Fake Dating my ex's Hockey Rival

Chapter one

Nadia pov

The stream had 40,000 viewers, and I was one of them. I'd been watching from my laptop on the couch, legs tucked under me, half a bowl of cereal going soggy on the coffee table.

Ryder's celebration streams always ran long — he'd been doing them since freshman year, and I'd sat through enough to know the format by heart. He'd recap the game, take some Q&A from the chat, hold up whatever jersey or signed puck someone had mailed in that week. The fans loved it. I used to love it, back when watching him light up a camera felt like something I was part of instead of something I was watching from the outside.

He’d scored two goals in the playoff win. After the game, I texted him, “You were incredible, so proud of you.” He just replied with a flame emoji. I told myself it was because he was busy with the team. It was fine. We were fine.

I typed the same thing into the stream chat when he went live: so proud of you. My message disappeared instantly into the scroll of a thousand others.

Ryder leaned back in his chair and grinned. "Thanks for all the support. You guys really showed up tonight." He gave a big thanks to his teammates and everyone who watched. He said this win meant a lot. That same easy grin had made me stop in a crowded bar fourteen months ago, but I'd since learned he gave it to everyone.

I set down my phone and pulled the laptop closer.

The chat was moving too fast to read, a blur of fire emojis and goal replays and someone repeatedly typing his jersey number like a prayer. Ryder laughed at something off-camera, and I smiled without thinking—it had become such a habit I didn't even notice anymore.

Then the camera moved.

Not a big movement — he'd shifted in his chair, or someone had bumped the setup, and for three seconds the frame swung wide before he caught it and corrected. Three seconds was enough.

There was a girl on the edge of the bed behind him.

She was fixing her hair.

The chat didn't process it for a full four seconds. I know because I was counting, staring at the frozen image my brain had taken — a blonde woman laughing, one knee bent, a strap falling off her shoulder. Then Ryder fixed the camera and kept talking as if nothing had happened.

Then the chat exploded.

wait WAIT does he have someone there?? bro is she— RYDER WHAT WAS THAT nadia calloway is literally watching this rn

My name. My name in the chat, over and over, tagged and screenshotted and turning into a wave I could see building in real time. Someone had found my profile. Someone had grabbed a photo. My full name was rolling through 40,000 people's screens while Ryder looked down at his phone, read something, and for just a moment — one small, terrible moment — his expression cracked.

He knew I was watching.

He'd always known I watched.

I closed the laptop.

The apartment was very quiet. I became aware of small things: the hum of the refrigerator, a car alarm somewhere on the street below, the specific texture of the couch cushion under my palm. I sat with those things for a moment because they were solid and the rest of the room was not.

My phone buzzed. It was Petra, I put it face-down on the cushion beside me. It buzzed again and again, I flipped it over as I stared until it stopped, then it started again.

I thought very clearly: I should answer. But it felt like wanting to stand up when your legs won't move—the thought was there, but it didn't help.

I snatched the phone off the cushion before making it to the bathroom, just as the shaking started.

I sat down on the floor with my back against the tub, knees pulled to my chest, and I opened my phone because I couldn't stop myself. I opened it and I watched my name trend in real time.

The clip was already cut and circulating—someone had caught the three seconds and looped it, the camera swung and the girl and Ryder's face when he realized. It had a thousand shares. Then five thousand. I watched the number climb the way you watch a car accident from the highway, slow and unable to look away.

The comments unspooled down my screen in a relentless, blinding cascade:

bro did he really forget the stream was still live?? ryder is wild for this

omg poor Nadia, this is awful. She must look completely devastated.

Nadia had to have known lol. You don't date a hockey player for over a year and think he's a saint. She just got caught looking stupid on camera.

Is anyone going to talk about how she basically lived at his rink? Honestly any girl who dates a player like him deserves what she gets at this point. Absolute clown behavior.

Unpopular opinion: this is content gold. Can we get a breakdown of the camera angle change?

I put my phone down and stared at the grout lines between the tiles.

For months, I gave up my summer internship at the Gazette to travel with him, I went to every road game and late practice. When he came home too tired to talk, I stayed quiet so he could sleep. I told myself that's what love was—making yourself smaller so he had room to be big.

My phone buzzed against the tile. Petra: I'm coming over. Do NOT argue with me.

I didn't argue, instead I just sat there.

A few minutes later, I heard the deadbolt click, followed by the heavy thud hitting the floor and keys clattering onto the kitchen counter.

"Nadia?" her voice called out into the quiet apartment.

She had a key from when Ryder and I had first moved in.

"Nadia, where are you?"

"Bathroom," I said

She appeared in the doorway and looked at me on the floor, and something moved across her face.

"Okay," she said, and sat down on the floor next to me without being asked, her shoulder pressing into mine, the two of us against the tub in a bathroom.

Then, I finally broke. Petra pulled me against her, her arm wrapping tight around my shoulders.

"He doesn't deserve you," she whispered into my hair as I shook. "Nadia, he doesn't deserve you."

We stayed like that until my limbs went numb from the cold tile, until the tears stopped coming and left me feeling hollowed out, like an empty shell. Petra was the one who finally moved, wiping her own face before gently gripping my elbows.

"Come on," she said, her voice dropping into a firm, no-nonsense tone. "Up. We’re not staying here tonight."

"I can't," I mumbled. The thought of moving, of facing the rest of the apartment, felt impossible.

"Yes, you can. I've got you." She hauled me up, steadying me when my knees wobbled. She didn't let go of my arm as she guided me out of the bathroom. "Sit on the counter. Don't look at anything, I am grabbing a bag."

I sat on the kitchen counter, staring blankly at the dark window while Petra moved through the apartment like a hurricane. I heard her shoving random clothes into a duffel bag .

When she came back, she zipped the bag and threw it over her shoulder. "Phone," she demanded, holding out her hand.

I handed it to her like a child. She locked it, shoved it into her own pocket, and took my hand. "Let's go."

The car ride across Thornvale was completely silent. The radio was off. Petra kept both hands clamped on the steering wheel, her jaw set so tight I thought it might crack, driving us away from the apartment that was supposed to be mine. I just pressed my forehead against the cold passenger window, watching the streetlights blur into long, yellow lines. I didn't care where we were going, as long as it wasn't back there.