The NHL Captain's Fake Girlfriend

ELARA.

“Oh… yeah… just like that,” I whispered to absolutely no one, because talking dirty to a still image was apparently the level of pathetic I had achieved this year.

The first time I ever fingered myself to a picture of Mason Reed, I told myself it was a one time thing but now, six months later I was three fingers deep in my own soaked pussy, staring at the same goddamn photo of him in his hockey jersey.

The picture was slightly blurry because I had taken it after a game when he was all sweaty and smug and looking at me like I was the only person in the arena who mattered. 

My thighs were shaking and my breathing was somewhat ragged. 

The little voice in my head that usually sounded like my better judgment was currently occupied screaming ‘yes, yes, right there, you fucking whore.’

A notification slid down the top of my screen.

Kyle Stevens expected to sign with—

“Fuck off my screen,” I hissed, yanking my hand out so fast I almost gave myself a friction burn. 

My fingers left a shiny smear across the glass as I swiped the notification away and shoved my hand straight back under my skirt.

I was right there—right on the edge, toes curling, spine arching off the chair—when the door flew open without a knock.

I yanked my hand free, yanked my skirt down, and pretended to be deeply invested in an article about…something. 

Iris stood in the doorway with one eyebrow raised so high, it gave me the chills.

“Can’t you knock?” I demanded, my voice a little too high.

She closed the door with her hip and planted herself on my desk like she owned the place. 

“What? Were you doing something nobody should have seen? Like, finger-fucking yourself to Mason’s picture for the hundredth time?”

I stood up immediately, my hand reaching for her mouth. “Shut up, bitch, I wasn’t doing that.”

It would have been more convincing if my cheeks weren’t the color of a stop sign. “He’s super hot. It’s not something you can relate to.”

“That’s because I’m gay, babe. I don’t like dicks. Or, you know, the people attached to them who treat my best friend like a personal cheerleader with sexual benefits.”

“He’s not—” I started, then stopped, because defending Mason when my fingers still smelled like vagina fluid felt odd. I stood up instead, taking off my work shirt. “I’ve got to go. It’s our anniversary.”

Iris groaned, her eyes rolling to the back. “You’ve said that so many times this week I’m starting to develop an allergy to the word. Can I at least get a breather?”

“No breathers for you, bae.” I shimmied into a clean top and grabbed my bag. “I’m about to deliver the best anniversary gift in the history of average college girlfriends. Try not to die of jealousy.”

“Don’t fuck yourselves to death,” she called after me as I opened the door. “Or do. Whatever.”

I flipped her off over my shoulder and headed downstairs.

The car was waiting at the corner. A year of skipping lunch, working every part time shift that didn’t kill me, and one extremely questionable loan from people who smiled too much when they talked about “interest” had finally paid off. 

It was a used Benz, nothing insane, but it was clean and it ran and Mason had been talking about wanting a car for months. I had pictured us driving to class together approximately four hundred times. 

Sometimes I even let myself imagine him giving me a quickie in it right before we go to class.

That'd be epic. Really.

I slid into the driver’s seat and grinned at my own reflection in the rearview. “You’re welcome, Mason. This is peak girlfriend behavior, you should be proud.”

Mason’s place was only fifteen minutes away if I ignored every speed limit suggestion the city had ever made, which I eventually did.

I used the spare key he had given me ten months ago—progress, I told myself at the time—and pushed the door open.

“Babyyy?”

No response, the place was dead silent.

The apartment was empty, left with just the faint smell of his cologne and the low hum of the fridge. 

I checked my phone and there was one text from an hour ago. Practice running late. See you soon.

I took the world’s fastest shower, stole two sprays of his cologne because I was a romantic and also slightly loved his scent, and stood in front of the mirror in a towel debating the great lingerie crisis of the century.

Red lace or black lace.

The red one made my ass look like it had been designed by a committee of thirsty gods. The black one was classier, more “I am a woman of mystery and also your future wife.” I held both up, one in each hand, and addressed my reflection.

“He likes the red. He always liked the red lingerie on me. The red means he doesn’t even have to take it off, just push it to the side and slide his stuff in.”

I went with the red and the straps dug into my hips in the most deliberate way possible. I pulled a dress over it, fluffed my hair, and settled on the couch to wait.

Ten minutes passed in no time and there was still no sign of him at all.

Fifteen minutes.

Twenty.

I opened Snapchat like a woman who had never once been told that checking your boyfriend’s location was “a little much.” His bitmoji was floating over a neighborhood I didn’t recognize, about twenty minutes away.

Buying my gift, I decided immediately. Obviously. What else would he be doing on our anniversary?

I grabbed the car keys, locked up, and drove.

The address led me to a quiet street filled with older houses. 

There was no superstore in sight, not even a restaurant. Just a two-story place with too many cars in the driveway and music thumping from somewhere upstairs. I parked, checked the map again, and followed the little glowing dot upstairs. 

I stopped outside the door, muffled moans leaked through the door, the voices loud and sharp.

My pulse jumped and my hands began to tremble.

Could it be Mason? This was his location according to Snap.

I swallowed hard, then pushed the door open.

Two strangers were tangled on the bed. The guy’s head snapped up. “What the fuck—get out!” The girl yanked the sheet up and shouted, “Close the goddamn door!”

I froze for half a second, heaving a deep sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness.”I muttered.

I backed out fast and looked at the map again. 

My heart skipped.  

The room I had just entered was the wrong one, Mason’s location was one door down.

I moved to the next door, Cardi B was blasting so loud the hinges vibrated. I knocked once but there was no response. I knocked harder and still nothing.

I tried the handle and it opened. 

My eyes widened as I registered the sight in front of me.

Mason was on the bed, handcuffed to the headboard and Bianca—my stepsister—was on top of him, riding him fast and hard. His jersey was half-off, her hair was a mess and the room smelled like sex.

His eyes locked on mine and they went wide immediately.

He jerked against the cuffs like maybe, just maybe, he could magically teleport out of this exact moment if he tried hard enough.

My heart sank so bad, it physically hurt.

The red lace under my dress suddenly felt like a costume I’d put on for a joke. Every late shift, every skipped meal, every time I’d told myself he was worth it—every single one of them lined up behind my eyes and punched me in the throat at the same time.

My stomach turned and my hands went numb. 

The sound of the music and Bianca’s breathing and the soft clink of the handcuffs all blurred.

I couldn’t move, I couldn’t speak. I just stood there, staring at the boy I had spent a year loving like an idiot, and felt the exact second my heart cracked open.

“Mason.”