My Fake Boyfriend is the Hockey Captain

POV: Riley Megg The screen of my phone lit up with a text message from the Central Hospital administration. "This can't be," I whispered, squeezing the device in my trembling hand. *"Outstanding balance. Please settle the monthly invoice before the end of the month, or patient Arthur Megg’s treatment will be suspended immediately."* "If they unplug him, he dies," I murmured to myself. An icy chill ran down my spine. My father wouldn't survive twenty-four hours without the artificial respirator. The car accident six months ago had left him in a critical vegetative state. My stepmother, Helena, had completely washed her hands of the matter after draining my father’s bank accounts. Now, at twenty years old, I carried the weight of a Design major and two grueling jobs all by myself. I needed a refuge. Someone to tell me that everything would be okay, even if it was a white lie. I crossed the university campus in a rush, dodging students walking toward their first morning classes. My destination was the men’s dorm building, specifically the room of the only person I trusted. Brian. My boyfriend of two years. The boy who promised to stand by my side when my world fell apart. I took the steps three at a time, my heart pounding against my ribs. I didn't bother knocking on the door. I had a copy of the key, but the lock was unlatched. I pushed the doorknob open in desperation, searching for his arms. The scene that welcomed me froze the blood in my veins. The air in the room reeked of sweat and an expensive perfume that I recognized instantly. On the messy bed, two bodies were moving frantically. "What the hell is going on here?" I screamed. The movement on the bed stopped dead. Brian spun around abruptly, his eyes wide with shock and his breath ragged. Beside him, a mane of blonde hair shook out. Anastasia, my stepsister, smiled from the sheets. "Riley!" Brian exclaimed, turning pale instantly. "It’s not what you think, I swear." "What do you mean it’s not what I think?" I took a step forward, my fists clenched. "You're f*****g my sister, you piece of trash." Brian stumbled off the bed, clumsily trying to pull up his pants. "Let me explain, please," he begged, holding out his hands. "Let's talk for five minutes." "I don't want to talk to you, you're disgusting," I spat. To my right was a wooden nightstand. On top of it sat a ceramic vase. Without thinking, I grabbed it and threw it with all my might straight at Brian’s head. Brian dodged the object by a hair. The vase smashed against the back wall, exploding into a thousand pieces that rained down onto the floor. "What the f**k is wrong with you?" Anastasia shrieked, sitting up and covering her chest with the blanket. "You are completely insane!" I pointed my index finger at her, holding her gaze with pure fire in my eyes. "What's wrong with me? What's wrong is that you're a w***e who slept with my boyfriend. Or well, my damn ex-boyfriend." Anastasia let out a loud, mocking laugh, leaning back against the pillows. "Oh, please, Riley. Look at yourself," Anastasia said with contempt. "You're a boring, penniless loser. You're pathetic. Brian needed a real woman, not a starving beggar who only knows how to cry over her sick father." "Shut your mouth, Anastasia!" I screamed at her, my jaw tight. "Your mother stole my dad's money!" "And we spent it well," she mocked. "My mom bought me a designer bag yesterday with those funds. Your dad is already a vegetable, sweetie. Why waste money on a dead guy? Brian deserves someone who can actually go shopping, not a slave with two jobs." "Shut up, Anastasia!" Brian ordered, turning to her. "Why should I shut up?" she retorted. "It's the truth and she knows it." Brian took another step toward me, trying to touch my arm to hold me back. "Riley, listen to me. It was a mistake. I was drunk." "Don't touch me," I shoved his chest so hard that he stumbled back two steps. "Get away from me." The guilt on Brian’s face quickly morphed into resentment and spite. "You know what? Go to hell," Brian yelled at me, showing his true colors. "You're just a proud b***h. If you leave me, nobody else is ever going to want to be with you." I stood frozen, listening to the insults. "Haven't you looked in a mirror?" Brian continued, tearing into me viciously. "You're a starving nobody living off a miserable scholarship. Nobody at this university is ever going to care about someone as insignificant as you. You have nothing to offer." I didn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I swallowed the lump in my throat, turned around, and walked out of the room. I slammed the door so hard that the entire wall seemed to vibrate. I ran down the hallway of the dorm building, ignoring the stares of the few students hanging around. My mind was a chaotic mess. I wanted to disappear, to run to a bar, to drink until I forgot Brian's name. But I stopped under the archway of the building and checked my wristwatch. Exactly nine o'clock in the morning. "s**t," I whispered, furiously wiping away the rebellious tears that threatened to blur my vision. I didn't have time to collapse. My shift at the campus coffee shop started in exactly five minutes. If I was late, the manager wouldn't hesitate to fire me, and losing that job meant the certain death of my father. I ran down the stone pathways, entered through the back door of the shop, quickly threw on my regulatory green apron, and tied my hair up into a high ponytail. I stepped out to the main counter, trying to steady my breathing. Standing in front of the cash register, waiting, was a customer. Conrad. The captain of the hockey team and the most egocentric, womanizing jerk on campus. The guy wore his team varsity jacket, which accentuated his imposing, powerful physique. His eyes were fixed on the menu, displaying that classic, cold indifference that defined him. Conrad looked me up and down with relentless arrogance when I took my spot behind the register. "A strong black Americano, to go," Conrad ordered in a deep voice, tossing a bill onto the counter without bothering to look me in the eye. "And make it quick, please." I took the bill, feeling his arrogance, and turned toward the espresso machine, giving the counter my back. My hands were shaking so badly that the metal of the portafilter clinked against the drip tray. The steam rose in a hot rush, clouding my vision, but nothing could wash away the image of Anastasia and Brian in that bed. "Asshole," I muttered through gritted teeth, tamping the ground coffee down with way too much force. "Maldito imbécil." The hum of the machine wasn't enough to drown out my frustration in the semi-empty shop. "I hope you're not talking about me, gorgeous," a deep voice drawled right behind me.