Fake Dating the Secret Billionaire Hockey Star

FIONA POV:

"Fiona, don't forget your date tonight at seven! Mr. Henderson is a real catch, a banker, stable! Don't be late!"

The text from my sister-in-law, Jessica, lit up my phone for the tenth time. My stomach clenched. The coffee in front of me was already cold.

Stable.

The word echoed in my head. I pictured the man Jessica described: thirty-five, a receding hairline, a love for discussing stocks. Stable, but utterly devoid of passion. My life shouldn't be defined by that word.

I stared out the window of "The Daily Grind." The Chicago streets were a blur of motion, but I felt like a bird in a cage. All I wanted was to finish my degree at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, to open a small design studio of my own. I didn't want to be some banker's trophy wife.

But Jessica and my brother, Leo, paid my tuition. They paid for my apartment. And in Jessica's mind, that gave her the right to orchestrate my entire life, right down to my choice of husband.

And Jessica wasn't pushing Henderson on me purely out of concern. A banker with money and connections was exactly the kind of brother-in-law she wanted. Once I married someone like him, she could ask me for expensive favors, loans, introductions—whatever she wanted—and call it "family helping family." To her, my marriage wasn't just my future. It was an opportunity she intended to cash in on. The feeling was suffocating. I couldn't breathe.

My fingers idly fiddled with a discarded copy of the Chicago Tribune. The sports section. A photo caught my eye: Beckett Hayes, of the Chicago Rebels. His eyes were intense, sweat tracing a path down his jawline. The headline, however, was less than flattering: Rebels' Playoff Hopes Dim, Hayes's Future in Question.

A forgotten memory surfaced. A few weeks ago, in my dad's garage before he passed, he'd been on the phone with his old friend, Thomas Hayes. Beckett's father. I'd overheard Thomas complaining, his voice weary.

Beckett had been getting hammered in the press lately. He'd been photographed leaving bars alone late at night after losses, had snapped at a reporter who kept pressing him about the team's performance, and had skipped a sponsor dinner without explanation. None of it was exactly scandalous, but the tabloids had stitched it together into a convenient story: Beckett Hayes was volatile, arrogant, and impossible to pin down. Sponsors were starting to question whether he was the kind of man they wanted representing their brands. Thomas had said what Beckett needed was to look settled, dependable, and serious about his future—preferably with a respectable woman at his side, and eventually a wife. He needed a "stable public image," and fast.

A crazy, audacious idea took root in my mind.

What if... what if I could provide him with that "stable image"? And in return, he could provide me with a shield? A "boyfriend" to finally get Jessica off my back?

My hand trembled as I scrolled through my dad's old contacts. There it was: "Thomas Hayes." My heart hammered against my ribs. This was insane.

My phone buzzed again. Jessica. "I already picked out a dress for you, it's in your closet. Remember to wear makeup."

That was the last straw.

I took a deep, shuddering breath and pressed the call button.

"Mr. Hayes? This is Fiona Wagner, Leo's sister. I... I have a business proposition. I was wondering if you and your son might be interested." My voice shook with a mixture of terror and exhilaration.

The silence on the other end of the line felt like an eternity, but Mr. Hayes eventually agreed to a meeting. He gave me an address. The Uber ride from the coffee shop to the nondescript downtown office building felt like a lifetime.

Now, I sat across from him. Thomas Hayes was a mild-mannered man with sharp, intelligent eyes. He listened quietly as I laid out my insane plan: a public relations contract. I play his son's devoted girlfriend to clean up his image. In exchange, I get a "boyfriend" to reclaim my freedom from my family.

"Fiona, are you sure you understand what this means?" he asked, his voice gentle but firm. "This isn't a game."

I straightened my spine. "I understand. It's a transaction. I need freedom. Mr. Hayes needs a clean public image. We each get something we need."

Just then, the office door swung open. A tall figure strode in. He wore a faded t-shirt and jeans, his handsome face framed by a pair of simple, rimless glasses. It was Beckett Hayes.

He frowned when he saw me, then looked at his father. "Who is she? I don't have an appointment." His voice was colder than I expected, laced with a natural-born distance.

Thomas explained my "business proposition" in a few brief sentences.

Beckett listened, then let out a short, derisive laugh. "A PR girlfriend? Dad, are you kidding me? And you picked her?" He looked me up and down, his gaze clinical, like he was assessing livestock. It made my skin crawl.

Heat flooded my cheeks, but anger quickly replaced my shame. "Mr. Hayes," I said, meeting his gaze directly. "This is a business contract, not a beauty pageant. I can solve your problem with the media and sponsors. You can solve my problem with unwanted family interference. If you don't think I'm suitable, that's fine. I'm sure there are other athletes in Chicago who could use a 'stable image'."

My retort seemed to surprise him. A flicker of something—was it respect?—flashed in his icy blue eyes before they turned cold again. He was silent, studying me, as if trying to see straight through to my soul.

Thomas stepped in. "Beckett, I think Fiona's proposal has merit. And I know Fiona. She's a good girl."

After a long, suffocating moment, Beckett finally spoke. "Fine. I'll do it."

I was about to breathe a sigh of relief when his next words caught in my throat.

"But I have conditions. If we're going to do this, we do it right. You'll be playing the part of a 'struggling player's girlfriend,' understand? No luxury goods, no fancy restaurants. You'll move into the apartment I keep for prospects."

He was testing me. I understood immediately. He wanted to see if I was just another "Puck Bunny" after his money.

I met his challenging gaze and managed a tight smile. "No problem. That's exactly what I need. My sister-in-law can't stand to see anyone doing better than her. Me being 'poor' will actually make her feel more secure."

The corner of his mouth twitched, a ghost of a smile so fast I thought I'd imagined it. "Good. My lawyer will draw up the contract. Be here tomorrow. Two o'clock."

He turned and left without another word, as if he'd just completed a minor, uninteresting task.

Thomas gave me an apologetic smile. "Don't mind him, Fiona. He's just... used to protecting himself. Welcome to the 'plan'."

Walking out of the building, the cool evening air hit my face. I realized my back was soaked with sweat. I pulled out my phone and sent a text to Jessica.

"Don't worry about the dress. I have a date."

Message sent. I stared at the screen, a strange mix of fear and excitement bubbling up inside me. I didn't know if I had just escaped one trap only to walk into a much deeper one.

Tomorrow. Two o'clock. My new life—or rather, my new performance—was about to begin.