For The Cameras 

Luca 

Just when the paparazzi ask us to kiss for the cameras, Emma and I exchange a look.

She seems caught off guard, as though she wasn’t expecting them to ask for another kiss. 

She doesn’t seem to understand that if we want people to believe this relationship is real, there will probably be plenty more moments like this.

I’ve never been camera-shy. I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by reporters, photographers, and people waiting to capture every part of my life. Being a hockey star comes with its share of attention, both good and bad.

Coach gives us an encouraging look, and I turn back to Emma.

I slowly step closer, making the movement feel natural. Her eyes drop to my lips before lifting to mine again, and something about the way she looks at me makes my pulse quicken.

She doesn’t move away…instead, she stays where she is, her gaze lingering on mine.

I take that as my answer.

My hand settles around her waist, and I pull her closer before pressing my lips against hers.

The kiss starts softly, but neither of us pulls away. I deepen it slightly, and she responds without hesitation.

Around us, camera flashes burst one after another. Whistles and cheers rise from the crowd, but they seem strangely distant.

For a few seconds, it feels like there is no one else here…its just Emma and me.

I’ve kissed plenty of girls before. None of them ever made me forget there were cameras watching.

After the kiss, Emma and I make our way inside and join my friends. I settle into the evening easily, talking with the guys while fans stop by for autographs and selfies. 

Whenever someone asks for a picture with me, I pull Emma into the frame too. If we’re going to convince everyone we’re a real couple, I might as well make it believable.

After a while, Emma leans toward me. “I’ll be right back. I need to use the restroom.” I nod and watch her disappear into the crowd.

A few minutes pass…then ten and I glance toward the entrance of the restroom, expecting her to come walking out, but she doesn’t.

I tell myself she’s probably taking her time, yet another few minutes pass and I find myself getting restless.

Finally, I get up and make my way across the room.

When I reach the ladies’ restroom, I stop outside, staring at the door, suddenly questioning my decision.

I can’t exactly walk into the women’s restroom looking for my fake girlfriend without creating an entirely different kind of headline.

But waiting out here doesn’t feel right either.

I stop a girl walking out of the restroom. “Excuse me. Is Emma in there?”

She gives me a strange look before glancing toward the restroom. “Yeah. I think so.”

I thank her and, after a moment of hesitation, push the door open.

The moment I step inside, several girls turn toward me, their expressions ranging from surprise to confusion. No one says anything, probably too stunned to figure out why the hell a guy just walked into the ladies’ restroom.

I barely notice them.

My eyes scan the room until the restroom door opens.

Emma steps out, her expression frustrated, and the moment she sees me, she stops.

I walk toward her, lowering my voice. “What’s taking you so long?”

She looks away for a second before meeting my eyes again. “Luca, I need to go home. I can’t stay here with you.”

My frown deepens. “Why? What happened?”

“I got my period, and my dress…” she whispers, her voice trailing off.

My expression softens as I finally understand.

Without making a big deal out of it, I shrug off my coat and hold it out to her. “Wear this.”

Emma looks from the coat to me, hesitation flickering across her face before she takes it and wraps it around herself.

The girls are still staring, but I ignore them. I take Emma’s hand and lead her out of the restroom, leaving the curious looks behind us.

Neither of us speaks until we reach the quiet hallway.

Emma finally looks at me. “Aren’t you going to attend the event?”

I simply shake my head and lead her toward the car. The moment we step outside, the paparazzi waiting near the entrance spot us and rush over.

“Mr. Luca, are you leaving?”

I ignore the question and keep walking, positioning myself between Emma and the cameras. One reporter moves too close, thrusting his microphone toward her face.

“Back off,” I warn, holding out an arm to keep him at a distance.

I don’t stop until I get Emma into the car.

The drive back to the apartment is quiet. Emma barely says a word, keeping her gaze fixed out the window.

As soon as we arrive, she rushes inside and disappears into her room, the door slamming behind her.

I stand there for a moment, staring at it.

I don’t know why, but I feel a strange pang of sympathy for her. The stress had been written all over her face, and for once, I can’t bring myself to tease her about it.

After a while, her door opens again. Emma steps out slightly bent over, one hand pressed against her stomach. “Luca, could you please get me a bottle of water?”

I nod and head to the fridge. When I return, I hand it to her, but I can’t stop myself from asking, “Are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine. Just cramps,” she says, accepting the bottle.

The moment her door closes, I sit on the couch and pull out my phone.

I find myself searching for ways to ease period cramps, scrolling through different suggestions until I come across something about warm, nourishing soup.

I briefly consider making it myself, but the thought of figuring out a recipe makes me reconsider.

Takeout will be easier.

Without wasting another moment, I order a bowl of soup for Emma, along with fries and something for myself.

When the food arrives, I dish everything out and carry the soup to Emma’s room. I knock lightly before stepping inside.

She’s lying on the bed with both hands pressed against her stomach. The moment she sees me, surprise crosses her face.

“I brought you some soup.”

Her eyes drop to the bowl before returning to me.

“You cooked?”

A scoff escapes me. “You wish, pretty girl.”

I set the bowl beside her bed. She slowly pushes herself upright, a quiet groan escaping as she does.

“Yeah, if you were cooking, we’d probably have to call the firefighters.”

Even now, when she’s clearly in pain, she still finds a way to mock me.

“Does this happen every month?” I ask. She nods. “Yes. I deal with it every month.”

“And there’s nothing you can do about it? That’s cruel.” She gives me a tired smile. “Women have to go through it if they want to be fertile.”

“No, I don’t mind if you can’t have children.” The words leave my mouth before I can think about them.

Emma goes completely still and I stare at her, suddenly realizing how that must have sounded.

Hell, even I’m surprised I said it.

Emma and I eat in silence, but before long, I notice her condition getting worse. She curls slightly into herself, one hand pressed against her stomach.

I move closer and watch as tears begin slipping down her cheeks.

“Are you crying?” I ask, unable to hide my concern. “Is the pain really that bad?”

She nods.

“Can you go to the hospital with me?”

She shakes her head. “They can’t really do anything. They just give me a drip. I already have medicine for the pain, but it isn’t helping.”

I frown. “Then what does help?”

“I called Mia. She might come soon.”

I glance at her phone. “You texted her, but she hasn’t replied.”

Emma doesn’t answer.

“How long do you usually have to deal with this?”

She lets out a shaky breath. “Until it passes.”

I look at her tear-streaked face, feeling more helpless than I want to admit.

“Then let me help you.”

She hesitates, almost embarrassed to answer.

“A soothing massage usually helps,” she finally says.

I sit beside her on the edge of the bed, suddenly unsure of what I’m supposed to do.

“Where does it hurt the most?”

She hesitates before pointing toward her lower stomach. “Mostly here. But my back hurts too.”

I nod, rubbing my palms together as if that will somehow make me better at this.

“Tell me if I’m doing it wrong.”

She gives me a tired look. “You really don’t have to.”

“I know.”

I place my hands carefully against her lower back and begin massaging in slow, gentle circles.

At first, I’m painfully aware of every movement. I’ve never been this close to Emma without teasing her or trying to get a reaction out of her. Tonight, neither feels appropriate.

She slowly relaxes beneath my hands.

“That feels better,” she whispers.

I keep going, watching the tension gradually leave her face. The tears have stopped, but she still looks exhausted, and seeing her like this bothers me more than it should.

I don’t understand why.

She’s my fake girlfriend. That’s all, yet sitting here, trying to take away even a little of her pain, doesn’t feel like something I’m doing for appearances.

Yet I stay beside her until she falls asleep, and when I finally lie down beside her, I tell myself it’s only because she shouldn’t be alone while she’s in pain.

The next morning, the vibration of my phone pulls me from sleep.

I reach for it carefully, making sure not to wake Emma beside me. The caller ID makes me sit up immediately.

I glance at Emma, who is still asleep, then quietly slip out of bed and leave the room, pulling the door almost completely shut behind me.

“What’s going on?” I ask as soon as I answer.

His voice is serious. “Luca, we need to talk about the attention surrounding your relationship.”

I lean against the hallway wall, my expression tightening.

“What about it?”

“There are concerns about how this publicity could affect your upcoming evaluation.”

I straighten.

“My relationship?”

“Yes. The photos from last night are everywhere. Your name is attached to them, and the people evaluating you are paying attention.”

“How much of a problem is it?” I ask.

There’s a brief silence on the other end.

“Enough that you need to take it seriously.”

The call ends a moment later, leaving me standing alone in the hallway with my phone still pressed against my ear.

I stare at Emma’s closed bedroom door, my mind racing.

This fake relationship was supposed to protect both of us.

Now it might cost me the one thing I’ve spent my entire life working for—my future in hockey.