Fake Engaged To The Hockey Hottie

Sienna’s Pov

The university media lab was cold, dark, and mostly empty, which was exactly how I liked it. For three hours, the only sound in the room was the clicking of my mouse and the steady hum of the computer monitor. I stared at the screen, rewinding the same ten seconds of hockey footage for the fifth time.

On the screen, my brother’s team was falling apart in the third period. Most people were focused on the bright lights, the roaring crowd, and the big names on the back of the jerseys. But I wasn't watching like a regular fan. I was looking at the small details everyone else missed.

Specifically, I was watching Ryder Callahan.

Ryder was the team’s star forward, the golden boy of the NHL, and the guy whose face was plastered on billboards all over the city. Everyone loved him. Commentators praised his speed, fans wore his number, and sponsors threw millions at him. But watching the slow-motion replay, I saw the truth clear as day: Ryder was becoming predictable. Every time he was under pressure, he made the exact same left turn, trying to force a shot instead of passing to an open teammate. It cost the team two easy scoring opportunities tonight, and ultimately, the game.

I jotted down a note. I was finishing an in-depth analysis to submit for a competitive sports broadcasting internship. I knew I had the skill. I studied the game obsessively and analyzed plays faster than most adult reporters.

There was just one massive problem: my last name.

I am Sienna Vale. My older brother, Julian Vale, owns the team Ryder plays for. To the world, being a Vale means expensive clothes, private jets, and getting whatever you want. If I submitted this analysis under my real name, no one would take me seriously. They’d assume Julian bought the position for me.

I refused to let that happen. I wanted to earn my place on my own merit.

So, I opened my application, typed in a pseudonym, attached my analysis file, and clicked send. A small feeling of pride washed over me.

My phone buzzed against the desk. It was my best friend. "Sienna! Where are you?" she asked. "The party started twenty minutes ago!"

"I’m still at the media lab," I sighed. "I don't think I'm going to make it."

"It’s Julian’s official post-game celebration," she reminded me. "Everyone is there."

"That’s exactly why I don't want to go," I said softly. "It’s just rich sponsors who care about taking pictures with players."

I hung up, intending to go home. But a minute later, my mother, Elena, called.

"Sienna, sweetie," her soft voice came through. "Julian has been asking about you. You've been so distant lately. Please, just come for an hour? For your brother?"

I bit my lip. I loved Julian, even if his world was exhausting. "Okay," I breathed out. "I'll be there soon."

An hour later, I stepped out of a taxi in front of the grand hotel, instantly regretting it. Flashing camera lights blinded me as reporters crowded the entrance. I hurried inside the grand ballroom, filled with women in designer dresses, men in expensive suits, and players drinking as if they hadn't just lost terribly.

"Sienna! You made it," Julian called out, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He pulled me toward a middle-aged man. "I want you to meet Mr. Vance, a major team investor."

Mr. Vance smiled patronizingly. "Ah, the younger sister! What keeps you busy? Fashion? Charity galas?"

I kept my voice polite. "Actually, I’m studying sports communications to be a professional hockey analyst."

Mr. Vance chuckled condescendingly. "A hockey analyst? How cute! I’m sure your brother can let you interview a few handsome players for fun."

Julian chimed in smoothly. "Sienna is just exploring her options." He pulled me aside, whispering tightly, "Please keep the conversation pleasant, Sienna. Mr. Vance is extremely important to our funding. Don't cause a scene."

"He was being rude," I muttered, but Julian just told me to smile and walked away.

I stood alone until an arrogant, smooth voice spoke behind me. "Well, well. Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

I turned to find Ryder Callahan leaning against a high table, wearing a dark suit and a lazy smirk.

"Hello, Ryder," I said flatly.

"So, the owner’s little sister wants to be a hockey expert now?" Ryder asked, stepping closer with gleaming brown eyes. "Did you decide that today, or did you just get bored of shopping?"

"Actually, Ryder," I said, crossing my arms, "watching you miss an open passing lane in the third period tonight was much more interesting than listening to you talk about yourself."

Ryder’s smirk froze. "I didn't miss a pass. I took a shot."

"You took a bad shot," I corrected instantly. "You had two teammates wide open on your right, but you tried to be the hero, got blocked, and lost the puck."

Ryder let out a harsh laugh, anger flashing in his eyes. "You’ve never put on ice skates in your life, Sienna. It’s real easy to talk big from a warm seat, but you wouldn't last five seconds on the ice."

"Maybe not," I replied smoothly. "But at least I’d have the sense not to make the exact same mistake twice in one game."

Julian appeared out of nowhere, looking panicked. "Is everything okay over here? Sienna, don't embarrass the team."

"I'm just giving Ryder honest feedback," I said, turning on my heel toward the quiet bar.

I ordered a soda, leaning against the counter. Nearby, two men in suits complained that Ryder acted like he owned the place because Julian let him get away with murder. I sighed, about to leave, when a shadow fell over me.

Ryder stood right next to me, his arrogant smile completely gone. He looked genuinely upset.

"You think you have me all figured out, don't you?" Ryder asked, his voice low and tight as he leaned in closer. "If you really think you understand my game so well, Sienna... why don't you tell me? Explain to me right now exactly why I lost tonight."

I didn't blink. I looked him dead in the eye and answered without hesitation.

"You lost because you're terrified of failing," I said softly, but sharply. "Every time the clock runs down, you stop trusting your team. You think you have to carry the entire weight of the world on your shoulders, so you force plays that aren't there. You didn't lose because of a bad play, Ryder. You lost because you're too proud to ask for help."

Ryder froze. The tight, angry line of his mouth softened into utter shock. All the cockiness, all the defensive walls he had built up all night, shattered in a single second, leaving him staring at me as if I had just read his deepest, darkest secret out loud.