The Hockey Star's Runaway Fake Girlfriend

Owens

tment as I pulled the roast chicken from the

n the wall. The hands ha

olently on the cou

the acce

could even say hello. "I just saw on the campus forum-th

counter, suddenly feeling the

flat. But I'd already seen the news that

al. That's your 'boyfriend' for you. Returns like a g

ed in here, was my reliable source for all things Bri

rough the campus grapevine, through sports bl

ht so bright it often left me standing in his shadow. I'd read about his

a "future NHL prospect," a headline I lear

ey team jacket I was wearing. It was Chri

ct," playing the part of his

ion, and in return, I wore his jacket, smiled at his games, and never asked for

only by the low hum of the refrigerator

lightly, "are you still coming to dinner?

h, hopeful part of me had wanted him to come home to me. The rich aroma of the chicken began to fade, the heat dissipating into the c

ristian's contact. I couldn't bring myself to press it. I was afraid

through my feed. And

n Sinclair, his tea

e party. Tristan was holding the camera, pans acr

is hand, leaning in to hear something his teammate, Trista

timestamped te

He just hadn't come back to this p

bleed through the screen, a sharp contrast to

prepared, now untouched. Every dish w

g down at the empty parking spot below. His

lights in the dining room, leav

hanically served myself a p

ble. I moved to the sofa in the

talk show was on. I cou

ed dinner into the trash can. The plate mad

bed, cradling my little orange cat Apollo,the one I'd adopted from the

muffled sounds of parties from down th

ust as I was drifting off, I heard t

zed. Was tha

ke, my body rigid.

ps crossed th

sed just outside

nd did not dare st