My "Broke" Fake Boyfriend Is A Secret Hockey God

HARPER'S POV:

The biting night air slapped my face, and only then did I realize hot tears were streaming down my cheeks.

A yellow cab sped past. I waved my hand frantically, but it didn't even slow down.

"Harper!"

Mason’s voice cut through the traffic noise. I turned to see him jogging toward me, wearing nothing but hastily zipped jeans, his bare chest exposed to the freezing wind.

He reached me, his hand clamping down on my wrist with a tight, bruising grip. "Just let me explain!"

"Don't touch me!" I ripped my arm out of his grasp, my nails scraping hard against his skin. "You disgust me."

Kennedy hurried up behind him. She was wrapped tightly in that new denim jacket. She looked small, shivering, and utterly pathetic. "Harper, please don't be like this. Mason, he..."

"Shut your mouth," I snarled, every ounce of my polite upbringing vanishing into the cold night. "You don't get to say my name. Not anymore."

A few passersby slowed down, their eyes lingering on the spectacle we were making. I didn't care. Let them look.

Mason took a step closer, a flicker of genuine impatience crossing his handsome face. "Is it really necessary to make such a scene out here? We're adults, Harper."

His words sliced into me, a fresh, agonizing wound. "Adults?" I let out a harsh, breathless laugh. "So adults get to screw their girlfriend's best friend and feel completely justified about it?"

Kennedy’s face crumpled, and she started to cry. "It was my fault," she wailed, clutching the collar of the jacket. "I seduced him. Please, don't blame him, Harper. Blame me."

I stared at her, the girl who had held my hair back when I was sick, the girl who knew my deepest fears. The betrayal crashed over me, heavy and suffocating. Her pathetic, self-sacrificing act was laughable. She wasn't protecting him; she was marking her territory, showing me they were already a team.

"Save the performance, Kennedy," I spat, the irony tasting like ash in my mouth. "You two deserve each other."

I spun on my heel and walked briskly toward the subway station, desperate to escape the toxic air around them.

Halfway down the block, my phone buzzed in my coat pocket. The screen glowed in the dim streetlights with a single word: Mom.

My throat instantly tightened. I sank onto a nearby bus stop bench, taking a deep, shuddering breath before answering. I had to keep my voice steady.

"Hi, Mom."

"Honey, are you with Mason?" her cheerful, oblivious voice chirped through the speaker.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.

"I was just calling to ask how the wedding plans are coming along!" she continued. "Your Aunt Susan’s daughter is getting engaged next month, you know. You and Mason need to get a move on!"

Each word was like coarse salt poured directly into my open, bleeding heart. Just this morning, I had been looking at flights, planning to finally bring Mason home for Thanksgiving to officially meet my parents. I had spent weeks imagining the proud look on my mom's face when I introduced the man I was going to marry.

Now, that beautiful future was nothing but a grotesque joke.

I glanced down the street. Mason and Kennedy were still standing there, watching me from a distance like I was some tragic street-side entertainment.

A sudden, fierce spark of anger ignited in my chest, burning away the tears. I wouldn't let them see me break. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of watching me run away like a defeated victim.

"Mom, I have to go," I interrupted, my voice suddenly hard. "I'll call you tomorrow."

I hung up before she could reply.

Instead of heading down into the subway, I turned around and marched right back to where they stood.

Mason looked relieved for a split second, probably thinking I had come back to talk. But I didn't look at his face. I dug my hand into my purse, my fingers wrapping around the cold metal of the spare key to his apartment—the one he had given me six months ago, calling it a "milestone."

I pulled it out and threw it hard at his feet. It bounced off his shoe and clattered onto the concrete.

"That's the last piece of you I'm carrying," I said, my voice eerily calm. "Stay out of my life."

Mason stared down at the key, his jaw clenching, his face hardening into an unreadable mask.

Kennedy opened her mouth, fresh tears welling in her eyes, but I silenced her with a single, icy glare that made her snap her mouth shut.

I didn't wait for a response. I turned my back on them for the final time, walked down the stairs into the subway station, and didn't look back.

Inside the rattling train car, I leaned my head against the cool, vibrating glass, watching the city lights blur into streaks of neon. I felt utterly, devastatingly alone.

With trembling hands, I took out my phone.

One by one, I deleted every photo of me and Mason. The vacations, the birthdays, the lazy Sunday mornings.

Then, I went to my albums and deleted every photo of me and Kennedy. Two years of friendship, erased in a matter of minutes.

When the screen finally showed No Photos, a hollow emptiness settled deep in my chest.

Two years of my life. Wasted on two dogs.