13
Hannah
I have never felt more visible in my entire life.
Which is ridiculous, considering I am sitting in a packed hockey arena surrounded by nearly three thousand screaming students, most of whom are wearing some version of Northwood colors.
Navy hoodies, pink face paint, white beanies with pom-poms—it’s a literal sea of blue.
Half the girls in our section are wearing players’ names across their backs, a standard uniform for a Friday night rivalry game.
I should blend in. Technically, I am a single drop of water in the ocean.
Except I don't feel like I blend in at all. I feel like every letter stitched across my shoulders has its own dedicated spotlight, burning a hole through my back.
**WILDER.**
In big, bold white letters. On Nate’s jersey. On me.
“I can literally feel the gears of your brain grinding from here,” Ella says, leaning into my space.
I tug the oversized sleeves down until they completely swallow my hands. “No, you can’t. I’m fine.”
“Liar. Your 'fine' sounds like it’s being held together by Scotch tape and a prayer. You look incredible, by the way. Very ‘I definitely belong to a star athlete.’”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” I mutter, staring down at the ice where the teams are skating out for the second period.
“For the next two hours, you belong to the narrative. Lean into it, Han.” Ella grins, her face sparkling with the pink glitter she insisted on applying to my cheekbones earlier.
The arena is loud enough to rattle my ribcage.
The student section stomps on the bleachers in rhythmic waves, a sound like approaching thunder trapped in a tin box.
The ice shines under the overheads, sharp and clean except for the white scars left by warmups.
Across the rink, the Briarwick fans in red and black are already booing with a dedication that feels personal.
I spot Nate immediately.
I try to pretend I’m looking for the puck, but my eyes gravitate to number twenty-seven before I can give them permission. It’s unfair how easy he is to find. He glides into position near center ice, his shoulders loose but his posture alert.
Focused. Composed. Nothing like the guy who smirks over coffee and calls me *sweetheart* just to watch my internal processor overheat.
The ref drops the puck, and Nate changes.
The joking version of him evaporates. His body snaps into motion—explosive, fluid, and violent in its efficiency.
He moves with a certainty that makes the rest of the players look like they’re just trying to keep up.
A Briarwick defenseman closes in fast, but Nate shifts his weight, fakes a pass, and slides around him so quickly the guy practically trips over his own skates.
The crowd erupts. Ella grabs my arm, nearly spilling her soda. “Was that filthy? I think that was filthy!”
“I think that’s the term,” I say, my heart doing a strange, frantic little skip.
Then, it happens.
Nate catches a pass from Carter near the boards.
A second later, a Briarwick player—number eleven—slams into him.
The sound of the hit is sickening, a heavy *thud* against the glass that makes the front-row fans flinch.
My breath hitches, my hand flying to the place where Nate’s name is stitched over my heart.
“Ouch,” Ella winces.
Nate shoves off the glass, barely missing a beat, but number eleven lingers. He skates close, his mouth moving behind his cage. I can’t hear the words, but the smirk on his face is unmistakable. It’s mean. It’s bait.
Nate doesn't respond. He just skates away, his jaw visibly tight.
I remember what Nate told me in the locker room earlier this week.
*One more public incident, and I sit.* I find myself gripping the railing in front of me, watching number eleven shadow Nate’s every move.
He bumps him after whistles. He taps Nate’s skates.
He’s looking for the explosion. He’s looking for "The Old Nate Wilder"—the one who would have dropped his gloves and settled this with his knuckles.
“What is that guy’s problem?” I whisper.
“He’s a pest,” the guy in front of us turns around to say. “Dax Mercer. He’s the biggest agitator in the league. He wants Wilder to lose his head.”
My stomach twists into a hard knot. I watch Nate take another hit, then another. The restraint in his body is palpable, a coiled spring being pushed past its limit.
Then, the power play happens.
Northwood sets up in Briarwick’s zone. The puck moves like a laser—back to the point, down to Carter, then a lightning-fast cross-crease pass to Nate.
The arena inhales.
Nate receives the pass, holds it for a heartbeat to freeze the goalie, and then fires. The puck is a blur. The red light flashes.
The building detonates.
I’m on my feet before I even realize it, screaming along with the rest of the students. Nate’s teammates swarm him, pounding on his helmet. As they break apart, Nate skates past the glass near our section.
He looks up. Directly at me.
He doesn't do anything dramatic. He just taps the front of his jersey—the one with the Northwood logo—and then points his stick toward the 'WILDER' on my chest.
A girl behind me shrieks, “Oh my God, he pointed at her!”
I sink back into my seat, my face burning. Ella is vibrating with delight.
“Strategic,” I mutter, trying to convince my runaway pulse. “Just strategy.”
“If that’s strategy, I need to enlist,” Ella retorts.
During the second intermission, I try to act normal, but the jersey feels like it’s glowing. A shadow falls over us, and I look up, expecting Ella to return with the pretzels she went to fetch.
It’s Ethan.
My heart gives a stupid, instinctive hop. He looks good—dark jacket, clean hair, that safe, polished smile.
“Hey, Hannah,” he says. His eyes drop to the jersey. To the name. Then back to me. “You came.”
“Yeah. I thought I’d check it out.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes the way it usually does. “Wilder’s having quite the game. I didn’t realize you were… that big of a fan.”
There it is. The recognition. The tiny crack in his cool exterior.
“It’s a fun game,” I say, keeping my voice casual despite the way my hands are shaking in my lap.
“Right. Well, good game so far. I’ll see you in class?”
“See you, Ethan.”
He leaves, his gait a little stiffer than usual. I should feel triumphant. The plan worked. He noticed. He looked bothered. But as I watch him walk away, I don't feel the rush I expected. I just feel… tired.
The third period is a war. Briarwick gets desperate, and the hits get dirtier. Dax Mercer is still chirping, still skating into Nate’s space. At one point, they end up locked together near the boards right below us. I see Dax lean in, whispering something.
Nate’s eyes flash. His gloves tighten on his stick. For a second, I think he’s going to do it. I think the plan is going to end right here in a flurry of punches.
“Come on, Nate!” I yell, my voice cracking over the noise. “Don't listen to him!”
Nate’s head snaps toward the stands. He sees me. He sees the jersey.
He takes a breath, his shoulders dropping. He shoves Dax away—hard, but clean—and skates toward the bench. He didn't take the bait.
The game ends 2-0. Northwood wins.
The buzzer sounds, and the team pours onto the ice. In the middle of the celebration, Nate looks back at Section 10. He finds me, his mouthguard half-out, a tired, victorious grin on his face. He doesn't point this time. He just nods.
I clap until my hands are raw.
As the crowd starts to filter out, Ella nudges me. “So. Ethan was bothered. Nate was a hero. I’d call that a successful night.”
I look down at the jersey. It’s huge on me, still smelling faintly of the laundry detergent Nate used. I should be thinking about Ethan’s face. I should be calculating my next move.
But as I watch Nate disappear into the tunnel, all I can think about is the way he looked at me through the glass. Like I wasn't just a part of the strategy.
Like I was the only thing keeping him on the ice.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Successful.”
But as we walk out into the cold night air, I realize that the most dangerous part of this "fake" relationship isn't the gossip or the lies. It’s the fact that I’m starting to forget it’s a performance.
And Nate Wilder is getting far too good at his role.