will, Mr. Hayes."

The conference room was empty now, just me and the view of the city. It felt like all of Chicago had become a giant stage, and I was about to make my debut in a play where I didn't even know the ending.

I clutched the keys and stood up. First step: go home, announce my "new relationship," and pack up my old life.

As I stepped out of the elevator, the bright lobby lights felt harsh. I looked down at the keys in my hand. They felt like a heavy promise, a one-way ticket to the unknown.

My phone rang. It was Kristina, my best friend.

"Fiona! Where were you last night? You weren't answering your phone! Jessica has been blowing up my line!"

I leaned against the cool wall of the corridor, closing my eyes in exhaustion. "Kris, I'm okay. I just... I made a big decision. I'll tell you everything tonight."

FIONA POV:

I dragged myself back to Leo and Jessica's house in the suburbs. It was nominally my "home," but I was just a long-term guest in their spare room. The moment I walked in, I saw Jessica on the sofa, arms crossed, her face a thundercloud.

"Fiona Wagner, you finally decided to come back?" Her voice was sharp, cutting. "Do you have any idea how long I spent apologizing to Mrs. Henderson for you standing her up? You embarrassed me!"

Leo emerged from the kitchen, his face etched with worry. "Fiona, are you okay? Where have you been?"

I ignored Jessica's tirade and spoke to them both. "Leo, Jessica, I need to talk to you."

Taking a deep breath, I delivered the lines I'd rehearsed a hundred times in my head. "I have a boyfriend. We met at... a school art exhibit. I was with him last night."

Jessica stared, then let out a derisive snort. "A boyfriend? Fiona, don't tell me you're making this up just to get out of a blind date."

I pulled the keys from my pocket and placed them on the coffee table between us. "These are the keys to his apartment. I'm moving in with him."

That stunned her into silence. For a second. "Moving in? How long have you known him? What does he do? What's his family background? Have you even asked?" The questions came like machine-gun fire.

I stuck to the script Beckett and I had loosely agreed upon. "His name is Beckett. He's a hockey player. We just... clicked."

"A hockey player?" Jessica's brow furrowed. "Which team? What's his salary? Does he have endorsements?"

I looked down, feigning a lack of confidence. "He's... still trying to make it. Bouncing between the minor leagues and the pros. The salary isn't very stable. But he has a lot of potential!"

The moment she heard "not stable," her face hardened. The look she gave me was a cocktail of pity and disgust. "Fiona, are you out of your mind? You'd pass up a banker for an athlete with no future? What has he done to you? He's probably just using you because you're young and naive!"

Her words were like daggers. In her world, everything, including love, had a price tag. And I had a pretty good idea what was really upsetting her. If I married Henderson, she'd have a wealthy banker in the family-and, through me, a convenient source of loans, favors, and money whenever she wanted them. But if I tied myself to a hockey player with an unstable paycheck, that little financial pipeline she'd already imagined for herself would disappear.

Leo tried to defend me. "Jessica, don't say that. Fiona's a grown woman. She can make her own choices." But his voice was a whisper against the storm of her anger.

"Her choice is to ruin her life!" Jessica shrieked. "I'm telling you, Fiona, if you move out of this house, don't expect another penny from us!"

This was exactly what I wanted. I looked up, my voice calm. "Fine. I won't ask you for money anymore. I'll handle my tuition and living expenses myself."

My composure only enraged her more. She was speechless, pointing at me with a trembling hand.

I went to my room and started packing my few belongings. Most of my clothes were things Jessica had bought for me, reflecting her taste, not mine. I didn't want to take any of them.

A soft knock came at the door. It was Leo. He pressed a bank card into my hand. "Fiona, take this. It's my own money, Jessica doesn't know. You'll need it out there."

A lump formed in my throat. "Leo..."

He ruffled my hair, just like when we were kids. "Don't be too hard on Jessica. She means well, she just has a terrible way of showing it. This guy... Beckett... is he good to you?"

"He's... great," I lied, a warmth spreading through my chest. At least my brother truly cared.

I pushed the card back into his hand. "I can't take it, Leo. I've decided to be independent. Don't worry, I can take care of myself."

An hour later, everything I truly owned was packed into one suitcase and a backpack. As I was about to leave, I sent a text to Beckett.