Faking It With You

THE RULES

CHAPTER 3:

His hand was still in mine when the cameras stopped.

I pulled away first. Fast. Like his skin had burned me. Maybe it had. Maybe that was the spark I felt — not attraction, not something dangerous and unwanted, just pain. Just hate. Just the universe reminding me that touching him was a betrayal of everything I believed in.

The green room was small. Too small. Four walls and a couch and a door that didn't lock. Mia had disappeared with her clipboard and her smile. Karl had never shown up at all. Just me and Jax and the silence that stretched between us like a wound.

"That went well," he said.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't talk to me like we're —" I gestured between us. "— partners. Colleagues. Friends. We're not any of those things."

He nodded. Slow. Like he'd expected that too.

"Then what are we?"

"Trapped." I dropped onto the couch. My legs were shaking. I hated that they were shaking. "We're two people trapped in the same cage. That's all."

He didn't argue. Didn't defend himself. Just stood by the door with his hands in his pockets, looking at me like I was something fragile he was afraid to break.

I hated that look.

"We need rules," I said.

"Okay."

"Stop saying okay."

"Fine."

I closed my eyes. Breathed. Tried to find the venom that had carried me through three years of hating him. It was there. Buried under exhaustion and fear and the memory of his fingers wrapped around mine.

"Rule one," I said. "No touching unless there are cameras. No hand-holds in private. No accidental brushes. No —" I opened my eyes. "— anything."

"Agreed."

"Rule two. Separate bedrooms. Separate lives. We coexist. That's it."

"Agreed."

"Rule three." I paused. "No personal questions. I don't want to know anything about you. I don't want to know why you —" I stopped. Swallowed. "I don't want to know anything."

Something flickered in his eyes. Pain, maybe. Or relief. I couldn't tell.

"Agreed."

"Rule four." My voice dropped. "You don't get to be kind to me. No coffee. No water. No quiet looks. No —" I gestured vaguely. "— whatever that was last night."

His jaw tightened. "What was last night?"

"You know what."

"I don't."

"The —" I stopped. The words caught. I heard you say her name. I heard you break in your sleep. I stood outside your door and almost knocked.

"You were crying," I said instead. "In your sleep. I heard you."

The silence that followed was different. Heavier. His eyes went somewhere else — somewhere dark, somewhere I wasn't invited.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't apologize."

"You said don't be kind. You didn't say don't apologize."

"Then rule five. No apologizing. For anything. Ever."

He looked at me. Long. Steady. "I can't agree to that one."

"Why not?"

"Because I am sorry." His voice was quiet. Rough. "For all of it. I'm sorry for what I did to Liam. I'm sorry for what you've lost. I'm sorry you're trapped here with me. I'm sorry for every single thing that brought you to this room. I can't not be sorry. That's the one rule I can't follow."

I wanted to scream at him. I wanted to tell him his apologies meant nothing. That sorry didn't bring Liam's career back. That sorry didn't erase the sound of his leg snapping on live television. That sorry didn't fix anything.

But I couldn't.

Because he meant it.

I could see it in his eyes. Feel it in the weight of his words. He meant every syllable. And that — somehow — was worse than if he'd been cruel.

"Fine," I said. "Rule five is void. But only because you're too stubborn to follow it."

"Fair enough."

"Rule six." I stood. Needed to be taller than him. Needed to feel like I had some power in this room. "We don't talk about the past. Not Liam. Not the hit. Not any of it. We focus on getting through the next six months. That's all."

He nodded. "And after six months?"

"After six months, I walk away. You never see me again. We go back to being strangers."

Something crossed his face. Too fast to name. "Strangers."

"Strangers," I repeated. "That's what we are. That's what we'll always be."

He didn't argue.

He just stood there, quiet and still, like he was already memorizing the shape of me before I disappeared.

---

The first game was that night.

I hadn't planned on going. Hadn't planned on sitting in the stands with Mia's carefully curated press pass around my neck, watching the man I hated skate across the ice like he owned it.

But Karl had sent a text. Be there. Smile. Hold his hand when the cameras find you. This is part of the job.

The job.

I was starting to hate that word.

The arena was loud. Too loud. The kind of loud that rattled your bones and made you forget how to think. I found my seat — front row, center ice, exactly where the cameras would find me — and I sat.

And I watched.

He was different on the ice. Faster. Sharper. The tired man from the apartment was gone. In his place was something primal. Something dangerous. Something that moved like violence and grace had a child.

I hated how good he was.

I hated how I couldn't look away.

The game was brutal. Bodies slamming against boards. Sticks clashing. Blood on the ice — just a little, just enough to remind everyone what was at stake.

Jax was everywhere. Hitting. Checking. Protecting his teammates like they were extensions of his own body.

And then — mid-period, mid-play, mid-everything — he looked up.

At me.

Just for a second. Just long enough for the world to tilt.

Our eyes met across the ice. Across the noise. Across everything we were and everything we weren't.

He didn't smile. Didn't nod. Just looked at me like I was the only thing in the arena worth seeing.

Then he was gone. Back to the game. Back to the violence.

I sat there, heart pounding, hands shaking, hating him more than I had ever hated anyone in my life.

Because he wasn't supposed to look at me like that.

Because I wasn't supposed to feel anything when he did.

---

After the game, I waited in the tunnel.

I didn't want to. Every instinct screamed at me to leave. To call a cab. To disappear into the night and never look back.

But Karl's text was still burning in my phone. Post-game photo op. Smile. Touch him. Make it look real.

Make it look real.

Like anything about this was real.

He emerged from the locker room with wet hair and tired eyes. He saw me. Stopped.

"You waited."

"Don't read into it."

"I wasn't."

"Good."

We stood there. Two feet apart. The cameras were somewhere behind me — I could feel their lenses like a weight on my skin.

"Smile," I said through my teeth.

He didn't.

"Jax. Smile."

"I don't smile on command."

"Then what do you do?"

He looked at me. Really looked. And then — slowly, impossibly — he reached out.

His hand found mine.

His fingers laced through mine. Warm. Steady. Like we'd done this a thousand times. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I should have pulled away.

I didn't.

"The cameras are watching," he said quietly.

"I know."

"Then look at me."

I looked.

And for three seconds — three long, impossible, world-stopping seconds — I forgot about the cameras. Forgot about Liam. Forgot about the hate and the lies and the blackmail and everything that had brought me to this moment.

It was just him.

Just his eyes.

Just his hand in mine.

Then the flash went off. The moment shattered. And I remembered everything.

I pulled away.

"Don't," I said. "Don't do that again."

"Do what?"

"Make me forget."

He didn't answer. Just stood there, hand still open, like he was waiting for me to come back.

I didn't.

I walked away.

---

The apartment was quiet when I got back.

I went straight to my room. Closed the door. Locked it. Pressed my back against the wood and slid down until I was sitting on the floor.

My hand was still warm. Still tingling. Still remembering the shape of his fingers.

I looked at it. At my palm. At the lines that had been pressed against his.

What's wrong with me?

I hated him. I hated him for Liam. For the career he ended. For the life he stole. For the three years I spent learning to despise him.

But in that tunnel, with the cameras watching and his hand in mine, I hadn't hated him at all.

I had felt safe.

Safe.

The word made me sick.

I pulled out my phone. Called Lilly.

"Hey. You okay?"

"No." My voice cracked. "I'm not okay. I'm — I don't know what I am."

"What happened?"

"I held his hand."

"Ruby, that's the job."

"No." I shook my head even though she couldn't see me. "It's not. It's not just the job. I felt something. When he touched me, I felt something. And I don't know what to do with that."

Lilly was quiet for a long moment. Then: "What kind of something?"

"I don't know." I closed my eyes. "Something I'm not supposed to feel. Something I can't feel. Something that would destroy everything I believed about him."

"Maybe what you believed was wrong."

"Don't."

"I'm just saying —"

"Don't." My voice was sharp. Cutting. "I can't hear that. Not now. Not ever. He ruined my life, Lilly. He took everything from me. I can't — I won't — feel anything for him."

Another silence. Then, softly: "Okay."

"Okay," I echoed.

But it wasn't okay.

Nothing was okay.

---

I heard him come home an hour later.

Footsteps in the hall. The soft click of his door. Then nothing.

I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the moment in the tunnel. His hand in mine. His eyes on mine. The way the world had stopped.

I hated him.

I hated him so much.

But when I closed my eyes, I could still feel his fingers laced through mine.

And I didn't want to let go.

---

Chapter 3 Ends