Fake Engaged to My Hockey Rival

[POV: Lanaya Roux]

Friday arrived with the suffocating inevitability of a nightmare.

Lanaya stood in the center of Maverick's sprawling guest bedroom, surrounded by cardboard boxes that held the entirety of her life. Ash-wood floors. Slate-grey walls. A king-sized bed that looked more like a slab of marble than a place to sleep.

It didn't feel like a room. It felt like a cell.

"I can unpack those for you, Miss Roux."

Lanaya spun around. A woman stood in the doorway - older, sharply dressed, with eyes that saw entirely too much.

"No. Thank you. I'll do it myself."

"Mr. Hayden requested I ensure you are settled. I am Mrs. Gable. The estate manager."

"Estate manager," Lanaya repeated dryly. "Because calling this a penthouse isn't pretentious enough."

Mrs. Gable didn't crack a smile. "Dinner is at seven. Mr. Hayden expects you in the formal dining room."

"Tell Mr. Hayden I'm not hungry."

"He was quite specific that your attendance is mandatory. To discuss the upcoming press tour."

The press tour. The dog-and-pony show where she would have to smile, wave, and pretend the heavy diamond on her finger wasn't an anchor dragging her to the bottom of the ocean.

"Fine. Seven," Lanaya snapped.

Mrs. Gable gave a crisp nod and disappeared.

Lanaya sank onto the edge of the mattress, dropping her head into her hands. She had survived the morning press conference. Barely. The flashbulbs were blinding. The questions were invasive.

But the worst part wasn't the media. And for once, it wasn't even Maverick.

It was their fathers.

Camden and Alexander had stood together at the edge of the room while the cameras flashed. Not across from each other the way two men finalizing a business arrangement would stand. Side by side, speaking too quietly and too comfortably for men who were supposed to be meeting over a merger. At one point, Alexander said something low and her father nodded - not the nod of a man receiving new information, but the slow, automatic nod of a man being reminded of something he already knew. When someone nearby mentioned Crew's name, directing a question about the foundation toward Camden, both men went still at the exact same moment. Her father answered smoothly. Alexander said nothing. He simply set his glass down on the nearest surface, very carefully, and turned to look at the window.

Lanaya hadn't known what to do with that.

She still didn't.

She stood up, needing to move. She ripped open the nearest box and began shoving clothes into the walk-in closet, channeling all her vibrating anger into the simple task. By six-thirty the boxes were empty. By six-forty-five she was pacing. By six-fifty-five, the scent of cedar and dark musk hit her before the knock even sounded.

Her heart kicked against her ribs. She hated the immediate, traitorous reaction.

"Come in."

The heavy door pushed open. Maverick stood in the frame - dark jeans, fitted black t-shirt stretched across his broad chest. The bruise on his jaw was a dark, violent shadow. He looked too big for the doorway. Too dangerous for the room.

"You skipped lunch," he stated.

"I wasn't hungry."

"You need to eat. You have practice tomorrow."

"Don't tell me what I need." She crossed her arms. "And stop monitoring my meals."

He stepped fully into the room. The sheer heat radiating off him immediately changed the temperature of the air. "I monitor everything in my house."

"I am not one of your possessions, Maverick."

"No," he agreed, his voice dropping an octave. He closed the distance until he was standing entirely too close. "You're my fiancée."

Lanaya let out a harsh laugh. "Only on paper."

"The media doesn't care about the paper. They care about the performance."

"I gave them a performance this morning."

"You looked like you were being led to a firing squad." He reached out. Before she could dodge, his fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her left hand up between them. The diamond caught the light. "If you look at me like a hostage on the press tour, Alexander will know we're faking it."

The name came out the same way it had in the tunnel - flat and load-bearing, worn smooth by long practice. Not hatred. Not pride. The specific blankness of a man who had learned exactly how much pressure that name could apply, and had stopped flinching under it years ago. For a moment his jaw tightened in a way that had nothing to do with her.

Then his eyes came back to her face and the shutter closed.

"Then let him know," she said. She tried to pull her hand back, but his grip was iron.

"If he knows, the merger dies. The foundation dies." His chest brushed against hers. The friction sent a shocking, unwanted spike of electricity straight through her. "Is that what you want, Huntress?"

"I want you to let me go."

"I can't."

The raw honesty in those two words made her freeze. She looked up. The cold, mocking mask was gone. His grey-blue eyes were storm-dark, fixed on her mouth with a starving intensity that made her breath hitch.

"Maverick," she warned, her voice trembling.

"We have to make them believe it," he whispered, his thumb tracing the frantic pulse in her wrist. "Starting right now."

Before she could process the threat, his hand tangled in her hair, and his mouth crashed down on hers.