My stomach twists. I close the messages and toss the phone onto the couch.
This is fine. Everything is fine. Patrice thinks Ryder's happy. The town thinks we're in love. The internet thinks we're relationship goals. Everyone thinks this is real except the two people in it.
I pull up my content folder. I have footage to edit. A partnership announcement to draft. Three different brand emails sitting in my inbox waiting for responses. This is my job. This is what I do.
I open the first email. A hiking gear company wants me to review their new line of winter jackets. They're offering a flat fee plus commission on sales. The numbers make my eyes water in a good way. The kind of deal I haven't seen since Cancún.
The second email is from a coffee subscription service. They want to send me three months of free product in exchange for content. They specifically mention my "authentic lifestyle content" and "genuine relationship dynamic."
The third email is from my former agency. The one that dropped me after Chad's livestream disaster. They want to know if I'm interested in representation again.
I close my laptop.
Everyone wants me again because I'm fake dating a hockey player. Not because my content improved. Not because I learned something or grew as a creator. Because I look good standing next to Ryder Lockwood.
I grab my phone and pull up Instagram. Maybe I can at least respond to some comments. Engage with my audience.Do something productive that doesn't involve thinking about Ryder's hands or his mouth or the way he whispered my name in the dark.
The comments on yesterday's photo are overwhelming. Hundreds of them. Thousands.
OMG you two are SO CUTE
Where did you find him and are there more???
The way he looks at you I'm CRYING
This is what true love looks like
I scroll until my eyes blur. Someone tagged me in a TikTok—a compilation video of Ryder and me set to some romantic song I don't recognize. It has 300,000 views.
My own video analyzing sustainable tourism practices last month got 3,000 views.
I close the app and set the phone face-down on the cushion beside me. Then I get up and pace because sitting still feels impossible. My feet take me from the kitchen to the living room and back again. Past the couch where Ryder kissed me. Past the hallway leading to my bedroom where we definitely didn't keep things professional. Past the window where his truck sits in his driveway, silent and mocking.
What am I supposed to do? March over there and demand to know why he left? Text him and ask if last night was a mistake? Pretend nothing happened and keep performing for the cameras?
All of those options sound terrible.
A truck engine rumbles to life outside. I freeze, coffee cup halfway to my lips. Through the window, I watch Ryder's truck back out of his driveway. He doesn't look at my cabin. Doesn'twave. Just pulls onto the road and drives away, taillights disappearing between the trees.
Practice. He has practice. Because tomorrow is another game, another chance for NHL scouts to watch, another opportunity where he needs to look focused and mature and not like a guy who slept with his fake girlfriend and then had to leave before things got even more complicated.
I walk back to the couch and sink into the cushions.
This was supposed to be simple. Four games. Four public dates. Build my brand, help his image, everyone wins. Instead, I caught feelings like an idiot, slept with him like a bigger idiot, and now he's avoiding me because obviously he regrets it.
My phone lights up again. Another email. Another brand partnership inquiry. More proof that this fake relationship is the best thing that ever happened to my career.
And possibly the worst thing that ever happened to my heart.
I pull a blanket over my legs and stare at nothing. Outside, a raven calls from the spruce trees. The sun climbs higher, turning the morning mist to gold. It's beautiful. Alaska is always beautiful. I should film it. I should capitalize on this perfect lighting and create content that will get thousands of views.
Instead, I sit here and wonder how we went from the best night of my life to this crushing silence in less than six hours.
My phone buzzes one more time. I grab it, ready to throw it across the room.
All the notifications are about the same thing: yesterday's photo has hit 200,000 likes combined across platforms. The comments are full of people demanding couple content. Asking when we're getting married. Calling us "relationship goals."
I laugh, and it comes out bitter.
