THE HOCKEY STAR’S FAKE GIRLFRIEND

Mia’s POV

I should’ve known the night would be a disaster when I found my work uniform floating in the washing machine like a dead fish.

“What the hell, Jess?”

I held up the black polyester disaster that used to be my size medium uniform, now roughly the size of a twelve year old.

My roommate poked her head out of her room, looking criminally pleased with herself for someone who’d just destroyed my only work clothes.

“I was trying to help! It had that weird smell from last week when that banker threw up on you.”

“That’s what Febreze is for!”

I checked my phone.

Shit.

Already late, and the Vance mansion was a thirty-minute drive on a good day.

My boss was going to crucify me, resurrect me, then fire me.

“I have to go,” I said, grabbing my keys and the tiny uniform.

Maybe nobody would notice if I tried to make it work.

I got to the Vance house forty-five minutes later.

“You’re late.”

My boss Diane said the second I walked in.

She took one look at me and her eyes started twitching.

That was never good.

“And what on earth are you wearing?”

“I’m so sorry, Diane. My roommate shrunk my uniform…”

“I don’t care. You can’t serve rich people looking like that.”

She pulled me to a closet and dug through boxes until she found an old uniform.

“This is the only extra we have,” she said, shoving it at me. “Someone puked on it last month, but it’s been dry cleaned. Twice.”

The uniform was a size too small, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

I needed this job desperately and had very few alternatives.

I ran down the hallway of the mansion.

The Vance mansion was the kind of place that made you uncomfortably aware of your own poverty.

It had crystal chandeliers that could pay off my student loans, paintings that belonged in museums, and carpets so plush I felt guilty for walking on them with my Target sneakers.

The third door I tried was open and dark inside.

Perfect.

I didn’t bother searching for the lights.

Honestly, I was better at getting dressed in darkness anyway.

My apartment electricity got shut off often enough that I practically had night vision now.

I shoved my earbuds back in my ears and balanced my phone on a nearby dresser while music blasted loud enough to drown out my problems.

The emergency uniform wasn’t much better.

The shirt stretched tight across my chest in a way that would definitely earn me some inappropriate comments from the country club perverts, and the skirt hit mid-thigh instead of the regulation knee-length.

But it would have to do.

I was halfway through buttoning the shirt down when the lights came on.

I froze.

Shit.

I yanked off my earbuds and spun around.

Ethan Cross.

Yes, the Ethan Cross, Whitmore University’s hockey god and certified campus panty-dropper, was sprawled on a leather couch with a blonde cheerleader straddling his lap.

“I… shit… I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”

I stammered, trying to look anywhere but at the way his hands were gripping the cheerleader’s thighs.

Or his dark messy hair.

Or abs.

Jesus Christ.

Not six packs.

But eight.

Who the fuck needed eight packs?

“No need to apologize,” he said, his green eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep from my face to my half-dressed state and back up again. “Room for one more if you’re interested. Brittany here is very… flexible.”

“It’s Becca, actually.”

Brittany, no, Becca corrected.

“What do you say?” Ethan asked, completely ignoring Brittany or Becca.

“I’m good, thanks,” I managed, fumbling with the zipper on my skirt while trying to maintain some shred of dignity. “I’ll just… I’m going to…”

“Wait,” he called out, and like an idiot, I turned.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

My face burned hotter than the surface of the sun although I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Your phone,” he said.

“Oh yeah.”

I quickly grabbed my phone with the earbuds still attached and fled out of the room.

The second I stepped back downstairs, my coworker Ava took one look at me and gasped dramatically.

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are. Spill.”

I shoved champagne glasses onto my tray violently.

“I walked in on Ethan Cross and some girl.”

“The Ethan Cross? The hot hockey player?”

“Yes.”

Ava gasped.

“Is he as hot as they say he is?”

My cheeks started burning again.

“Mia!”

Ava teased.

“You’ve got the hots for him.”

“As if!” I scoffed. “It’s just a little hot in here.”

“Yeah right.” She laughed. “I bet it was hot over there too.”

“Get back to work!”

Diane barked at both of us and we straightened up immediately and headed to our stations.

The next few hours were hell.

Old men flirted aggressively while their wives glared at me like it was my fault.

Not that my uniform was helping.

My shirt pulled tight across my chest in a way that made it look like my boobs were struggling to breathe.

The skirt wasn’t much better, riding up every time I moved.

“Smile, sweetheart,” one particularly disgusting specimen said, his wedding ring glinting as he reached for another champagne flute from my tray. “You’d be so much prettier if you smiled.”

“You’d be so much handsomer if you shut the fuck up,” I muttered under my breath, but I smiled anyway.

Rent wasn’t going to pay itself.

“What was that?”

“I said, ‘Would you like another glass?’” I chirped.

By midnight my feet hurt, my fake smile hurt, and I was one inappropriate comment away from smacking someone across their ridiculous rich face.

I went back to the kitchen where Ava was filling the glasses with champagne.

“If one more person tells me to smile, I’m going to lose it,” I said.

“Mr Bennet just asked me if I was ‘one of the good ones,’” Ava said. “Rich people are the worst.”

“Tell me about it.”

“The only thing that keeps me going is thinking about the tips,” she said. “These people throw money around like it’s confetti.”

“If they tip at all. Remember the Goldman wedding?”

“Don’t remind me. Eight hours of service and the mother of the bride tipped us with ‘exposure.’”

I snorted, adjusting my tray.

“I’ll be sure to pay my landlord with exposure. I’m sure he’ll love that.”

I took a new tray and headed back out.

Back in the main ballroom, the party had hit that sweet spot where the alcohol had loosened inhibitions but hadn’t yet resulted in anyone dancing on tables.

That’s when I saw Ethan again.

His dark hair was still artfully messed up, and the way his suit jacket stretched across his shoulders should’ve been illegal in at least forty-eight states.

He was sitting with his friends near the bar.

While everyone else wore fancy suits, his friends looked like they’d just rolled out of bed.

One was actually wearing pajama pants.

Ethan saw me and raised his empty glass, signaling he wanted a refill.

Great.

I walked over with my tray.

“Can I get you anything?” I asked with my fake work smile.

“Look who it is,” Ethan said, grinning. “The girl who tried to give me a strip show earlier. Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

I felt my jaw drop.

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t be shy,” he said to his friends. “She walked into my room and started taking her clothes off.”

“That’s not what happened! I was changing for work!”

“So you were blushing because you work?”

He looked at my tight uniform.

“Seeing how you kept walking past me in that uniform, you seemed pretty interested.”

His friends laughed.

My hands shook with anger.

“Trust me. If I was interested, you’d know.”

Something dangerous flickered across his face for half a second.

“Ooh,” one of his friends said. “She’s feisty.”

“Feisty,” Ethan repeated. “I like feisty.”

I took a deep breath.

Professional, Mia.

Professional.

I reached for his drink calmly.

“Can I refill your glass?”

“Depends,” he said lazily. “How much for a private dance? I’m sure we could work out a… generous tip.”

That’s when he did it.

As I turned to leave, his hand connected with my ass in a smack that echoed through my entire body.

His friends howled.

Something in me snapped.

I grabbed a glass of champagne from the table and threw it right in his face.

The room went silent.

Then one of them started clapping.

Another one choked laughing.

“Oh my fucking God!”

Ethan sat there soaked, blinking slowly.

“Holy shit!” another one laughed.

“Dude, you just got owned by a waitress!”

They were laughing, taking videos with their phones.

I didn’t wait to see what happened next.

I walked away as fast as I could.

Diane intercepted me before I could make it to the kitchen.

“Do you have any idea what you just did?” she asked, pinching the bridge of her nose like she was trying to ward off a migraine.

“Defended myself against sexual harassment?”

“You threw a drink in Sandra Vance’s son’s face. At her own charity gala. In front of half of Boston’s elite.”

“He slapped my ass!”

“And if he presses charges for assault, that won’t matter. These people have lawyers that eat girls like you for breakfast.”

The reality of what I’d done started sinking in.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

“Look,” Diane sighed, “I get it. Ethan Cross is a notorious asshole. But he’s a rich, connected asshole whose mother signs our paychecks. You’re lucky if all that happens is you losing this job.”

“So I’m fired?”

“I should fire you.”

She rubbed her temples.

“But I’m understaffed as it is, and you’re one of the few people who actually shows up on time. Usually.”

“So…?”

“So get out of here before Mrs. Vance sees you and decides to make your life a legal nightmare. And pray to whatever god you believe in that this doesn’t come back to bite you in the ass.”

I didn’t need to be told twice.

I changed back into my street clothes, handed over the cursed uniform, and got the hell out of there.

When I got home, both my roommates were asleep.

I fell into bed without even changing.

My phone buzzed with a text from Marcus.

“You’re a legend. Also probably fired. But still a legend.”

I turned my phone over and pulled a pillow over my head.

“MIA! WAKE UP!”

Someone shook me violently the next morning.

“Mia!”

I groaned.

“Go away.”

“Mia, wake the hell up!”

I cracked one eye open to see my other roommate Sophie standing over me with wild eyes and her phone shoved in my face.

“What?”

“You’ve gone viral.”