Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player novel Chapter 207

Chapter 207

EMILIA

The “rounds,” as it turns out, are Liam pulling me from group to group like a show–and–tell prize he refuses to set down. Every few feet someone claps him on the back, shouts his name, or chirps about the last game. Every single time, his arm winds tighter around my waist, or his chin dips to brush my temple, or his lips find the crown of my head in a fleeting kiss that makes my stomach somersault.

And the teasing oh God, the teasing.

“Emilia, huh? It’s great to finally meet you.”

“She actually exists? I could have sworn Calloway was just conjuring you from his imagination. You actually put up with this guy?”

“Careful, sweetheart, don’t let him near the grill. He’ll burn your eyebrows off.”

The wives are worse. They close ranks around me like I’ve already signed some invisible membership form. One of them tall, dark- skinned, effortlessly stylish flashes a grin that’s part warm welcome, part finally, she’s here.

“Emilia, right? I’m Fareeda, Aaray’s wife.”

She gestures toward one of the few teammates of Liam’s I actually remembered by name Aaray, who’s currently letting two kids climb his back like he’s a human jungle gym. Beside him, Dante lounges in a lawn chair with a paper plate stacked high with BBQ, lazily shouting encouragement like a man who has zero intention of moving unless food falls from the sky.

Fareeda leans in conspiratorially. “I’m also the unofficial WAG committee chair. Translation: everyone else dodges the group chat and I end up planning the parties. Welcome to the circus.”

WAG. The word catches me off guard, and I know it shows because she laughs. “You’ll get used to it. Free food, too many children, and the occasional drinking game. Perks and pitfalls, honey.”

I manage a smile, even as my brain stutters over the word. WAG. Like it’s an official title. Like I’m officially… one of them.

Liam notices. Of course he notices. His lips brush my ear, so low only I can hear: “You okay?”

–

I nod quickly. Maybe too quickly. “Yeah. Just processing.”

His answer is simple, quiet, and so him it nearly knocks me over: “Don’t. You belong here.” pure,

At some point, the food comes off the grill and then it’s unfiltered chaos. Plates stacked too high, kids running wild and stealing chips like tiny raccoons, beers cracking open in a chorus, sauce–stained fingers everywhere. Someone drags out a fold–up table, and before I know it, red Solo cups are lined up in triangles, the air buzzing with shouts and trash talk about beer pong rules.

They don’t get far before Owen shuts it down.

“Freja can barely stand us drinking beer around the kids,” he says, hands braced on his hips like an exhausted dad. “She’d lose it if she knew we were making a game out of it. What if the kids think it’s fun and wanna join in? And with how competitive you lot get, you’ll start cursing all over the place. And don’t forget–we’ve got practice tomorrow.”

Groans roll around the yard like a wave. Someone even boos.

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