Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player novel Chapter 109

Chapter 109

EMILIA

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Once Liam and I hang up him off to his team meeting to dissect their next opponent, me left behind with a heart doing pirouettes 1 realise I no longer have an excuse to slack off.

So I roll up my sleeves and dive into work.

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By the time the clock hits 6 PM, I feel like I’ve aged a year. My arms ache. My feet are furious. My hair smells like three different types of frosting.

Honestly, I should really start thinking about hiring staff. It was easy running this place when the Becketts were basically my only regulars. But now? Ever since Liam started dropping by, word’s gotten out and so have the fans. Hockey jerseys, custom cupcakes, suspicious giggling near the counter. I don’t mind. As long as they buy a treat or two, they can camp out all day for all I care.

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Someone even suggested I get a TV installed so customers can watch the Titans‘ games live while they sip their overpriced lattes. I’ve been mulling it over. I mean, I can’t charge people to sit and stare at a screen… or can I?

Everything’s business, right?

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and

Liam’s game starts at 7 PM. There’s no universe where I clean this place up and still make it home in time to watch from the start yes, I’m sulking about it. I’m elbow–deep in dishes, mentally composing an “I’m so sorry I missed puck drop” text, when the bell above the door jingles.

I don’t even look up. I’m far too tired, and I’m certain I flipped the CLOSED sign this time.

“We’re closed!”

There’s a pause.

And then – hiccup.

My head snaps up.

Mrs. Beckett stands there, beaming, with baby Theo curled against her shoulder, letting out another sleepy hiccup.

“Even for me?” she teases.

My exhaustion dissolves instantly. Gone. Like magic.

I abandon the sink and sprint toward her, grinning like an idiot. “Mrs. Beckett!”

She laughs, stepping inside fully. “I thought I’d drop by and steal a hug before bedtime. Theo insisted.”

I gently rub the little tuft of Theo’s hair as he nuzzles into her neck. “Look at him. Still a heartbreaker.”

“Just like his father,” she says, winking, “God help me.”

Mrs. Becken glances over my shoulder toward the kitchen sink stacked high with dishes. “You’re still here this late? I figured you’d be racing home for the game.”

I groan. “I wanted to. But there’s still so much to clean up and I’m down to a staff of one

me.”

She hums. “Well, I happen to live across the street and have a perfectly good TV and snacks. You finish the dishes, I’ll tidy up the tables. Then you come watch the game with me. Deal?”

“Are you sure?” ask, blinking.

Theo says yes,” she says, wiggling his tiny hand in my direction.

I grin. “Deal.”

Half an hour later, I’m curled up on the Becketts‘ ridiculously comfy couch, half–buried under a fleece throw with Angel bouncing beside me. Angel is bouncing excitedly next to me, wearing an oversized NYC Titans jersey that nearly touch

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Chapter 109

to her back when he and Cam were still technically my bakery staff.

God, that feels like another lifetime.

“I look just like Liam now,” she declares proudly.

“You look better than Liam,” I say, adjusting her pigtails. “Don’t tell him I said that, though.”

She gasps. “I won’t! But I will tell Cam.”

Mrs. Beckett chuckles from the armchair, a bowl of popcorn in her lap and Theo asleep in a bassinet beside her. The Titans–Boston game flashes on the screen. The commentary is already fast and energetic.

“They’re on the road?” she asks.

“Boston,” I nod. “Tough crowd, but Liam said he was feeling good about it.”

The puck drops.

And we’re off.

(20)

The moment Liam hits the ice, I zero in on him. Number 27. Skating with such fluid precision that it makes the rest of the team look like they’re moving in slow motion.

Not that I was looking at anyone else anyway.

“Is Liam playing? I can’t see him,” Angel pouts.

“He’s number 27,” I point. “Like your jersey.”

Her brow furrows. “But I can’t tell them apart. They all look like ants.”

Mrs. Beckett laughs. “Welcome to my world, sweetie.”

A Boston player tries to check Liam against the boards and Liam ducks out smoothly, already sliding the puck to someone streaking up the left side.

“Fast,” I mumble absentmindedly. One second he’s chasing the puck, the next he’s halfway across the ice with Liam trailing after him.

“Ah, that Cobalt boy,” Mrs. Beckett says, offering me the popcorn. “My husband nearly had a heart attack when there were trade rumours. Thank God they were just that.”

I blink. Right – Aaron Cobalt. Liam’s mentioned him a few times. The pass he just caught was smooth, but then it lands with Lyle, and I

tense.

Within seconds, the puck’s stolen.

Boston rushes the other way. Goal.

I almost puke blood.

“Oh, come on!” I groan. “Why is he even on that line?”

Angel perks up. “Who’s he?”

“That guy who just fumbled the puck like it was made of lava,” I mutter, dragging Angel into my lap for a whispered gossip session. “Isn’t that guy a loser?”

Angel tilts her head seriously. “He’s not a loser, Because then the Titans are losers too.”

“Good point.”

“But,” she says with a sage nod, “he does look like a frog.”

Mrs. Beckett nearly chokes on her popcorn, laughing.

The first period blurs by in a blur of tension – two insane saves from Cam that earn full claps from all of us, a very questionable slashing penalty that I loudly protest, and a Boston defenseman who looks like he bench–presses motorcycles trying to crush Liam into

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Chapter 109

the ice.

He dodges, of course.

TH

By the time the horn sounds, the first intermission begins. The score is 1-0. Boston.

Mrs. Beckett rises from the chair, smoothing her blouse. “I just need to take a quick call.”

“Everything okay?” I ask.

She smiles. But something in it falters. “Just something from work. Be right back.”

She steps out of the room, and I try not to dwell on how pale she looked just before.

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Angel crawls up next to me, showing me a new drawing she made with markers. Liam, in full uniform, holding a cupcake bigger than his head.

“He has sprinkles in his beard,” she says proudly.

I consider the possibility of Liam with facial hair deeply, before grinning and patting her on the head. “Good work, kiddo.”

tell Theo (even though he’s asleep) all about Liam’s first visit to the bakery, how he insisted on taste–testing every single cookie and called the lemon tart ‘divine.’

When Mrs. Beckett returns, she doesn’t say much. Her smile is back, but I can tell something’s shifted.

Still, the second period starts, and we let it go.

Cam blocks a near goal with a flying save that gets me and Angel shrieking. Aaron gets an assist, then follows it up with a clean goal that has even the Boston crowd muttering.

Angel throws both fists in the air. “GO LIAM!”

I grin and tug her back down. “That wasn’t even Liam.”

She blushes bright pink. “I knew that.”

The third period begins. Liam’s everywhere – weaving, circling, stealing pucks. Lyle gets benched for a bad change. I smirk.

2-2.

The tension is unbearable. Even Mrs. Beckett’s muttering under her breath. I don’t breathe for a full minute.

And then – with just under a minute left — Liam drives straight through the defense. Dodges one. Shoulder–checks another. And shoots.

Top corner. Clink. Goal.

The room erupts.

1 scream. Angel screams louder. Mrs. Beckett’s on her feet, clapping like it’s church on Easter Sunday.

The Titans swarm the ice. Cam tackles Liam. The screen cuts to their coach yelling. The final score flashes.

3-2.

My chest swells with so much pride and affection I think I might actually burst.

As the post–game analysis starts, I finally grab my bag, shaking my head with a grin. “Alright, before I crash right here on your couch-”

“You’re welcome anytime, love,” Mrs. Beckett says, kissing my cheek.

Ireach for my phone. Notifications buzz across the lock screen

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orders from the bakery, a text from Tessa.

And then-

Private Number:

3:36 PM PP.

Chapter 109

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Look into me again and I’ll mail you your friend, Kara’s, little, manicured finger. Got it?

That answers that.

How she grew up. Whether she still hates me. Whether she’d blow up my bakery with me in it.

The nausea creeps up first. Then the chill.

I stare down at the screen. My thumbs move on instinct.

Me:

Dia, how are you?

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