Page 10

HARPER

I blink. Once. Twice. My eyes meet ocean blue-green eyes that seem like they're drowning. "What?" I say, letting out a short incredulous laugh without thinking.

But she just stares at me, eyes huge and miserable, curled fists knotted tight in the sleeves of her hoodie.

Oh my god.

Oh my god, she's not joking.

The laughter dies sharp in my throat. I sit up straighter, blinking fast like that's gonna somehow clear the words she just said from the air. "You— I'm sorry, what?"

Millie groans, burying her face in her hands. "I panicked, okay?" she mumbles through her fingers, sounding absolutely tortured.

I stare at her, dumbfounded for another solid three seconds, before the absurdity of it bubbles up again and I can't help myself— I burst out laughing.

It's loud and bright and almost a little hysterical, and it makes her peek at me between her fingers with this wounded look, like she can't decide whether to punch me or cry.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I gasp, trying to wave it off and catch my breath. "But seriously, Millie—go un-panic it! Go be like, 'lol, my bad, wrong Harper!' or—or 'I actually have a secret Canadian girlfriend' or something."

I can't stop giggling and she looks like she might actually murder me. "I can't," she hisses, dropping her hands to her lap, glaring at me with the full force of her blue eyes.

"What do you mean you can't?" I laugh again.

"I mean— I can't exactly tell them I lie, Harper. They want me to fake date a guy! Do you know what that will say of me? There are kids looking up to me. And— God, I know this isn't your business but I... I don't know I just said the first thing that came to my mind."

"Aw," I say, tilting my head. "I'm the first thing that pops into your mind? That's kinda flattering, not gonna lie."

Millie groans, rolling her eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't fall out of her skull, but her cheeks flush a soft pink, betraying her.

"Shut up," she mumbles, scrubbing a hand over her face again "I know it's insane," she says, voice cracking. "And you don't have to do anything. I'll tell them I made a mistake. I'll figure it out. I just—"

She cuts herself off, scrubbing a hand over her face again. I don't know Millie Bennett. Not really. I know what Audrey's told me—little things.

I know the soundbites the media loves to chew up. I know the picture-perfect snapshots of her grinning with gold medals, pointing at trophies, fists raised in victory.

But none of those versions are the girl sitting in front of me now.

This girl? This girl looks so exhausted.

Amelia Bennett on TV is nothing like the girl I have in front of me.

This Millie is smaller, fragile in ways I don't think she knows how to show.

She's breaking apart under all the pressure and pretending she isn't, and it hits me so hard I actually have to swallow down the lump rising in my throat.

She's human in a way the world never lets her be. She's good in a way the world doesn't bother to see.

The girl who breaks jaws on the ice with a smile—is sitting there looking smaller than I've ever seen her. Like the world's been chewing her up piece by piece. And I feel the need to kill that world.

She's nothing the tabloids say about her.

Jesus– she's letting me stay in her apartment for free just because I lost everything.

She doesn't know me and still she bought me a bed and made space for me in her home.

I also noticed that she leaves fresh coffee for me at the mornings, she waters my flowers when I'm not home, she leaves leftovers for me if I'm working late.

Four days. Four days and I've seen more of the real Millie Bennett than the world has ever seen.

And sitting here now, watching her practically curl in on herself like she's trying to make less of a target for the world to hit, I realize something I hadn't wanted to think about until this moment—

I owe her.

Maybe not in the strict, mathematical sense.

Millie never asked for anything in return.

She just opened her door, let me stumble inside with nothing but a suitcase, a bruised pride, and a whole lot of boxes and pretended it was no big deal.

Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

But it is a big deal.

It's a huge deal. Because I'm drowning too.

I'm sitting here like an idiot, still trying to catch my breath, while she's unraveling right in front of me.

She didn't have to make space for me.

She didn't have to buy a bed for a girl she barely knew, or leave me fresh coffee every morning like some quiet, unspoken promise that I wasn't alone.

She didn't have to notice that my flowers were dying and water them while I was too exhausted or too sad to remember.

But she did. All of it. Without asking for anything back.

And I think—I think that's why my heart is hammering in my chest right now.

Not from panic. But from the sharp, sudden, overwhelming clarity that I want to be someone she can lean on too.

I want to do this for her. Even if it's insane.

Even if it's complicated. Even if it ends up being a complete disaster.

I want her to know that someone sees her, the real her—the one behind the headlines and the soundbites and the bruised knuckles and cocky grins—and doesn't want anything but to stand in her corner.

Maybe it's stupid. Maybe it's reckless. But in this moment, it doesn't feel like either of those things.

She's still waiting, I realize. Still holding her breath like she's bracing for a hit. And the idea that I could be that hit? That I could make her smaller than she already feels?

I can't stand it.

I lean forward a little, dropping my elbows onto my knees, forcing her to look at me and I offer the softest, stupidest smile I can manage.

"You know," I say, my voice rough but steady, "for someone who supposedly panicked, you picked a pretty good fake girlfriend.

"

Millie blinks, startled. Her head jerks up, her mouth parting like she's not sure she heard me right.

"I mean," I continue, forcing a little humor into my tone to break up the thickness of the air between us, "I'm really hot, Bennett. You're welcome."

It's a weak joke. The kind of joke that would probably get me booed off a stage.

But it does something—because for the briefest second, Millie huffs out a breathless sound that's almost a laugh. Her eyes, still glassy with unshed tears, crinkle just a little at the corners. And God, if that's not the best thing I've seen all week.

I shift a little closer, careful not to spook her, and nudge her knee with mine.

"You took me in when you didn't have to," I say, quieter now.

"You let me stay. You made room and a fucking bed, Millie.

"

She opens her mouth, probably to argue, but I cut her off with a look.

"And I know you didn't do any of it to get something out of me.

I know that. But you did it anyway. And if fake dating me is what you need right now. .."

For a second, Millie just stares at me like she doesn't believe it. Then she drags her hands through her hair, messing up the already chaotic waves, and lets out a groan that sounds like it's been building inside her for years.

"This is insane," she mutters, squeezing her eyes shut like maybe if she blinks hard enough, the whole night will reset. "This is—God, this isn't me. I hate the world."

I snort, because honestly, same. "You and me both," I say, wrinkling my nose. "I mean, I was just trying to come home from work like a normal person. And now I'm apparently in a committed relationship. Wild night, honestly."

I wiggle my eyebrows at her, grinning wide, and it earns me this tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth, like she's fighting the smile with everything she has.

Her cheeks pinken—adorably, unfairly—and she shakes her head with a groan that's almost a laugh.

"I'm really sorry," she says, all in a rush, like she's trying to get the words out before she loses her nerve.

"You don't have to do this. I'm sorry—I'm dragging you into my mess, and it's not even your fight, and I—"

"Millie," I interrupt, softer now. I want to reach out, want to put my hand over hers, want to do something, anything, to ground her, but I make myself stay still.

"You're not dragging me anywhere I don't want to be," I say, voice low, sure, even if my hands are a little unsteady in my lap.

"It's okay. You can trust me."

Her eyes snap to mine at that—blue, so impossibly blue, like they're seeing straight through every defense I ever thought I had.

"I mean," I add quickly, smiling again, teasing a little to keep the mood from sinking too deep, "my life's kind of a disaster too right now.

Honestly, this might be the most stable relationship I've got. "

A breath of a laugh escapes her, barely there but there, and it feels like winning some impossible battle I didn't even realize I was fighting.

"This'll be fun," I say, nudging her foot lightly with mine.

"A distraction. And look—I know how your world works, right?

I'm surrounded by NHL boys, I'm a photographer. I know how this works."

Millie makes a noise of protest, her mouth twitching dangerously close to a real smile.

"I'm the perfect person for this job," I say, grinning shamelessly. "Just tell me what you need, and I'll do it."

She stares at me, really stares, and the air between us shifts. Slows down. Her walls, the ones she's held up with steel and stubbornness and probably a lifetime of people letting her down, tremble like maybe—maybe—they're thinking about lowering.

"Are you sure?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. There's so much rawness there it physically aches to hear.

I don't hesitate. Not even for a second. I nod, feeling the weight of it settle into my bones, strangely steadying. "Yeah. I'm sure."

For a heartbeat, we just sit there, caught in this fragile, impossible moment. Her knees almost touching mine. Her hands knotted in her lap. Her whole face a storm of emotions she's too tired to hide anymore.

And because apparently I don't know how to shut up, I grin and add, "I mean, really—what's the worst that could happen?"

Famous last words.

────────── ????──────────

"Hi, baby," my mom's voice floats through the speaker, thin and shaky, and just like that, the lump that's been living in my throat all night sharpens and twists until it's almost unbearable.

I blink up at the ceiling, fighting the sting behind my eyes. God, I hate how weak she sounds. I hate how far away she is. I hate that no matter what I do, no matter how much money I throw at doctors and treatments and specialists, I can't fix it.

"Hey, Mama," I say, pitching my voice warm, easy, like nothing's wrong. Like I'm still the same girl who used to crawl into her lap after ballet classes and tell her every stupid thing that happened that day. "You're up late."

She coughs—a raw, scraping sound—and I hear the effort it costs her just to breathe. "Couldn't sleep," she says, after a beat. "Wanted to hear your voice."

The words gut me. I press my palm over my eyes, sucking in a shallow breath. God, if she knew how often I needed to hear hers too.

"I'm glad you called," I manage, my voice thick but steady. "I was just...hanging out."

I don't tell her about Millie. About the absurd fake relationship I just agreed to. About the way my life keeps spinning sideways and I'm just trying to hold on. None of it matters compared to this. Compared to her.

"How was your day?" I ask instead, keeping it light, easy. "Raise hell with the nurses again?"

She laughs—a breathy little huff—but it's not the same. It's not hers. It's a ghost of the laugh I grew up with.

"Oh, you know me," she teases weakly. "Still everyone's favorite pain in the ass."

I bite down on a smile that feels like it might break me open if I let it.

My mom—Marianne Lane—is the strongest woman I know.

She raised me on her own after Dad bailed when I was eight, worked two jobs to keep a roof over our heads, built a life from absolutely nothing.

She's stubborn as hell and funny and kind in ways most people don't even bother to notice.

And now... she's fighting a battle her body can't win no matter how hard she tries.

Stage IV lung cancer. Diagnosed a year ago, and everything in my life went downhill from that moment.

I blink hard against the memories, forcing myself to stay here, stay now, with her.

"You're still my favorite pain in the ass," I tell her, my voice shaking with laughter and grief all tangled together.

There's a pause on the other end of the line, and then she says, softer, "How are you, baby?"

The question knocks the air out of me more than anything else could have. Because she's the one who's surviving, and she's still worried about me.

"I'm good," I say, voice bright and careless, even though it tastes like acid. "Work's been busy, you know. New projects. Lots of late nights."

The same old bullshit. The kind of lie you tell the people you love because the truth would crush them, because the truth is too heavy, too cruel to hand off to someone who's already carrying so much.

I don't tell her about the bed I've been crashing on.

I don't tell her about how my savings account is shrinking faster than I can fill it, bleeding out to cover every bill the insurance refuses to touch.

I don't tell her about the hours I've spent arguing with customer service reps who treat my mother's life like it's a number in a spreadsheet, like it's something optional, negotiable.

I don't tell her how I wake up sometimes with my heart hammering in my chest, convinced that one missed payment, one bad scan, one wrong move will be the end of everything.

She doesn't need that weight. She deserves better than that.

"How's the boy?" she asks after a second, her voice light and teasing, the way it always used to be when she asked about Isaiah.

I freeze, a cold, empty feeling unraveling in my gut.

Oh, God. I forgot I never told her.

How exactly do I tell her that I was cheated on?

About how I came home early from work to found him tangled up with someone else in our bed like it was nothing.

About how I lost not just him, but my whole life in Canada—the apartment we picked out together, the friends we shared, the stupid little routines that made a life—and ended up back here, starting over from scratch with nothing but my camera.

I glance around the living room, at the soft light filtering through Millie's absurdly expensive curtains, at the barely-used coffee table she shoved against the wall to make space for me.

How exactly do you tell your dying mother that her daughter is living with a near-stranger now?

How do you say that without breaking her heart?

I swallow hard, clutching the phone tighter. My voice sticks in my throat.

"He's..." I fumble, pressing my free hand over my eyes for a second like it'll help me find the words. "Things didn't work out, Mom."

Simple. Clean. A wound stitched up so fast you don't even see the blood.

She hums a little sympathetically. "His loss," she says easily, like it's obvious, like there was never any doubt who the lucky one was.

Tears sting at the backs of my eyes. I squeeze them shut.

God, I miss her. I miss her even though she's right here on the phone.

"Yeah," I rasp, forcing a shaky little laugh. "Total loss."

"Are you okay, though?"

"I am," I say and I mean it, "I'm okay. I just... I miss you."

We talk a little longer—about nothing, mostly.

About the weather in Florida—hot as hell, Harper, I'm cooking like a damn pot roast—, about the neighbor's new dog—ugly as sin but sweet as pie— about her favorite nurse, Cynthia, who smuggles in real coffee for her some mornings because the hospital sludge is so bad.

I let her talk. I laugh in the right places. I close my eyes and just listen, memorizing the sound of her voice, the rhythms of her words, like if I hold onto them hard enough, maybe they won't slip away.

Eventually, she starts to fade, her words getting slower, softer.

"You need to get some sleep," I murmur, when she yawns mid-sentence.

"Yeah," she sighs. "Just...stay on the line a little longer?"

God. My heart splinters right down the middle.

"Of course," I whisper. "I'm not going anywhere, Mom.

"

I sit there in the quiet, the phone pressed to my ear, listening to her breathe until her breathing evens out into the slow, soft rhythm of sleep.

And then I just sit there longer, phone still clutched tight in my hand, like maybe if I stay really still, the world won't take her away from me yet.

I just sit there.

Breathing.

Barely.

The apartment is too quiet around me, all this expensive stillness pressing in at the edges.

I feel so damn small.

So damn useless.

A part of me wants to curl up and cry until there's nothing left to feel. Another part of me wants to throw something, punch a wall, scream until my throat gives out.

I do neither. Instead, I sit there, frozen, staring at nothing, fighting the war inside my own chest.

And then—

"Hey." The voice is soft, careful— and somehow, a voice I recognize immediately.

I glance up and find her standing a few feet away, barefoot in a baggy hoodie and shorts, a pint of ice cream in one hand, a spoon in the other.

Her hair's a messy halo around her head like she's been running her hands through it a thousand times. Her blue eyes are wide and uncertain.

"You okay?" she asks, even though she clearly knows the answer.

I try for a smile. I really do.

But it crumples halfway up my face. Millie shifts her weight awkwardly, looking down at the ice cream like it personally offended her.

Then she steps forward, nudging the pint toward me with the handle of the spoon like a peace offering.

"Eh, Audrey told me you love ice cream and it helps cheering you up, so..." she says, cheeks turning a little pink.

This time I do smile— she talks to Audrey about me? A laugh bubbles up inside me, broken and watery, but real. God, she's ridiculous.

I reach out and take the pint, my fingers brushing hers for just a second. "Thanks," I whisper, my voice wrecked.

Millie shrugs, pretending like it's nothing even though I can see the way her jaw tenses. "Yeah, well. You looked like you needed it. Plus, if you cry, it's bad for our fake relationship PR. Makes it look like I'm a bad girlfriend."

The laugh that bursts out of me this time is bigger, fuller. It cracks something open inside me that needed breaking.

"Wouldn't want to ruin our love story," I say, voice thick with tears and something like gratitude.

Millie smiles at that—small and a little shy—and then she just... sits down next to me. Not too close. Not too far. Right there, exactly where I need her.

Millie doesn't push or crowd me; she just exists beside me, quiet and steady, and somehow it's enough to keep me breathing. And maybe that's the thing — I don't know how to be alone. I never have. Not really.

I grew up clinging to my mom like a lifeline, the two of us against the world, her fighting for every breath and me fighting to make sure she could.

I had friends, sure, a few girlfriends and boyfriends when I was younger — messy, sweet, confusing things that felt monumental at the time.

But there was always someone. Always a hand to hold, always a voice to tell me it would be okay.

Then came Isaiah. The boy with the smile that felt like gravity, the plans that made my chest ache in a good way. The one who made me believe in all the things I used to roll my eyes at — soulmates, fate, forever.

I thought I'd met my match. I thought wrong.

And God, looking back now, I can see it so clearly — the tiny cracks I ignored, the quiet ways he made me small without ever raising his voice.

The way he showed me off to his company like I was a trophy and not a person.

Talk less. Smile more. You're not using that to the event.

Don't be loud. Don't speak over my coworkers.

And so much more than I'm not ready to face yet.

I didn't deserve that. I know that now. But it doesn't make it hurt less.

I scrub a hand over my face, biting the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, willing myself not to spiral.

Because the day before he cheated — the day before he tore everything down without blinking — he told me he couldn't wait to spend the rest of his life with me. The day before, I told him I loved him.

I'm not sure which one of us lied more.

A shaky breath escapes me before I can trap it down, and beside me, Millie shifts a little, setting her ice cream aside, her knee bumping mine.

"You know," she says lightly, not looking at me, like she can sense how close to the edge I am, "we should probably, uh... figure out some rules. For this whole fake dating thing."

Her voice is soft, playful at the edges, giving me something else to think about, and I latch onto it like a lifeline.

I sniff, clearing my throat. "Yeah. Rules. That sounds... smart." My voice still sounds wrecked, but Millie pretends not to notice, and I love her for it.

"Okay," she says, voice a little teasing. "Rule number one. Try not to fall in love with me."

I bark out a laugh, startled, and some of the heaviness in the room lifts. "You're safe, Bennett," I tease, nudging her knee with mine. "You're not even my type."

"Oh, please," she scoffs, tossing her spoon into the empty carton. "I'm everyone's type."

I laugh again, and this time, it feels lighter. It's strange how easy it is with her— we barely know each other and here we are, helping each other without even meaning to. "So, um. The gala. Is that like a... big thing?"

Millie leans back against the couch, running a hand through her soft waves. "Yeah. It's a big one. Lots of cameras. Sponsors. League officials. They want me to look like the 'rehabilitated darling' or whatever."

"I'll be good," I promise quietly. "I'll hold your hand, laugh at your bad jokes, look at you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to me— you know shit couples do." I shrug, "Unless you have a very strict rule about no PDA or something."

Millie turns her head slowly to look at me, one eyebrow arching in challenge.

"No PDA?" she echoes, like I've said something offensive.

"Some people are weird about it!" I defend, laughing. "You know, personal space and whatever."

Millie makes a thoughtful noise, tapping her chin. "Hmm. Yeah, that's not gonna work."

I blink. "It's not?"

She grins — wide and a little wicked. "We gotta sell it, Harps. You think fake couples just stand six feet apart and wave at each other?"

"Harps," I repeat under my breath, feeling the nickname curl up warm inside my chest.

Millie shifts closer — just an inch, but enough that I feel her heat seeping into my side — and smirks.

"You gotta look at me like I hung the stars," she says, her voice dropping to something teasing, almost flirty.

"You gotta hold my hand like you're scared to lose me.

You gotta laugh like I'm the funniest person alive. "

I snort, rolling my eyes. "Wow, high maintenance much?"

She bumps her knee into mine again, smiling.

"You're the one who signed up for this," she points out smugly. "No backing out now."

"Fine," I say, dramatic, sighing like she's asking me to move mountains. "I'll be the doting fake girlfriend you've always dreamed of."

"I don't think I've ever dreamed of having a fake girlfriend," she chuckles, her voice low and teasing, like we're sharing some kind of secret.

Something reckless and impossible sparks in my chest, and before I can stop myself, I blurt out, "What about a real one?"

Her head tilts slightly, a frown pulling between her brows. "Huh?"

I clear my throat, instantly feeling heat crawl up the back of my neck.

God, what am I doing? "I mean— have you ever had.

.. you know. A real girlfriend? Or anything?

"

I try to sound casual, but it comes out awkward and a little breathless, like I'm some teenager asking out her first crush behind the bleachers.

Her brows lift in amusement, another slow, lazy smirk spreading across her lips — and my traitorous eyes drop to her mouth before I can stop them. Just a glance.

Just enough to catch the way she licks her lips, the tiniest flicker of movement that somehow feels like a punch to the gut.

"I've had a few here and there," she says, shrugging like it's no big deal, like she doesn't realize the way her voice curls around the words, warm and teasing. "Nothing serious. They didn't even meet my moms."

There's something in the way she says it — a softness, maybe, or a little regret — that makes my chest ache. Because for someone like Millie, family seems sacred.

And if she didn't introduce them... it must not have meant much.

"Oh," I say, feeling awkward and weirdly sad, even though it's none of my business. "Like... was it casual?"

"You could say that." She shrugs again.

I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve, not sure why my heart's beating faster. "What about you?" she asks, nudging me gently with her knee. "Have you always been with... what's-his-name?"

I roll my eyes, groaning. "Isaiah. And no. I mean—" I fumble for words. "We were together for six years. I moved here for him."

Millie whistles low under her breath. "Six years and you weren't even engaged yet?"

"We were getting there. He had the ring.

I was waiting for him to be ready for the next step.

"

I look down at my hands because this is humiliating.

I dated the guy for six of years, and I still couldn't get him to marry me.

I couldn't even get him to remain faithful.

"You should never have to beg someone to be ready for a future," she says, and the words come out more tender than I think she anticipated.

"Either you want each other, or you don't. Six years of memories is more than enough time to figure it out. He was stalling."

Ouch.

"Yeah," I say, forcing a laugh. "That's what I thought too."

She shifts closer, just a little, enough that her knee presses lightly against mine. I pretend not to notice.

Barely.

"Where are you from originally?" she asks.

"Florida," I answer, twirling my fingers in my lap. "Born and raised."

"Florida," she echoes, smiling like the word tastes sunny in her mouth. "Damn, you're a long way from home."

"I know," I murmur, voice quieter now. Because some part of me still feels like that — like I've been floating further and further from everything familiar, with no idea how to get back.

Millie watches me carefully, her gaze so gentle it almost makes me look away. "Have you thought about going back?" she asks softly. "I mean... now that you're... single?"

I nod, chewing on the inside of my cheek.

"I did. After everything happened, it felt like the only option.

I mean, I didn't really have much choice.

I had no money, no place to stay, no plan.

I... I thought about it a lot. I didn't want to but I had to.

"

I laugh, but it comes out shaky. "Audrey's the one who convinced me to stay," I say.

"She said she knew someone who could help.

And... now I'm here." I spread my hands wide, half-joking, half-heartbroken.

"Fake dating a hockey player," she says, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a crooked grin. "What a week, huh?"

I roll my eyes so hard I almost see the back of my skull.

"Shut up," I groan, nudging her knee with mine. "You know what I mean."

She chuckles, the sound low and easy and a little smug. Like she knows exactly what she's doing to me.

Her smile softens a little, and suddenly there's no teasing in it. "You can stay here for as long as you need, okay?" she says, voice quieter now. Sincere. No strings. No expectations.

And just like that, my stupid traitorous eyes fill with tears again. Jesus. When will I stop crying over every damn thing?

I duck my head, blinking fast, pretending like I'm very interested in the thread on the knee of my jeans.

Because if I look at her — at those stupid heartbreakingly blue eyes, at the way she's sitting there all casual and warm and wonderful — I might actually fall apart.

"You're gonna regret saying that," I mumble, voice thick. "I'm like a stray cat now. You feed me once and I'm never leaving."

Millie laughs, light and careless, and it vibrates through me in a way I don't have words for.

"Good," she says simply. "I like cats."

I glance up at her, and she's smiling at me — really smiling — and it hits me low and deep and terrifying all at once.

I don't know how I'll survive this Friday.