Fake Dating My Hockey Neighbor

# Chapter 1: The Life I Can Barely Afford

*Sloane*

My phone buzzed at 6:45 in the morning, and I already knew it wasn't good news. Good news doesn't buzz that early.

A message from my bank sat on the screen, bright and cheerful like it hadn't just ruined my whole day. *Your balance is $2,340.17.* I already knew where every dollar of it was going before it even left my account — Mom's tests, Mateo's school fees, rent, the lights, the water, all the little things that stop feeling little when they show up on the same day. I did the math fast and grim, the way I always do, and landed where I always land. Nothing left over.

It's not like I waste money. I haven't bought new shoes in over a year. I bring lunch to work in a plastic container older than some of my coworkers' relationships. The problem was never how I spend it. The problem is there just isn't enough of it.

My phone buzzed again. A call this time. Mom.

"Hey, sweetheart." Her voice was warm, the way it always is, like she'd practiced sounding fine before she picked up. "I'm fine. Really. Just a few more tests, that's all."

A few more tests that cost money neither of us had. "Okay," I said. "I'll handle it. Don't worry about the cost, just worry about resting."

"Sloane—"

"I said I'll handle it."

She let it go, the way she always does. She tries to protect me from worrying. I try to protect her from worrying that I'm worrying. Neither of us wins.

A text from Mateo followed a minute later. *Sorry to bother you. School f*e deadline's in two weeks. It's fine if you can't—*

*Don't apologize. I've got it,* I wrote back, even though I had no idea how.

That's the thing about being the one everyone leans on. You say "I've got it" so many times that people believe you, even while you're quietly panicking on the inside. I don't complain to my mom. I don't complain to Mateo. I just find a way. I always find a way.

I got up and got dressed, telling myself what I tell myself most mornings. *Today could be the day.*

I work at one of the biggest news organizations in the city, which sounds impressive at parties and means almost nothing on my bank statement. I'm a junior investigative reporter — plenty of hard work, very little of the getting-paid-for-it. I have talent, and my editor's said as much more than once. What I don't have yet is *the story*. The one that gets my name on the front page instead of buried on page nine. Not for the fame. Because a bigger story means a better title, and a better title means a paycheck that might finally cover everything my family needs without me holding my breath every time my phone buzzes.

By the time I left the building that evening, the sun was going down over a street I still can't quite believe I live on. Tall glass buildings. Doormen in neat uniforms. Women walking dogs that cost more than my monthly rent. I can't actually afford any of it — I only live here because my company covers part of the housing cost for employees working late-night stories in the city. My job put me here, right in the middle of a world I get to look at every day but never touch.

I was almost at my building when I heard the ripple of noise down the block. People stopping. Phones coming up. A woman near me grabbed her friend's arm and whispered, way too loudly, "Oh my gosh, that's him."

I didn't need to look to know who "him" was.

I looked anyway.

Rhys Calloway was climbing out of a car that probably cost more than everything I owned combined, wearing a dark jacket like he hadn't even tried and somehow still looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine. A couple of guys called his name. He gave a small, easy wave, used to being looked at, because he was.

Hockey's biggest star. Rich. Famous. Adored by half this city.

My neighbor.

For one second, across the street, his eyes landed on me. No smile. No nod. Just a look, like he was cataloguing me as *the girl from next door* and nothing more, before he turned and walked into the building like the whole street belonged to him.

Something in my chest went tight and annoyed, the way it always does when I see him.

I don't even fully know why I dislike him as much as I do. I just know that I do.

I went up to my apartment, dropped my bag by the door, and kicked off my shoes. Through the peephole, if I leaned just right, I could see his door across the hall. Perfect and shiny, like everything else about his life.

“Of all the buildings, in all of New York, I had to end up living next door to him.”

I went to bed already dreading the next morning. 

I still couldn't explain why that man irritated me before he'd even opened his mouth.

But nothing prepared m

Le for the rainy Tuesday that made everything so much worse.