page six | anton frondell x journalist!reader
☆ summary: y/n is an intern reporter for the chicago tribune. when a rumor pops up regarding new blackhawks rookie anton frondell's love life, she’s determined to get to the bottom of it. but she accidentally becomes a part of it.
☆ pairing: anton frondell x reader
☆ content: fake dating, forbidden romance
☆ word count: 4.8k
☆ listen to this for the best experience
The email arrived at 6:47 AM, which meant Y/N L/N had exactly thirteen minutes to shower, dress, and catch the Red Line before her editor decided she wasn't serious about journalism after all.
SUBJECT: FRONDELL STORY - NEED TODAY
Y/N
Rumor circulating that our new Swedish golden boy has a girlfriend. TMZ's sniffing around. Need you at morning skate, 9 AM, United Center. Get a quote, get a denial, get SOMETHING. Don't come back empty-handed.
Rivera
Y/N read it twice while her coffee machine gurgled to life, trying to determine if this was a test or a punishment. Probably both. In the three months since she'd started at the Tribune, she'd written exactly four bylines: a puff piece about a hot dog vendor with a philosophy degree, a recap of a city council meeting that put her own mother to sleep, a correction to someone else's correction, and a 200-word brief about parking meter rates that had been edited down to sixty words and buried on page 12.
Now this. Anton Frondell.
She knew the basics because everyone in Chicago knew the basics. Swedish prodigy. Third overall pick. Eighteen years old and already making highlight reels that went viral on TikTok. The kind of rookie who made the Blackhawks' dismal rebuild feel almost optimistic.
And apparently, a secret girlfriend.
Y/N grabbed her press credentials, her phone, and the notebook she'd bought specifically because it made her feel like a real journalist, the kind who asked hard questions and uncovered truths, not the kind who got sent to ask a teenager about his dating life.
The United Center at 8:52 AM was full of empty seats and the sharp scrape of skates on fresh ice. Y/N flashed her credentials at security, who barely glanced at them, and followed the sound of Swedish-accented English echoing from the rink.
There he was. Number 16. Even from the press entrance, Anton Frondell moved differently than the other players. Faster, smoother, like the ice was his first language.
The morning skate was optional, but he was here anyway, stick-handling through a maze of orange cones with the focus of someone who'd been doing this since he could walk. A few other early arrivals dotted the ice.
Y/N pulled out her phone and pretended to check something important while she worked up the nerve to approach. This was her job. She was a reporter. She asked questions. That's what reporters did.
Don't come back empty-handed.
She made her way down toward the bench, where the team's media relations coordinator, a tired-looking woman named Beth who'd given Y/N exactly two pieces of advice on her first day ("Don't piss off the coaches" and "Don't sleep with the players"), was reviewing something on her iPad.
"Y/N L/N, Tribune," Y/N said, like Beth didn't already know. "I need a few minutes with Frondell."
Beth looked up with the expression of someone who'd already had this conversation three times this morning. "You and everyone else. What's the angle?"
"Personal interest piece. The rookie experience, adjusting to Chicago, that kind of thing."
Beth's eyebrow arched. "Try again."
Y/N felt heat creep up her neck. "There's a rumor about a girlfriend. My editor wants confirmation or denial."
"Of course he does." Beth sighed and glanced at the ice, where Anton had just executed a shot that pinged off the crossbar with the precision of a sniper. "Five minutes. After practice. And Y/N? He's eighteen and ten thousand miles from home. Be nice."
"I'm always nice."
"You're a reporter. Nobody's ever nice."
Practice wrapped at 9:47. Y/N stationed herself outside the locker room, notebook ready, trying to channel the energy of the journalists she admired, the ones who'd broken Watergate and exposed corruption and changed the world.
She was about to ask a hockey player if he had a girlfriend.
Anton emerged at 9:53, hair wet from the shower, wearing a Blackhawks hoodie and the slightly dazed expression of someone still adjusting to morning commitments. He had his phone in one hand and a protein shake in the other.
"Anton! Y/N L/N, Chicago Tribune. Could I ask you a few questions?"
He stopped, and for a second, she saw him do the mental calculation every athlete did when approached by media: Is this mandatory? Can I escape? How much trouble will I get in if I say no?
"Uh, yeah. Okay. Sure. Is short? I have, um…" He gestured vaguely toward somewhere that probably involved ice baths or video review or whatever rookies did at 10 AM on a Tuesday.
"Very short. I promise." Y/N clicked her pen. Professional. She was a professional. "How are you adjusting to Chicago? Big change from Sweden."
He smiled, and she understood immediately why TMZ was interested. "Is good. Cold like home. People are... very friendly? They ask many questions."
"Speaking of questions, there's been some speculation about your personal life. Social media chatter. Can you comment on whether you're currently in a relationship?"
The smile faltered. Just for a second, but Y/N caught it. She'd hit something.
"Is private," he said carefully. "I don't talk about this."
Which wasn't a denial.
"So there is someone?"
"I don't…" He ran a hand through his wet hair. "Why does everyone care about this? I just want to play hockey."
"Because you're Anton Frondell," Y/N said, and then immediately regretted the honesty. "People are interested in your life. It comes with the territory."
"In Sweden, we have privacy."
"You're not in Sweden anymore."
It came out sharper than she'd intended. Anton's jaw tightened, and for a moment they just stood there in the hallway outside the locker room. An eighteen-year-old rookie and an eighteen-year-old intern, both trying to figure out how they'd ended up in this particular circle of hell.
"I have to go," Anton said finally.
"Wait, just one more!"
But he was already walking away, and Y/N was left with a half-empty notebook and the sinking feeling that she'd just failed her first real assignment.
She was halfway to the parking lot when her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number
you're the reporter from tribune?
Y/N
Yes. Who is this?
Unknown Number
this is anton. beth give me your number. i was rude. sorry.
Y/N
You weren't rude. I ambushed you.
Anton Frondell 🏒
is your job
i can answer some questions. but not about that
Y/N
Deal. Coffee sometime?
Anton Frondell 🏒
okay. but you buy. i am poor rookie 😊
Y/N
Pretty sure you have a $3 million contract
Anton Frondell 🏒
after taxes is maybe $4
very poor
She was still smiling when she got back to the office, where Rivera was waiting with his arms crossed and an expression that suggested he already knew she didn't have the story.
"Well?"
"He wouldn't confirm or deny. But I have a follow-up meeting scheduled."
Rivera studied her for a long moment. "You're smiling."
"Am I?"
"Don't get attached, L/N. You're a reporter, not a fan."
"I know that."
"Do you?"
Y/N thought about the way Anton's smile had faltered, the careful way he'd said is private, the emoji in his text message.
"Yes," she lied. "I know that."
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
The coffee shop Anton chose was a Starbucks on West Madison, far enough from the United Center that no one would connect the dots, generic enough that an eighteen-year-old pro athlete could blend in with the grad students and office workers on their lunch breaks.
Y/N arrived fifteen minutes early because that's what serious journalists did, and also because she'd changed her outfit three times that morning before settling on jeans and a blazer that said professional without screaming I'm trying too hard.
This was work. An interview. Nothing more.
She ordered a black coffee and camped out at a corner table with her notebook, reviewing the questions she'd prepared the night before. Safe questions. The kind that wouldn't make him shut down again.
How are you adjusting to the NHL pace?
What's been the biggest challenge so far?
Do you miss Sweden?
Who's the mystery girlfriend and why won't you tell me about her?
She crossed out that last one.
Anton arrived at 2:04 PM, wearing a beanie pulled low and sunglasses that seemed optimistic given Chicago's November gloom. He ordered a latte, then slid into the seat across from Y/N.
"Is good disguise, yes?" He pushed the sunglasses up onto his head, looking pleased with himself.
"Very subtle. No one would ever guess you're a professional athlete."
"This is sarcasm."
"This is sarcasm," Y/N confirmed.
He grinned and took a sip of his latte, made a face, then took another sip anyway. "Okay. So. Questions. But not about-"
"Not about your personal life. I know." Y/N clicked her pen. "Let's start easy. How are you adjusting to Chicago?"
"You ask this already."
"And you gave me a terrible answer. 'Very friendly'? Come on. Give me something real."
Anton considered this, wrapping both hands around his cup. His fingers were long, taped at the knuckles. "Okay. Real answer? Is... loud. Sweden is quiet. Here, everyone talks all the time. In the locker room, on the street, in restaurants. Americans don't like silence."
Y/N wrote that down. "Is that good or bad?"
"Is different. Sometimes good. Sometimes I want to..." He mimed putting headphones on. "Just quiet, you know?"
"What about the hockey? The NHL versus Sweden?"
"Faster. More physical. In Sweden, we have more space, more time to think. Here, you think and you're already hit." He laughed. "I get hit at first."
They talked for twenty minutes, easy and unguarded, about practice routines and the weight of expectations and the specific kind of homesickness that came from being eighteen and alone in a country where you still sometimes forgot words in English. Anton was funny, self-deprecating in a way.
Y/N almost forgot she was supposed to be working.
"This is good," Anton said finally, checking his phone. "You write this and everyone is happy, yes? I am good interview."
"You're an okay interview."
"Very good interview. I give you gold." He was smiling again, that easy confidence that probably came from being very good at something since you were five years old.
Y/N should have left it there. Should have thanked him, gone back to the office, written her 800 words about the rookie experience. Should have been professional.
Instead, she said, "Can I ask you something off the record?"
The smile flickered. "Off the record means you don't write it?"
"It means it's just between us."
Anton leaned back in his chair, studying her. "Okay."
"The girlfriend thing. You don't have to tell me who she is. But... is there someone? Because the way you reacted yesterday-"
"Why do you care?" He didn't sound angry, just curious.
"Because my editor cares. Because TMZ cares. Because apparently everyone in Chicago cares who an eighteen-year-old hockey player is dating."
"But why do you care?"
It was a fair question. Y/N set down her pen.
"I don't know," she admitted. "Maybe because you looked so miserable when I asked. Like I was invading something that mattered."
Anton was quiet for a long moment, turning his cup in his hands. Outside, the November afternoon was already dimming toward evening. Someone's phone rang. The espresso machine hissed.
"There is no girlfriend," he said finally.
"Okay."
"But there is... someone. Was someone. In Sweden. We broke up before I came here. Long distance is…" He made a gesture that encompassed the entire impossible distance between Chicago and Sweden. "But people saw pictures. Old pictures. And now everyone thinks..."
"That you're secretly dating someone."
"Yes. And she texts me yesterday. Says people are sending her messages, calling her puck bunny, saying terrible things. Because of a rumor that isn't even true anymore." He looked up at Y/N. "So when you ask me about girlfriend, I think about her getting these messages. And I don't want to make it worse."
Y/N felt something shift in her chest. Guilt, maybe. Recognition. "I'm sorry."
"Is not your fault. You are just doing your job."
"That doesn't make it better."
"No," Anton agreed. "But is true."
They sat there in the cooling silence of the coffee shop, the moment stretching between them like something fragile.
"I won't write about this," Y/N said. "The girlfriend thing. I'll tell my editor you denied it, which is technically true. I'll write about the adjustment, the hockey, the real stuff. Okay?"
"You will get in trouble."
"Probably. But I'll survive."
Anton studied her for a long moment, and Y/N had the strange sensation of being evaluated, not as a reporter, but as a person. As someone who'd just chosen something other than the story.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet. I still need to convince Rivera this is worth running without the gossip angle."
"Rivera is your boss?"
"Rivera is the reason I drink too much coffee and have stress dreams about typos."
Anton laughed. "In Sweden, we would say he is horunge."
"I'm going to assume that's something I can't print."
"Very much cannot print."
Y/N's phone buzzed. A text from Rivera: Where's my story, L/N?
"I should go," she said, gathering her notebook. "Write this up before my editor decides I'm unemployable."
"Okay." Anton stood too, pulling his beanie back down. "This was nice. Better than yesterday."
"Low bar."
"Very low bar. But still." He hesitated, then pulled out his phone. "Maybe we can... I don't have many friends here. In Chicago. Everyone is older, or they want something. But you, you seem normal."
"I ambushed you outside a locker room."
"Yes, but for work. Is different."
She looked up at him, this eighteen-year-old kid who was somehow both a professional athlete and just a lonely teenager in a new city, and made a decision that she'd probably regret.
"Okay," she said. "Friends."
"Friends," Anton agreed, and his smile was the real one this time, not the media-trained version. "But you still buy next coffee. I am very poor."
"You're impossible."
"This also," he said cheerfully, and headed for the door.
Y/N watched him go, then looked down at her notebook. She had enough for a story. A good story, even. Human interest, the rookie experience, the kind of feature piece that might actually get her noticed for the right reasons.
She did not have the story Rivera wanted.
Anton Frondell 🏒
forgot to say - you are good reporter. even when you ask terrible questions 😊
Y/N
You're a terrible interview. Even when you try.
Anton Frondell 🏒
see you tomorrow?
Y/N
I don't have any more assignments involving you
Anton Frondell 🏒
good. then not for work
just friends getting coffee
Y/N
Tomorrow. 2 PM. Same place.
Anton Frondell 🏒
is a date
Y/N
It's NOT a date
Anton Frondell 🏒
okay okay
is a friend meeting
that you asked me to 😊
Y/N
I DIDN'T ask you, YOU asked ME
Anton Frondell 🏒
my english is bad maybe i misunderstood
see you tomorrow Y/N L/N from chicago tribune
(not for article)
Y/N was still smiling when she walked into the Tribune offices twenty minutes later, where Rivera was waiting with his arms crossed and an expression that suggested he already knew this was going to be a problem.
"Tell me you have something."
"I have something," Y/N said.
"Tell me it's not a puff piece about how hard it is to be a rich, handsome professional athlete."
"It's a nuanced exploration of the immigrant experience in professional sports."
"L/N."
"It's good, Rivera. I promise. Just not what you asked for."
He sighed the sigh of a man who'd been in journalism too long to be surprised by anything. "Send it to me by six. And Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time I send you for gossip, bring me back gossip. Not friends."
Y/N's stomach dropped. "I don't know what-"
"You're smiling at your phone. You smiled at your phone yesterday too. I've been doing this job for twenty years. I know what smiling at your phone means."
"It's not, we're not-"
"I don't care what you are. I care about the story. Don't let him become a bigger story than the one you're writing." Rivera turned back to his computer. "Six o'clock, L/N. Don't be late."
Y/N made it to her desk, opened her laptop, and stared at the blank document for a full minute before her phone buzzed one more time.
Anton Frondell 🏒
also i lied
you buy coffee but i buy the cookies
is only fair
Y/N
Deal.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
FINDING HOME: BLACKHAWKS ROOKIE ANTON FRONDELL NAVIGATES NHL DEBUT
By Y/N L/N
It was good. Not great, but good. Rivera ran it on page 8 of the sports section with a photo of Anton mid-slapshot, all focused intensity and athletic grace. Y/N read it seventeen times online before noon, mentally editing sentences that were already in print.
The comments section was not kind.
This is what passes for journalism now? Where's the actual story?
Everyone knows he has a girlfriend. Why didn't the Tribune cover that?
TMZ says she's a Swedish model. Daily Mail says she's a Chicago influencer. This article says NOTHING.
Waste of space. Give us the gossip or don't bother.
Y/N closed her laptop and tried not to feel like a failure.
Her phone buzzed. Anton.
Anton Frondell 🏒
i read your article
you make me sound very smart and thoughtful
Y/N
I quoted you directly
Anton Frondell 🏒
yes that is my point
in real life i am not so smart
Y/N
I'm starting to realize that
Anton Frondell 🏒 see you at 2?
She should say no. She'd written the article. The assignment was over. There was no professional reason to keep meeting him for coffee.
Y/N
See you at 2
Professionalism was overrated anyway.
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
Rivera called her into his office at 1:15.
"Sit."
Y/N sat.
He had her article pulled up on one monitor, the comments section on the other. "You saw these?"
"Hard to miss."
"TMZ posted this morning." He turned his third monitor toward her. The headline screamed: BLACKHAWKS ROOKIE ANTON FRONDELL SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY BRUNETTE. NEW ROMANCE?
Below it, a grainy photo. Anton in his beanie and sunglasses. And Y/N, mid-laugh, her hand wrapped around a coffee cup.
From yesterday.
From the Starbucks.
Her stomach dropped to somewhere around her knees.
"That's…"
"You." Rivera leaned back in his chair. "That's you, having coffee with the subject of your article. Want to tell me what I'm looking at, L/N?"
"It was an interview. A follow-up. I was-"
"You were smiling at him like he's your prom date, not your source." Rivera rubbed his temples. "Please tell me you're not sleeping with him."
"Jesus, no! We're-" Y/N felt heat flood her face. "We're friends. That's it. He's new in the city, he doesn't know anyone, we just…"
"You just became the story." Rivera turned his monitor back. "Look at the comments on TMZ."
Who is she???
She's pretty! Good for Anton
Definitely not a model lol
Someone find her Instagram
They're cute together
Y/N felt like she might throw up.
"This is a problem," Rivera said. Not unkindly, but firmly. "You understand that, right? You're not just a reporter anymore. You're the mystery brunette. You're the story."
"I didn't, we weren't, it was just coffee."
"It's never just coffee. Not when he's an NHLer and you're the reporter assigned to cover him." Rivera sighed. "I'm pulling you off anything Blackhawks-related. No more articles, no more interviews, no more coffee dates that aren't coffee dates."
"That's not fair."
"Fair?" Rivera's laugh was sharp. "You want to talk about fair? Every other reporter in this city is wondering why the intern got access to the rookie everyone wants to interview. Now they know, or they think they know. And what they think is that you're trading on a relationship to get stories."
"That's not what happened!"
"Doesn't matter what happened. Matters what it looks like." He softened slightly. "Look, L/N. You're a good writer. You have instincts. But this?" He gestured at the TMZ article. "This is how promising careers end before they start. So I'm doing you a favor. Stay away from Frondell. Stay away from this story. Let it die."
Y/N stood on shaky legs. "Can I go?"
"One more thing." Rivera's voice stopped her at the door. "If you actually care about him, and I think maybe you do, you'll think about what this does to him too. Every interview, every question, every reporter asking about the mysterious girlfriend. Is that what you want for your friend?"
It wasn't.
When Y/N checked her phone in the bathroom, she had forty-three new Instagram followers, twelve DMs from accounts she didn't recognize, and a text from her roommate.
Lyla
UM ARE YOU DATING ANTON FRONDELL???
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL ME
TMZ IS SAYING YOU'RE DATING
Y/N ANSWER YOUR PHONE
And one from Anton.
Anton Frondell 🏒
did you see tmz
Y/N
Yeah
Anton Frondell 🏒
i'm sorry
i should have been more careful
do you still want to meet? i understand if not
. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁.
The Starbucks was more crowded at 2 PM than it had been yesterday. Y/N spotted Anton immediately. He'd claimed the same corner table, but this time he was hunched over his phone, beanie pulled low, looking miserable.
He saw her and his whole face changed. Relief, maybe. Or guilt.
"Hi," Y/N said, sliding into the seat across from him.
"Hi." Anton set down his phone. "I am very sorry."
"You already said that."
"Yes, but now I say it with eye contact. Is more meaningful." He attempted a smile. It didn't quite land. "My agent called. And my coach. And Bedsy, who thinks this is very funny. Everyone wants to know about my secret girlfriend."
"What did you tell them?"
"That she is imaginary. That I make her up for attention." He ran a hand through his hair. "They don't believe me."
"My editor doesn't believe me either."
"What do we do?"
It was the "we" that did it. That made something click into place in Y/N's mind. An idea that was either brilliant or catastrophically stupid.
Probably stupid.
Definitely stupid.
"What if..." Y/N leaned forward. "What if we gave them what they want?"
Anton blinked. "What they want is a girlfriend."
"Right."
"But I don't have a girlfriend."
"No," Y/N said slowly. "But you could."
Understanding dawned on Anton's face, followed immediately by confusion. "You want me to get a girlfriend? Now? This seems like bad timing."
"No.” Y/N took a breath. "What if I was your girlfriend?"
Silence.
Anton stared at her.
"Not your real girlfriend," Y/N clarified quickly. "But... what if we let people think I am? Then the story goes away. 'Blackhawks Rookie Has Normal Girlfriend, Everyone Can Stop Speculating Now.' You get privacy. I get access."
"Access?"
"An exclusive. The real inside story of Anton Frondell's rookie season. Not the sanitized interview version, the actual truth. Practice struggles, team dynamics, homesickness, all of it. You give me that, I help you make this whole girlfriend circus go away."
Anton was still staring at her. "You want to pretend to be my girlfriend... so you can write about me?"
"So I can write the best story anyone's written about you. The one that actually matters." Y/N could feel herself leaning into it now, the idea taking shape. "Think about it. Right now, every reporter in Chicago wants a piece of this story. But if I'm your girlfriend, I'm not a reporter anymore. I'm just off limits. The story dies. And then later, when the season's over, when you've had time to actually live your rookie year without everyone watching, I write it. The real thing."
"This is crazy."
"Probably."
"You could lose your job."
"I'm an intern. I barely have a job. Look, my editor already pulled me off Blackhawks coverage. Says I'm too close to the story. So I'm already out. But this way, at least I get something out of it. And you get people to stop asking about your love life every five seconds."
Anton leaned back in his chair, processing. "How would this work?"
"We... see each other. Publicly. Coffee dates, maybe you come to one of my classes, I come to a game. We post something on Instagram, nothing obvious, just enough that people can connect the dots. Let the rumor confirm itself."
"And then?"
"And then everyone stops caring. We're just a normal couple. Boring. Not worth writing about."
"And you write your story."
"With your full cooperation." Y/N met his eyes. "This could be good for both of us, Anton. You get your privacy. I get my career."
He was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming against his coffee cup. Outside, April rain had started to fall, streaking the windows.
"My English is good, yes?" Anton said finally.
"Your English is perfect."
"Good. So you understand when I say: this is the most American idea I have ever heard."
Y/N felt her stomach sink. "So that's a no."
"No," Anton said. "That is a yes."
"Wait, what?"
He smiled, and this time it reached his eyes. He held out his hand across the table. "Okay, Y/N L/N from Chicago Tribune. You want to be my fake girlfriend and write about me? I say yes. But we have rules."
Y/N shook his hand. His grip was warm, callused from hockey sticks and weight training. "Rules?"
"Rule one: no lies to each other. Only to everyone else."
"Agreed."
"Rule two: when you write the story, I read it first. I can say no to things that are too private."
"That's not how journalism works."
"That is how this journalism works." Anton's expression was firm. "You want my cooperation, you give me approval."
Y/N hesitated. Rivera would kill her. But Rivera had already pulled her from the story.
"Final approval on personal stuff," she conceded. "Not on hockey analysis."
"Deal. Rule three: when this ends, we end it like adults. No drama. We say we grew apart, we want different things, whatever people say. Clean break."
"When does it end?"
"Don’t know."
"Okay," she said. "One more rule. Rule four: no one can know this is fake. Not your teammates, not my roommate. No one."
"No one," Anton agreed. "Is secret."
"Is secret," Y/N echoed.
They sat there, hands still clasped across the table, and Y/N had the distinct feeling she'd just made a deal with consequences she couldn't quite imagine yet.
"So," Anton said, not letting go. "What do we do first? Do I bring you flowers? Take you to dinner? I have never had fake girlfriend before."
"Neither have I." Y/N pulled out her phone. "First, we make it Instagram official. Or Instagram suspicious, at least."
"You want me to post you?"
"I want you to post your coffee. I'll be in the background. Blurry. Just enough to be recognizable."
Anton pulled out his phone too. "You are very good at this scheming."
"I'm a journalist. Scheming is what we do."
"This explains much about journalism." He angled his phone, framing his latte. "Okay, you lean in a little. Like we are talking."
Y/N leaned in. Close enough to be in frame. Close enough to smell his cologne.
"Smile," Anton said. "You look like you are at a funeral."
"I might be. The funeral of my career."
"Very dramatic. I like this." He snapped the photo, reviewed it, nodded. "Perfect. You are recognizable but not obvious. Like mystery."
He typed a caption in Swedish, showed it to Y/N. "What does that say?"
"'Chicago coffee is better with good company.'" He hit post. "There. Now we wait for the chaos."
The chaos took exactly four minutes.
Anton's phone lit up like a Christmas tree. Comments flooding in. Y/N leaned over to read them, Swedish, English, Finnish, German, all variations on the same theme:
Who is she???
IS THAT THE REPORTER
Anton has a girlfriend confirmed!!!
She's in the background again!
They're definitely together
Y/N's phone was buzzing too. Instagram notifications. Lyla calling. An email from Rivera with the subject line: WE NEED TO TALK.
"It's working," Anton said, looking slightly awed.
"It's working," Y/N agreed, feeling slightly sick.
They looked at each other across the table, two eighteen-year-olds who'd just convinced thousands of strangers they were in love, and Y/N thought: This is either the best idea I've ever had or the worst.
"So," Anton said, grinning now. "My fake girlfriend. What do we do now?"
Y/N looked at her phone, thirty-seven new notifications and counting, and made a decision.
"Now?" She stood up, holding out her hand. "Now you're going to walk me to the train. And you're going to hold my hand. Because if we're doing this, we're doing it right."
Anton took her hand, lacing their fingers together. His palm was warm against hers.
"Stöka till ordentligt," he said.
"What?"
"Mess up properly." He pulled her toward the door. "Come on, fake girlfriend. Let's give them something to talk about."
They stepped out into the November rain, hands clasped, and somewhere in the city, Y/N's career was either beginning or ending.
She honestly wasn't sure which.
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