The Hockey Star's Runaway Fake Girlfriend

Isla Owens POV:

The scent of honey and spices filled the apartment as I pulled the roast chicken from the oven. Its skin was a perfect, crackling gold.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. The hands had just swept past seven.

My phone buzzed violently on the counter. It was Josie.

I pressed the accept button.

"Babe!" her voice crackled through the speaker before I could even say hello. "I just saw on the campus forum-that asshole Christian is back! He didn't tell you, did he?"

I leaned against the kitchen counter, suddenly feeling the heat from the oven on my skin.

"No, he didn't tell me," I said, my voice flat. But I'd already seen the news that he was coming back through other channels.

"Ha!" Josie scoffed, never one to mince words. "Typical. That's your 'boyfriend' for you. Returns like a ghost and doesn't even tell the girl he's living with."

Josie Silva, my best friend and roommate before I moved in here, was my reliable source for all things Briar University, especially things I didn't want to know.

This was how I always found out about him. Through the campus grapevine, through sports blogs, through everyone except Christian himself.

He was the captain of the Briar hockey team, a star player with a spotlight so bright it often left me standing in his shadow. I'd read about his pre-season training in the school paper before he ever mentioned it to me.

Just last week, a sports blog had named him a "future NHL prospect," a headline I learned about from a classmate's Instagram story.

I subconsciously tugged at the Briar hockey team jacket I was wearing. It was Christian's, number 13 emblazoned on the back.

This was part of our "contract," playing the part of his adoring girlfriend in public.

The deal had been laid out in cold, practical terms: his family covered my tuition, and in return, I wore his jacket, smiled at his games, and never asked for more. But somewhere along the way, the pretending had started to feel too real.

The apartment was terribly quiet, filled only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional car passing outside.

"Well," Josie said, her voice softening slightly, "are you still coming to dinner? I got a bonus and I'm feeling generous."

I looked at the elaborate dinner I had prepared. I'd made his favorites,not because the contract required it, but because some foolish, hopeful part of me had wanted him to come home to me. The rich aroma of the chicken began to fade, the heat dissipating into the cold air. Every dish was a silent mockery of my foolishness. "Maybe next time," I said, my throat tight. "I'll call you next time I go."

After I hung up, I picked up my phone again. My thumb hovered over Christian's contact. I couldn't bring myself to press it. I was afraid of the loud background noise I might hear, or worse, no answer at all.

Instead, I scrolled through my feed. And that's when I saw it.

A video from Tristan Sinclair, his teammate. Just posted.

The background was a dimly lit, crowded frat house party. Tristan was holding the camera, pans across a room full of people, then lands on Christian.

He was wearing a simple black t-shirt, a red solo cup in his hand, leaning in to hear something his teammate, Tristan Sinclair, was saying. A careless smile played on his lips.

The video was timestamped ten minutes ago.

My stomach dropped. So he was back. He just hadn't come back to this place we were supposed to call "home."

The noise and music from the photo seemed to bleed through the screen, a sharp contrast to the silent, cold apartment I was sitting in.

I looked at the elaborate dinner I had prepared, now untouched. Every dish was a silent mockery of my foolishness.

I stood up and walked to the window, staring down at the empty parking spot below. His exclusive spot, reserved for his sports car.

I turned off the warm overhead lights in the dining room, leaving only a single dim floor lamp.

I picked up a plate and mechanically served myself a piece of the lukewarm chicken.

I didn't sit back down at the table. I moved to the sofa in the living room and turned on the TV.

Some mindless late-night talk show was on. I couldn't hear a word of it.

Around midnight, I scraped the barely touched dinner into the trash can. The plate made a dull thud against the bottom of the bag.

I took a shower, went to my bedroom, and left the door ajar. I lay in bed, cradling my little orange cat Apollo,the one I'd adopted from the shelter last week-against my chest, his soft purring a small comfort.

Lying in bed, I could hear the faint, muffled sounds of parties from down the street. This college town never slept.

I don't know how long I lay there. Just as I was drifting off, I heard the sound of a key in the front door.

My heart seized. Was that Christian?

I was instantly awake, my body rigid. I strained to hear.

Heavy footsteps crossed the living room.

The footsteps paused just outside my bedroom door.

I held my breath and did not dare stir, feigning sleep.

Christian Carlisle POV:

The deafening music pounded against my eardrums, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and cheap perfume. I swirled the red solo cup in my hand. The beer inside was warm from my body heat.

Tristan Sinclair nudged me with his elbow, jerking his chin in one direction. "Look, your number one fan is here."

I followed his gaze. A blonde girl I didn't recognize was staring at me, her eyes shining. A classic Puck Bunny. They were a fixture in the life of any Briar hockey player, groupies who chased after us hoping for a hookup.

I pulled my lips into something that might have been a smile, then immediately turned back to Tristan. "Shut up."

He laughed, taking another swig of his beer. "Seriously, where's your girlfriend? Isla didn't come to pick you up? Didn't you just get back today?"

My throat tightened at the mention of her name. I pictured her in the apartment, maybe... waiting for me. The thought made the plastic cup in my hand creak under the pressure.

Why did I come to this damn party?

Because I was afraid to go home. Afraid to see her clean, honest eyes. They would make me feel like the asshole everyone already thought I was.

"She's busy," I mumbled to Tristan.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. "Busy? Or is there trouble with your 'contract'? I told you, fake dating is the worst idea."

I chugged a large mouthful of beer. The cold liquid did nothing to cool the irritation burning in my gut. "Our business is none of your business."

My tone was harsh. Tristan flinched, then held up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright, Captain. My bad."

I raked a hand through my hair, a habit whenever I felt anxious. The noise of the party was giving me a headache. Every smiling face looked fake.

I saw Carrie Kelley making her way through the crowd toward me, a perfect smile plastered on her face. I instinctively frowned.

I didn't want to deal with her. I didn't want to deal with anyone.

"I'm out," I told Tristan, and before he could respond, I pushed my way out of the crowd.

The cool night air hit me as I stepped out of the frat house, clearing my head slightly.

I got into my car but didn't start it right away. I leaned back against the headrest, staring in the direction of the apartment.

I pulled out my phone. No missed calls or texts from Isla. A strange wave of disappointment washed over me, followed by a sliver of relief.

She hadn't contacted me. Did that mean she didn't care if I came home or not? Was she texting Logan right now? The thought was like a venomous snake, gnawing at my sanity. My older brother, Logan Carlisle, was the one I was convinced she truly wanted.

Finally, I started the engine. Better to see for myself than to sit here driving myself crazy.

I pulled into my designated spot. The apartment was mostly dark. Only a single floor lamp was on in the living room. A faint light glowed from her bedroom.

I unlocked the door. The air inside was filled with the lingering scent of cooled food, mixed with something that smelled like disappointment.

My eyes landed on the trash can. I could see the bones of a roast chicken inside, on top of a pile of what looked like a full meal. My heart felt like it was being squeezed by a giant hand.

She had made dinner. She had waited for me. And I was at a party, chugging beer like an idiot.

I stood in the middle of the living room, listening. I could hear the faint, even sound of her breathing from her bedroom. She was asleep.

On impulse, I walked to her bedroom door. It was slightly ajar.

I peered through the crack. She was lying on her side, and curled up in her arms was... a cat? A fluffy, orange cat.

I froze. One of the rules of our cohabitation was no pets. Especially not for me. I hated cats.

Did she get a cat on purpose just so I wouldn't come back?

I backed away silently and retreated to my own room. I needed to cool down.

I shut the door and threw myself onto my bed, my mind a tangled mess. Her face, the cold dinner, and that damn cat. They wouldn't leave my head.

The next morning, I woke to sounds in the living room. I walked out of my room and saw Isla feeding the cat.

She was in her pajamas, her hair loosely tied up. The morning sun streamed in, making the scene look unrealistically beautiful.

She heard me and turned. Our eyes met. The air froze.

Isla Owens POV:

I was crouched on the floor, dangling a string for Apollo-the little orange cat I'd adopted from the shelter last week. The sound of a door opening behind me made my hand freeze.

I slowly turned my head. Christian stood in his bedroom doorway. He wore a pair of gray sweat shorts, his upper body bare, revealing the lean, powerful muscles of an athlete.

His hair was a mess, and his eyes were still heavy with sleep. But when his gaze fell on Apollo, they instantly turned sharp and cold.

We stared at each other from across the room. Neither of us spoke first. The air was thick with awkwardness and the tense promise of a storm.

Apollo seemed to sense the shift in atmosphere. He stopped eating, gave Christian a wary look, and let out a soft "meow," shrinking back behind me.

"What is that?" Christian finally spoke, his voice raspy with an edge of displeasure.

I stood up, dusting off my hands, and answered calmly, "A cat. His name is Apollo."

"I know it's a cat," he said, taking two steps forward, looming over me. "My question is, why is it here?"

I straightened my spine, meeting his gaze. "I adopted him. He lives here now."

He let out a short, contemptuous laugh. The faint scar above his eyebrow seemed more prominent in the morning light. It was a sneer I knew well, the one he used to dismiss anything or anyone he found beneath him. "Isla, our agreement was very clear. No pets."

"Your agreement, not ours," I corrected him. "That document was drafted by your lawyer. I just signed it. And it said 'not recommended,' not 'forbidden.'"

I remembered every single word. Signing that paper had felt like selling a piece of my soul.

Christian was clearly not expecting me to argue. He paused, his expression darkening. "I hate cats."

"I know," I said flatly. "But you're barely ever here, are you?"

The words hung in the air between us like a slap. I saw the muscles in his jaw tighten instantly.

He stared at me, his blue eyes churning with emotions I couldn't decipher. There was anger, but also something else.

"Get rid of it," he said, his tone a command. It was not a request.

"No." The word came out just as firm. It was the first time I had ever said a direct "no" to him.

As if cheering me on, Apollo meowed again, rubbing his head against my ankle.

Christian's gaze shifted from my face to the cat, his disgust unconcealed.

We stood in a standoff for a long minute. Finally, without another word, he turned and walked into the kitchen.

I heard him grabbing something from the fridge, then the ding of the microwave. He was probably heating up last night's leftovers. If there were any.

I ignored him and knelt to comfort Apollo, but I could feel his cold stare on my back.

For the next few days, we were locked in a cold war.

We lived under the same roof like two complete strangers. We'd pass in the hallway without making eye contact. In the living room, he'd watch his sports channels, and I'd put on my headphones to practice my music.

Apollo became the only thing we shared. Christian never touched him, but sometimes I'd catch him staring at the cat with a complicated look in his eyes.

One afternoon, I came home from class to a strangely quiet apartment. Christian wasn't there, and Apollo wasn't on his usual scratching post.

A knot of panic formed in my stomach. I started searching the apartment, calling his name. "Apollo? Apollo?"

I checked every room. Nothing. My heart began to sink. He wouldn't actually... get rid of him, would he?

Just as I was about to despair, I heard a faint "meow" from Christian's bedroom.

I froze. His bedroom door was always closed. It was a forbidden zone.

I hesitated for a few seconds, then walked over and knocked. "Christian?"

No response.

I took a deep breath and turned the doorknob. It wasn't locked.

I pushed the door open and saw something that made my breath catch in my throat. Christian was asleep on his bed. And Apollo, the cat he claimed to hate, was curled up peacefully on his chest, rising and falling with each of his breaths.