All Chapters of The Hockey Player’s Pretend Girlfriend: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

CLARA’S POV The bitter chill of the university ice arena hit my skin the second I slipped through the heavy side doors. My muscles were screaming with exhaustion after fourteen hours in transit, flying all the way back from my cousin’s wedding in Europe, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins kept me wide awake. I was supposed to be gone for two full weeks. Instead, I had packed my bags in the middle of the night, caught the earliest flight out of London, and rushed straight from the airport to the arena without even stopping by my dorm. I wanted to surprise Ethan. In the deep pocket of my wool coat, my fingers tightened around a small velvet box. Inside was a silver watch I had spent three months saving for, engraved with his jersey number and our anniversary date. I had rehearsed the moment a hundred times in my head during the flight: Ethan walking off the ice, wiping sweat from his forehead, looking up to see me standing by the tunnel, throwing his arms ar

CLARA’S POV The lock clicked shut with a sharp snap, and my knees finally gave out. I slid down the back of the dorm room door until I hit the carpet, pulling my knees tight against my chest. My chest heaved, my throat raw with every ragged breath. Hot, humiliating tears spilled over my cheeks, blurring the dark room around me. Everything had collapsed in less than thirty minutes. I had spent twelve hours on a cramped flight across three time zones just to surprise Ethan with his favorite imported chocolates and a team jersey. Instead of a warm reunion, I had walked into Locker Room Four and found him with a cheerleader straddling his lap on the bench. His slurred, cruel words played on a vicious loop in my head. As if getting cheated on wasn’t humiliating enough, my idea of revenge had been reckless insanity. I stormed outside into the freezing night, grabbed Jaxon Vance by the collar of his varsity jacket, kissed him until my head spun, and asked him to be my b

CLARA’S POV The low rumble of Jaxon’s engine echoed across the VIP valet area of The Blue Line Grill as the sleek black sports car slid to a smooth stop. Outside, the crisp autumn evening air swept against the tinted windows, but inside the heated leather cabin, my heart was hammering at an unbearable pace. I looked down at the dress I had chosen. Ethan had commanded me to wear the black fitted number he had bought me months ago, an outfit designed entirely to please his ego and show off his ownership. Instead, I had deliberately left that dress crumpled at the bottom of my closet. Tonight, I was wearing a rich emerald green silk slip dress that I had bought with my own money during my summer trip to Europe. The fabric skimmed smoothly over my curves, catching the amber glow of the restaurant lanterns, with a soft cowl neckline and a slit along my left leg that felt daring and completely mine. Mia had helped me with my makeup before we left, adding sharp winged eyeliner and a

CLARA’S POV The crisp night air hit my overheated skin the second the heavy side door clicked shut behind us. Jaxon led me out into a quiet, cobblestone courtyard tucked between The Blue Line Grill and an adjacent brick gallery. The muffled noise of seventy hockey players, clinking glasses, and raised voices vanished behind the thick emergency exit, replaced by the distant hum of campus traffic and the rustle of autumn leaves in the breeze. My pulse was still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Adrenaline buzzed under my skin, making my fingers twitch. I leaned back against the cool brick wall, exhaling a long, trembling breath that formed a faint cloud of white mist in the evening chill. Jaxon did not let go of my hand. He turned toward me beneath the dim glow of a wrought-iron lantern. The golden light caught the sharp angle of his jaw and the fierce intensity in his dark eyes. He looked over every inch of me, his gaze scanning from my face down to the hem of my emera

CLARA’S POV The violent wave of nausea hit me so fast I did not even have time to excuse myself. One second, Professor Davis was droning on about athletic sponsorship contracts on the lecture hall projector. The next, a sour, burning heat surged from the pit of my stomach straight into my throat, turning my mouth watery and cold. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed to strobe violently, and the air in the packed room suddenly felt completely devoid of oxygen. I knocked my notebook and water bottle off the wooden desk as I scrambled to my feet. A dozen students turned to stare, but I could not bring myself to care. I clamped a trembling hand over my mouth, shoved past the crowded row of chairs, and burst through the heavy exit doors into the empty hallway. My boots skidded on the polished linoleum as I dove into the nearest restroom, barely making it over a porcelain sink before my stomach violently heaved. I dry-heaved until my ribs ached and tears stung the co