Page 14

MILLIE

I'm soaked in sweat, my gloves tight with frustration, and the roar of the opposing crowd is a constant pulse in the back of my skull.

It's not the loudest arena we've played in, but tonight, every sound feels like it's aimed directly at me-every cheer for them, every groan against us, like little shards digging under my skin.

I skate back to center ice after a failed rush, lungs burning, jaw clenched so tight I think something might snap.

We're down by one, with less than seven minutes left in regulation, and it's not just the score that has me this pissed-it's everything.

The cheap shots. The chirping. The way the Toronto captain, Jenna fucking Leclair, keeps smirking every time she bumps me behind the play.

Like she knows she's getting under my skin.

Like she knows I'm this close to snapping.

It's not just the game-it's the noise outside it.

My face was on ESPN this morning. My girlfriend's face-fake girlfriend, whatever-was on TMZ.

People keep talking like they know me. Like they know Harper.

The worst part is that the video of the interview we're trying to get them to forget has gone viral again.

I shouldn't care. I don't- but seeing that my first public appearance with Harper was for nothing makes my blood boil.

A whistle blows, and the ref's arm shoots up. Penalty. Of course it's us.

"Bullshit," I mutter through gritted teeth, circling the bench with my stick tapping lightly against the ice. Julian doesn't say anything as I come off-he doesn't have to. The look in his eyes is enough.

I slam down on the bench and lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to catch my breath, trying to calm down, even as the arena music pulses through my chest.

Leclair skates by, slow enough to make it obvious. "Getting a little rattled there, Bennett?" she says with that sickly sweet tone she saves just for me.

I don't look at her. Don't answer. Not because I don't have a response, but because if I say a word right now, it'll be the wrong one.

And I can't afford a misconduct.

She knows it.

That's why she grins wider and keeps skating.

The girls are trying. God, they are. Riley's been everywhere tonight.

Casey's bleeding from a lip split in the second.

Zoey's skating like her feet are on fire.

And still, nothing's landing. Nothing's clean.

We're chasing the puck like it's always just out of reach.

The puck drops again and I'm back out-lungs burning, muscles tight, adrenaline coiled hot and sharp in my veins. There's less than a minute left on the clock. Fifty-four seconds to be exact.

I don't have time to think. Just move.

The refs are letting everything slide tonight, and Toronto's using it to their full advantage.

Thirty seconds. Just thirty seconds left on the clock.

My mom only needed ten seconds to win a world cup, I know I can do this.

I grip my stick tighter and push harder, legs burning as I lunge forward with a burst of speed. The puck ricochets off the boards and I'm there. I can hear the bench screaming-Julian's voice above them all-"Shoot, Bennett!"

I'm at the crease before I know it, a clear lane, just enough space, just enough time. The goalie drops low, bracing for the shot. My hands shift on the stick. I line it up-

And the world turns sideways.

There's no warning. No time to brace. Jenna slams into me with full force, a calculated, vicious hit that sends me flying like a ragdoll. I don't even see her coming. Just the split-second crack of impact-shoulder, ribs, boards.

Everything goes white. Pain explodes down my side like a live wire.

My head snaps back, smacking off the glass.

A sickening jolt courses through my spine, and for a moment, there's nothing.

Just static. A void.

I hit the ice hard.

The stick skitters away, out of reach. My legs don't move.

Everything narrows. My ears ring. The lights above blur and spin in sickening arcs.

My breath won't come. My chest heaves but nothing fills my lungs.

Skates slice across the ice as bodies collide.

Riley lunges-pure fury in motion-as she tackles Jenna, sending them both to the ground.

Zoey barrels into another player, gloves off before she even makes contact.

Casey's in the fray too, her jersey yanked sideways, mouth still bleeding from the earlier hit.

The refs are blowing their whistles like they're drowning in them. One of them grabs Zoey, trying to pull her back. Another skates into the mess with his arms flailing.

But no one's backing off. They're fighting for me. Somewhere behind it all, I hear my name.

"Amelia!" Not a shout. A panic. I blink. Force my eyes open through the spinning blur. My uncle.

He's on the ice, not even pretending to stay behind the bench. He doesn't care about protocol or fines or optics. He just sees me sprawled on the ice like a broken thing and rushes toward me like I'm still eight years old and crying in an empty rink with a cut on my forehead.

His skates hiss to a stop beside me. He's crouching fast, gloved hands cradling either side of my helmet, careful but firm. His eyes are wide, wild with fear.

"Hey," he breathes, "Millie. Look at me. You with me?"

It takes everything I have to nod. My shoulder throbs with a deep, nauseating pulse. My head feels like it's been split open and stuffed with cotton. "Yeah," I rasp. "Yeah, I'm here."

Julian exhales like he's been holding his breath since the hit.

Behind him, the trainer's already skating over, med bag in hand. The shouting's still going, Riley and Zoey both held back by officials who clearly weren't ready for this kind of fight.

I try to sit up, and the pain lances through my side so sharp it drags a groan out of me. The ice is cold under my gloves. The pads on my hip are soaked where I hit-hard. I can feel it already, the bruise blooming deep and ugly.

My vision flutters again, just for a second.

But I stay upright. Julian's hand is on my back, grounding me, as the trainer kneels beside us. "Can you stand?" he asks.

"Yeah." I lie. "Yeah, I've got it."

I don't got it. But I can't let them carry me off the ice. Not in front of them. They help me up. My legs tremble. My left side screams. But I plant my skates, one after the other, and push myself to the bench. Every step costs more than I have.

I hear the buzzer. Final whistle. Game over.

3-2.

First loss of the season. Whether it's preseason or not, it burns like acid in my throat. Toronto's bench erupts. Gloves tossed, sticks raised. They're howling like they won the Stanley Cup. I don't look at them. I don't need to. I can feel their gloating like heat on the back of my neck.

The crowd is loud, but not for us. I sit heavily on the bench, my head in my hands. I barely hear Julian telling the team to cool it, to get in line for the handshake. No one moves right away. Riley's still arguing with the ref. Casey spits blood onto the ice.

It's not just a loss. It's a statement. They didn't just beat us.

They wanted to rattle us. To humiliate me.

And they did.

I press my palms over my eyes and try not to think about the cameras.

The headlines. The highlight reels that'll show me missing the game-tying shot and getting thrown like a ragdoll.

I don't know how much time has passed since the game, but it feels like I've been in this sterile hospital room for ages.

The walls are too white, too still. The hum of fluorescent lights is a constant buzz in the back of my skull, just soft enough to ignore-until I can't.

I shift in the hospital bed and immediately regret it.

My shoulder screams, tight and swollen beneath the sling, and there's a faint throb at the base of my skull that hasn't gone away since they checked me for a concussion.

"Mild," the doctor said. "Just rest and monitor the symptoms."

I'm upright now, propped against stiff pillows, my jersey folded on the chair by the door. My stick leans against the wall like a reminder of what I lost tonight. The team. The game. My breath catches for a second-not from pain, but something heavier. Something worse.

My mom is here. Heavy, familiar. Pacing. Luna Bennett is not a quiet presence. She hasn't sat down since she got here. Not once.

She's standing at the window now, arms crossed over her chest, jaw tight. Her eyes track the parking lot outside like she's planning an escape or a battle-maybe both. She hasn't spoken in a few minutes, not since I told her I was "fine." Which I'm not. And she knows it.

"Mom, do you need something?" I try, voice a little hoarse.

"No," she says flatly. Not unkind, but clipped. Controlled. Her voice has that edge she only uses when she's angry and trying not to show it.

"Mama..."

She turns then, slowly, and her gaze is fire. Controlled, burning fire. "That hit wasn't legal," she says. "That wasn't hockey. That was a calculated cheap shot, and Jenna should be benched for it. At minimum."

"I'm okay," I lie, again. "It's not that bad."

She steps closer, shaking her head, her brows pulled tight.

"Millie, she launched you. She could've dislocated your shoulder.

She could've given you a full concussion.

I saw your head hit the boards. I-" Her voice cracks for a split second, and she blinks hard.

"And they're not even reviewing it. Not a damn fine. Not a penalty. Like it was nothing."

I can't meet her eyes. I stare at the blanket across my lap, fingering a loose thread. "It's preseason," I mumble.

"And?" she snaps. "What, injuries don't count until February?"

I go quiet again, because I don't have an answer for that. The silence stretches, too loud in the room. My heart beats slow and thick behind my ribs, and there's this fuzziness around my thoughts, like everything's a little bit underwater.

I touch the side of my head, just above my ear. The skin there is tender. I hadn't realized it was still sore. Mama's breath hitches when she sees me wince.

"Baby," she says, softer now, sitting at the edge of the bed. Her hand cups my good shoulder, firm but gentle. "You scared the hell out of me."

"I know." My throat tightens. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she murmurs. "Just stop letting them think they can treat you like this."

"I wasn't trying to let anything happen, Mama. I was trying to score."

"I know." She kisses the crown of my head, like she did when I was ten years old and cried over a rough game. "I know, Millie. I just... that wasn't fucking legal. She could've-"

"I'm here, Mom. I'm fine."

We sit like that for a while. Her hand on my arm.

The storm still crackling beneath her calm.

Mom texted her as soon as I hit the ice, already booking a flight to Toronto but Mama stopped her.

Mom is at the studio and she needs to finish am album.

I spoke to her, told her I was okay and of course, she didn't believe me. But I'm flying back home tomorrow.

There's a knock at the door. Julian steps into the room a second later, and my mom is immediately standing up- going for him.

"Mom-"

"You! Are you fucking kidding me? Why the fuck did you let that happen, Carter? You saw that! You did nothing!"

Her voice isn't loud, not really. But it's sharp. Controlled. And that's somehow worse. My mama doesn't explode.

She cuts-clean and precise, like she's picking apart a strategy on the ice.

"I did see it," Julian answers, his voice tight. Tired. "And what do you think I was supposed to do? Charge the ref? They didn't call it."

"They didn't call it because you didn't push for it," she barks.

"You're her coach, yes-but you're also her uncle.

You're family, Julian. That girl slammed her into the boards just because she felt like it.

She could've broken her collarbone. Or worse.

She could've-" Her voice breaks for a second.

"She could've hit her head harder. You know what that means. "

I want to say something but I don't.

"I know," Julian says, and his voice is softer now. "Luna, I know. But she's awake. She's okay."

"She's not okay. She's seventeen seconds away from a goddamn concussion. And no one's benching Jenna. No one's suspending her. They're pretending it was clean and moving on. And you're just letting it happen?"

I shut my eyes for a second. The pain behind them builds like pressure under ice.

"I didn't let anything happen to her," he says. "I'm doing my job."

"She's not just a job," Mama hisses. "She's my daughter."

"Luna-" Julian tries, but she holds up a hand.

"No. You can't stand there and tell me this league cares about its players-about its women-when shit like that flies. When my daughter gets nailed into the boards and no one blinks. No ejection. No review. Nothing. If that had been a guy on the men's team-"

"I agree with you," Julian says, stepping forward now.

"Luna, I agree. You think I'm not mad? You think I'm not making calls tomorrow morning?

But if I blow up now, it makes Millie look volatile again.

We're walking a thin line here-especially with the media circus already watching her like a hawk. "

That lands hard. A sharp, quiet thud in the center of my chest. Because it's true.

One hit after the other, on and off the ice. The PR team warned me to keep my head down. To behave. To let the cameras catch me being soft and likable and non-threatening. "Repair your image," they said. "Remind them who you really are."

And I did. I swallowed my tongue when they baited me.

I kept my head down when they ran their mouths.

I smiled when I wanted to scream.

And look where that got me.

A hospital bed. A shoulder wrapped in bandages.

A pounding behind my eyes that won't let up.

All because I didn't hit back when they started pushing.

Because I was trying to be good. The silence that settles after Julian leaves is quiet but not peaceful. Then her phone rings. She fishes it out with a frown, glances at the screen, and presses it to her ear.

"Laur?"

I smile, just a little. Of course. Of course Aunt Lauren would call. A beat passes, and then Mama pulls the phone from her ear, her expression turning knowing. "Oh yeah," she says, amusement creeping in. "I'll give it to her."

She holds out the phone, smirking now. Her eyes flash in that mischievous way they do when she knows something I don't. "It's for you," she says sweetly. Then she kisses the top of my head and gently shoves Julian by the elbow, dragging him out of the room like she's clearing a stage.

I lift the phone to my ear, already frowning. "Hello?"

"Oh my god. Millie. Hi."

Not Lauren. My stomach flips.

"Harper?"

Her voice is a rush, fast and breathless.

"Hi, yes. God. I'm sorry. You weren't answering your phone and Audrey's not answering either and then I remembered Audrey's mom is Lauren and I came to her house and I totally forgot I could order an Uber but I didn't want to wait so I ran and I-fuck.

Shit. I'm talking a lot. Are you okay? "

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. It hurts, but it's real. "I'm okay," I say, voice low, a little hoarse. "I mean, I look like I lost a bar fight with a bus, but I'm breathing. So that's something."

"Oh my god," she says again, this time more like a whisper. "And I was watching the game and then you were in the ice and you weren't getting up and I thought-I didn't know if-"

Her voice catches, and suddenly I can see her.

Alone in our apartment, probably still in her pyjamas since the boys aren't playing, hair damp, eyes glued to the screen.

Worry twisting her mouth into something tight and awful.

I picture her clutching her phone, trying not to panic, calling everyone she can think of- then running in a rainy day just to check on me.

Something pulls tight in my chest. "I'm really okay," I say gently. "A little banged up. Head's fuzzy. Shoulder's pissed. But I'll live."

There's a pause, and then, softer: "Don't do that again."

My heart stutters. "What?"

"Scare me like that," she says. "I've been pacing like an idiot for the past hour. I spilled coffee all over myself, I forgot how to open the front door at one point. I didn't know who else to call. I don't even have your sisters' numbers!

"You forgot how to open a door?" I repeat, teasing, trying to lighten it.

"It was a high-stress situation!" she defends, and I can hear her trying not to laugh now, too. "And for the record, this is all your fault."

"My fault?"

"You and your dumb heroic penalty box comeback," she huffs. "You're ridiculous."

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "You watched the whole game?"

"Of course I watched the whole game."

Silence stretches between us, but it's warmer this time. Softer. She doesn't have to say anything else. I feel it. All of it.

I let my eyes fall shut for a second, the phone cradled against my ear like something sacred. And then, because I can't help myself, I say, "Missed hearing your voice."

There's a pause. Barely half a second. But I hear her breath catch. "Yeah," she says, and her voice is quieter now. "Me too."

I clear my throat, try to shake the feeling threatening to settle in too deep. "What are you doing?" I ask, needing her voice again. Needing to hear something that isn't my own thoughts.

"Oh, nothing. You know. The normal." She exhales. "Standing in the middle of Lauren Johnson's living room while she stares at me like she's waiting for a proposal." Her voice drops to a whisper. "It's actually kinda creepy."

I laugh-sharp, then softer when my ribs protest. "Tell her I say hi."

"Mm, she's waving. Still smirking. Still watching me. Honestly, I think I'm sweating."

I grin, leaning my head back against the pillow. "What are you doing now?"

She hums, playful. "Talking to you."

"Same," I say. My cheeks hurt from smiling. "Well, talking to you and listening to my mom and uncle fight in the hallway."

"That's comforting."

"Extremely."

A beat.

"I'm happy to know you care about me," I tease, eyes still closed.

She scoffs, but there's no heat in it. "Please. I don't. I just needed to know if I was going to have to start looking for a new roommate."

"Admit it. You care."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I really don't."

"You so care."

"You're so annoying." I can practically see her rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, and you still care."

There's a small sound on the line-almost a laugh, almost not. "Do you..." she trails off for a second, "do you want me to come? I mean, maybe it'd be good for the fake relationship thing."

I don't know why that hurts. It shouldn't. But it does.

It lands like a quiet crack somewhere behind my ribs. I swallow it down. Ignore the way something in me folds a little. "No, Harps," I say softly, carefully. "I'll be home tomorrow. Don't worry about it."

There's a pause. Just long enough to feel. "Oh," she says, and her voice dips. Just slightly. "Okay. Yeah. I guess... I'll leave you to it."

Don't go, "Okay."

"I'm really glad you're okay, Millie."

I close my eyes again. "Thanks." The line goes quiet, and so is the entire world for a moment.

Only for a moment.

A minute later, I hear the soft creak of the door and the familiar rhythm of boots against linoleum. Mom slips back into the room, her hand already reaching toward me as if to check I'm still here. Still breathing.

I pass her the phone. She doesn't look at it-her green eyes are locked on me instead. Soft this time. Curious. Amused. That smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth is so Mama it physically hurts. I know what's coming before she opens her mouth.

My moms are easy to read. At least to us-me and my sisters. To the rest of the world, they're bulletproof. Polished, composed, untouchable. But they built that armor to protect us. To shield our lives from headlines and microphones. We always knew that.

"So..." she says slowly, brows lifted with mock innocence. "Harper, huh?"

My cheeks heat. Here we go. I clear my throat, roll my eyes for good measure. "She just wanted to know if I was okay."

"Oh." Her smile widens, and she's not even pretending to hide it now. "You two are... close now?"

I shrug, careful not to let the pain show. "We live together. She's helping with the PR stuff. Like you suggested, remember? That's all."

Mama hums. A sound laced with skepticism and affection. "Right. Just PR."

"Yep."

"Uh-huh."

I glance at her. Big mistake. That smirk? Still there. Not playful. Not teasing. No, this is the I've seen you throw up spaghetti on my shoes and sob over crushes you didn't think I knew about kind of smirk.

She doesn't say it, but I can hear her thinking it: You're not fooling me. Mama always said we got Mom's emotions. And she was right-we're terrible at lying, pretending. Can't hold a straight face, can't bluff to save our lives. Our emotions? Right there in our eyes. Always.

I look away. "Don't start."

"I haven't said anything."

"You're thinking it very loudly."

She leans back against the edge of the counter, arms crossed. "I just think it's interesting. She went to Lauren's. Found a way to you when no one else could. That's all."

I pick at the edge of the blanket. "It doesn't mean anything."

"Hmm."

"She asked if I wanted her to come. You know-for the fake relationship. An appearance or whatever."

Mama tilts her head, her expression softening just a little. "And what did you say?"

"I said no. I'm going home tomorrow." I shrug, as if it's nothing. As if it didn't make my chest ache when I said it. "She doesn't need to be here for pictures."

There's a beat. Just one. Then Mama sighs and moves to the bed, sitting gently beside me. Her hand comes up, brushing back a strand of hair from my face. The motion is so familiar it makes something in me splinter.

Her voice is gentle. "It's okay to care, Millie."

I know. I know.

But I don't know what to do with it.

I don't know what to do with the fact that I wanted her here.

Not for the cameras. Not for the fake dating charade.

I just wanted her-for me.

I don't say that.

Instead, I nod. And let my body lean. Let my head fall gently into my mom's lap like it used to when I was four and simply wanted to sleep with them, climbing into bed between her and Mom without a word. She strokes my hair, soft and steady.

"You're gonna be okay," she whispers. "I'm here."