Page 16

HARPER

If there's anything I've learned over the years, it's how to play a part.

The easygoing friend. The girl who laughs a little too loudly at the right jokes, who knows when to sparkle and when to step aside.

I've played the attentive girlfriend at dinners where I didn't recognize the version of myself sitting across from him.

I've smiled through champagne toasts and white tablecloth conversations, mastered the art of being visible—but not too much.

But tonight? Tonight I'm someone else.

Tonight I'm playing the captain's girl. And I think it might be my favorite role yet.

The jersey hangs off my frame like it was made for someone else—which, of course, it was.

White and light blue, with the name Bennett stretching bold across my shoulders and the number 13 stamped just beneath.

I found it hanging off the back of Millie's desk chair, half-forgotten under a hoodie, and maybe I should've asked.

But something about slipping it over my head made the whole thing feel real.

Like maybe—just for tonight—it is real.

I pair it with soft, baggy jeans, the kind that bunch comfortably at my ankles, and clean white sneakers.

My hair is still slightly damp at the ends, soft waves curling around my shoulders, not trying too hard.

No makeup beyond a little mascara and the sheer gloss I found on the bathroom counter this morning.

I'd tried not to overthink it, but I still checked my reflection twice before we left.

Now, Audrey and I are climbing out of Lucas's car, and my stomach is doing slow, anxious flips. The kind that start deep and rise steadily, coiling in my chest.

"You've got the tickets?" Audrey asks, slamming her door shut behind her.

I nod and pat the side pocket of my jacket. "Yeah, front row. Right in the splash zone."

She snorts, looping her arm through mine as we start toward the glowing entrance of the stadium.

The air is crisp with that mix of concrete, smoke, and excitement.

Floodlights glow above the building like a beacon, people bustling past us in jerseys and hats, clutching plastic beer cups and paper trays of fries.

"It's family exclusive. Don't worry," she adds, like that should help.

But it kind of makes it worse.

My eyes scan the crowd until I see them—Aurora and Summer standing with their wives and kids near one of the private entrances, chatting, laughing, a cluster of warmth against the cold.

I recognize Luna, tall and sharp-eyed even in casual wear, and Mia, smiling with a water bottle in her hand.

The little girl I met the other night–Lia– is perched on Summer's hip, her chubby hand clutching the edge of her aunt's coat. My chest tightens.

This isn't just a game.

It's a Bennett game. It's Millie's game. And I'm walking straight into the family section, wearing her name on my back.

Pretending to be in love with Amelia Bennett in front of twenty thousand people is one thing.

Pretending to be in love with her while her entire family watches from a few feet away? That's a whole different game.

Audrey gives my arm a squeeze, like she can sense the panic. "You okay?"

I nod, but it's automatic. Because truthfully, I have no idea how I'm supposed to act cool when my heart's doing somersaults under a jersey that still smells faintly like Millie's perfume.

We barely have time to say hi before Mia and Luna greet us, warm and easy, ushering us inside with a kind of practiced grace.

They're all so composed. Effortless, even with children hanging off them and fans trying to sneak pictures from a distance.

They move through the space like they belong here—which, I guess, they do. And I—

I'm trying not to trip over my own feet.

I've been here before. This arena. These seats.

I've photographed this place more times than I can count.

I know the lighting, the angles, the way the rink glows under the overheads, the sound of the puck ricocheting off the boards.

I've stood in the press pit, lugged camera gear up and down the stairwells, crouched in the cold behind plexiglass, trying to get that one perfect shot.

But now? Now I'm not the one behind the camera.

Now, I'm being watched.

Now, I'm the girl in the captain's jersey, walking toward the front row with Amelia Bennett's family like I belong.

My arm stays looped through Audrey's because I swear to God, if I let go, my knees might give out. The deeper we go, the louder it gets—roaring energy, the steady thrum of music and chatter and anticipation buzzing in the air. And when people notice us—really notice us—they react.

Cameras flash. People point. Some cheer.

It's not even about me, not really—it's Millie.

It's Bennett 13, the name stamped across my back.

The connection is instant, electric. I hear someone yell her name from the rows above, a teenage girl clutching a sign with glittery blue letters and a heart.

Someone else calls out, "You dating Millie?

" with a laugh, and Audrey just smirks like she's been through this a thousand times.

I feel like I'm walking a tightrope with no net.

Because this is her world. Her reality. And I'm suddenly front and center in it.

When we reach the front row, the seats are cushioned and close, the glass wall towering in front of us like a thin divide between normal and everything else.

We sit down, and the game isn't even close to starting yet, but the rink already pulses with movement—players warming up, lights flickering, music thumping under my shoes.

I sink into my seat, heart pounding, eyes scanning the ice. My knees bump Audrey's and I try to focus on literally anything that doesn't involve Millie or the fact that I'm in her jersey and her family is a few seats away and Jesus Christ, I am pretending to be her girlfriend.

I sit straighter in the seat and tug at the hem of the jersey like that's going to help me feel less exposed, even though the thing practically drowns me.

The sleeves hang past my wrists and the neckline slips just a little too low on one side.

I'm very aware of it. Very aware of everything, actually.

Summer is a few seats down, with one of the twins on her lap while the other eats popcorn out of a plastic bucket nearly bigger than his face.

Aurora's got a soda in hand and her wife's arm slung casually around her shoulders, both of them mid-conversation with Mia, who looks effortlessly radiant even in jeans and a scarf.

Luna's a few feet away, talking to someone from the team staff, but she gives me a small nod when our eyes meet. Not intimidating at all.

Audrey leans in. "Stop panicking. You're doing amazing."

"I'm not panicking," I lie.

She gives me a look. "You're practically vibrating."

Okay, fair.

My heart feels like it's trying to win a sprinting medal under my ribs, and I haven't stopped shifting in my seat since we got here.

My fingers keep toying with the hem of Millie's jersey, twisting the fabric like it's a worry stone.

It's oversized—huge, really—draping off my shoulders like a hug I wasn't ready for. It smells like her.

The name Bennett stretches across my back. Her number—13—sits in bold below it, like I'm hers. Like this is real.

And God, the whole arena is buzzing. Thousands of people already in their seats, chanting her name with their hearts in their throats and their hands cupped around their mouths. BEN-NETT. BEN-NETT. It vibrates up from the soles of my shoes, through the plastic seat, into my skin.

It's electrifying. Overwhelming. Terrifying.

When I glance toward the rest of her family, Summer catches my eye and beams like I'm someone they've always known. Someone who belongs.

"You look cute," she says, leaning toward me once her kids are busy arguing over snacks. "Nice touch with the jersey. Millie's gonna love it."

I bark out a laugh—too loud, too sharp. "Thanks. I, uh, figured I'd commit to the bit."

"A bit," Aurora repeats, arching a perfectly shaped brow. Her tone is dry, but her smirk is warm. "Right."

They're teasing. Light. Familiar. It makes it easy to slip into rhythm with them, even with my nerves coiled tight beneath my skin. They don't treat me like I'm acting. They treat me like I'm here. Like I'm part of this. Like this isn't pretend.

And it's so easy to fall into that. Too easy.

Mia's already got her phone out, turning it sideways as she lines up the perfect shot. "Harper, honey, smile. Millie needs to see how good you look wearing her name."

I blink. "Wait—what?"

"Smile," she says again, and I do, because I can't not. Her energy is contagious, big and warm and wrapped in something deeply maternal.

She snaps the photo before I can really process what's happening. "Perfect. I'm tagging her. Caption: Bennett's biggest fan."

My cheeks flush hot. "That's dangerous. You're fueling her ego."

"She deserves to see it," Mia says, matter-of-factly. "She might play like she's made of stone, but don't let her fool you. She notices everything. Especially the people who show up."

My stomach twists in a weird, fluttery way at that. My heart kicks against my ribs. I look down at the jersey again, fingers skimming the bold blue letters across my chest.

"Harper," a voice says behind me, sharper than the others. Measured. Controlled.

Luna.

Oh no. I freeze like a kid caught doing something wrong.

Audrey nudges me with her elbow. "Relax. You'll survive."

"She sounds like a Bond villain."

"She's a hockey mom. It's worse."

Still, I stand, smoothing the jersey down and trying to keep my breathing even as I cross the small gap between the rows. Luna is standing beside Mia now, arms crossed, chin tilted slightly. She's not smiling, but she's not scowling either. She's unreadable.

God help me.

She gestures to the side with a subtle flick of her fingers. "Walk with me."

It's not a request. It's not unfriendly, but it's firm.

I follow her up a few steps, away from the main crush of the family, to a slightly quieter corner where the crowd noise dips and the glare of the arena lights feels just a little more distant. Still, the chant echoes Millie's name.

Luna turns to face me. Not unkindly. Just... directly. "You nervous?" she asks.

I blink. "Right now? Or just in general?"

She huffs a laugh, just barely. "I like you, you're good."

"I'm flattered."

Her eyes narrow, but her mouth twitches—just barely. A crack in the wall. "I know this isn't real," she says, and it's not accusing. It's not even disappointed. It's just a fact, delivered with a mother's careful precision. "But I know how these things always end."

"I'm harmless," I say, lifting both hands in mock surrender.

"I know that too," she replies, softer this time. "But Millie... she's not as unshakeable as she pretends to be. She was really upset after that hit last week."

"I know." My voice drops. "I watched it happen."

"She asked about you," Luna says. "Not us. Not the kids. You."

My breath catches. I don't mean for it to. But it does. And Luna sees it. "You've been good to her," she adds after a beat. "Whatever this is."

I nod slowly, unsure what to say, because anything I could say feels either too much or not enough. So I go with the one thing that's true and quiet and sitting right at the center of me.

"I like her," I say, simply. "She makes it easy."

Luna doesn't answer right away. She just looks at me—really looks at me—with eyes that have seen more games, more chaos, more love and loss and fierce protection than I'll probably ever understand.

The kind of gaze that strips away pretense and nonsense.

Not cruelly, not even skeptically—just honestly.

And it burns a little, not because it hurts, but because it sees me. Then—finally—her hand reaches out and she pats my arm. One, two, firm taps that somehow feel like both a nod and a dare.

"Keep doing what you're doing," she says. Then, with a faint glint in her eye: "But if you break her heart—fake or not—I will personally make sure your camera never sees the light of day again."

Relief rushes through me so fast I nearly laugh. I grin instead, letting the warmth crack my nerves open. "Understood. That would be a tragic loss to the visual arts."

"I'm sure the world would recover," she deadpans.

We turn back toward the seats, and as we make our way down the short row, I notice that every single one of the Bennetts is watching us like hawks pretending to be sparrows.

They try to act casual, but their eyes give them away—wide, playful, knowing.

Like I've just passed a test I didn't realize I was taking.

But it's not Luna who speaks first—it's the blonde woman sitting beside Aurora, her legs tucked sideways beneath her, one arm resting protectively around a sleepy toddler in a miniature noise-canceling headset.

"Don't let her fool you," she says, grinning. "She did the same thing to me when I started dating Aurora. She terrified me."

"And me," Willow chimes in from the other side of the row, "I think I threw up after meeting her."

I laugh, the sound bubbling out of me more naturally than I expect. "Sounds like a tradition. Does she keep a checklist?"

"You'd think," Camille says, the corners of her mouth twitching up. "Honestly, she should."

I open my mouth to reply but Luna cuts in smoothly, her voice completely dry, "The difference is that I actually like Harper."

For a second, there's stunned silence. And then Camille and Willow both gasp dramatically, in perfect, ridiculous sync, like they've been shot in the heart.

"How dare you?" Camille says, clutching her chest with one hand, while the other gently smooths down her daughter's blonde waves. "I am literally carrying your granddaughter."

She adjusts the toddler's noise-canceling headphones with expert hands, pressing a kiss to her temple as the little girl wiggles in her lap. Lia's wearing Millie's jersey too, just a tiny, toddler-sized version with the number 13 across the back. It's so cute it physically hurts.

"And I gave you two first," Willow adds, pointing to her ten-year-old twins who are still pressed to the glass, their noses practically fogging it up as they scan the ice for any sign of their aunt.

"You also gave them sugar before bedtime," Mia says sweetly, returning to her seat with a container of popcorn like she hasn't missed a beat. "We've all made mistakes."

There's laughter—real, easy laughter—rippling through the whole row. I feel it wrap around me, settling into my chest like warmth on a cold day. It's so natural, so unforced, that for a second, I forget I'm supposed to be performing. Pretending. I just feel... there. With them. Among them.

I sink back into my seat beside Audrey and glance down the row, where the Bennetts are still bickering and laughing, stealing handfuls of Mia's popcorn like it's currency. Every so often, one of them tosses me a smile, like I'm already part of the joke.

Audrey leans close again. "See?" she whispers. "They love you."

We're interrupted by a sudden swell of noise as the music inside the arena shifts.

The lights dim just slightly, the music changes.

It's subtle at first, like the moment just before a storm, when everything pauses for breath.

Then the bass kicks in—louder, deeper—and the announcer's voice tears across the speakers with enough force to vibrate in my chest.

And the crowd rises like one collective heartbeat, a living, breathing wave of energy that rolls over me and makes my skin prickle. The chanting starts again, only louder this time, layered under the thudding bass and the heavy pulse of expectation.

BEN-NETT. BEN-NETT. BEN-NETT.

And then she appears.

Millie glides onto the ice like it's a stage, like the spotlight is something stitched into the seams of her jersey. She's wearing her usual game face—focused, intense, a little cocky—but there's something electric about it. Like she's plugged into a current only she can handle.

The floodlights catch in her dark hair as it whips behind her helmet, and the colors of her jersey—the same one I'm wearing, god help me—blur as she picks up speed.

She doesn't skate. She slices. Her movement is sharp, fast, a kind of grace you don't expect from someone who hits as hard as she does.

And when the announcer's voice booms out over the crowd—

"Number thirteen, your captain—Amelia Bennett!"

—the noise that follows is feral. People scream like she's a rock star. They chant her name like she's a war hero. And I sit there, suddenly very, very aware of the fact that my heart is sprinting in my chest like it's trying to keep pace with her on the ice.

And then—god help me—she lifts her stick. Just casually, like she's acknowledging her people. The tilt of her chin is subtle, cool, practiced. But her eyes?

Her eyes aren't scanning the crowd.

They're locked. On. Me. Right past rows of fans and cameras and noise and chaos—right through the glass. Like she knew exactly where I was.

I know she can't really see me, not clearly. Not with the lights and the helmets and the distance. But somehow, I swear to god, we meet right in the middle of all of it. Me in the front row, heart in my throat, her on the ice, in her element.

She slows. She coasts by the section where I'm sitting. And then—so fast it barely feels real—she lifts a gloved hand, points straight at me, and blows a kiss.

Right there.

On the ice.

With the crowd still screaming her name.

My breath catches. A small, shocked laugh escapes me before I can stop it.

Because what the hell? There are twenty thousand people in this arena and she's blowing kisses? At me?

Beside me, Mia lets out a low, impressed whistle. "Well. She's not exactly subtle, is she?"

"Nope," Camille says, amused as ever. "I think that one's for you, Harper."

Audrey snorts. "You're bright red."

I try to play it off, but my cheeks are burning, and the jersey suddenly feels a little too warm. "It's probably just part of the act," I mutter, but my voice is thin. "You know, for the cameras."

"Sure," Aurora says, not even pretending to believe me. "The cameras. Definitely."

My eyes stay glued to the ice, because I can't not look at her.

Millie's already skating backward now, her smirk unmistakable even through her cage. She looks so comfortable out there, so her. Confident and calm, all that energy she carries suddenly focused into something unstoppable. There's nothing hesitant about her out here. Nothing she's holding back.

And maybe it's the lights, or the adrenaline in the air, or the goddamn kiss she just blew at me in front of twenty thousand people like it was no big deal.

Maybe it's the bass still pulsing through my shoes or the echo of her name bouncing around the walls like it belongs here, like she belongs here. Or maybe—maybe—it's just her.

Because for a second, just one small second that stretches out wide and breathless, I forget how to sit still.

I'm hyperaware of everything—my own body, the hum under my skin, the scratch of the jersey against my arms, the icy air of the arena that's suddenly not doing a damn thing to cool me down.

My knee knocks into Audrey's, and I don't even register it, too busy blinking at the figure on the ice like I've never seen her before.

Like she's someone new. Like I'm not already living in her apartment and stealing her shampoo and making up stories about how we fell in love.

She's in full gear—helmet, pads, jersey pulled tight over her broad shoulders.

She should look ridiculous in all that bulk, right?

Covered head to toe, hidden behind armor.

But instead, she looks like power. Like tension wrapped in silk.

Like someone who knows exactly how to move and how much space she takes up—and doesn't shrink from it.

How is she so fucking hot while wearing all of that?

It's criminal, actually.

She skates past the glass again, face serious, focused, all sharp jaw and furrowed brow.

Her mouth moves—probably something directed at a teammate or a ref—but I can't hear a thing over the blood rushing in my ears.

And somehow, the intensity only makes her more attractive.

Like she's been dipped in fire and frozen at the same time.

That ridiculous combination of laser-sharp focus and quiet chaos underneath, like she's always about to do something dangerous just for the thrill of it.

And me? I press my legs together and exhale slowly through my nose, like maybe that'll help.

It doesn't. It's freezing in here—literally freezing—and yet my skin feels flushed, prickling under the layers I'm wearing. There's snow falling just outside the arena's high windows, fat flakes melting on the glass. But inside? Inside I am burning aliv.

Amelia Bennett is gorgeous.

And it's not the surface-level, filtered kind of gorgeous.

It's something else entirely. It's in the way she moves.

The way she skates like she's dancing with violence.

The way her eyes cut through the glass like they've got something to say and no time to wait.

It's in the way she commands attention without trying, the way people chant her name like they're grateful to.

She's grit and grace and heat and command, all wrapped into one maddening, magnetic, impossible person.

My throat is dry.

My heart is loud.

And when she finally skates to the bench and throws herself over the boards like it's nothing, I swear I feel my pulse stutter.

Mia leans closer, voice gentle. "You're doing great, sweetheart. Ignore the noise."

I nod, trying to remember how to breathe. "I am. I just... I didn't expect her to—"

"Oh, she's always been bold," Mia cuts in, grinning. "You think she waits for an invitation?"

No. No, she definitely doesn't.

I sink further into my seat, pulling at the too-long sleeves of Millie's jersey like they'll somehow hide the way my heart is flailing around in my ribcage.

I watch her skate to the bench, fist bump her teammates, bark something at the ref with a smirk on her face like she owns this place.

And she fucking does.

She owns this place, maybe even more.

────────── ????──────────

By the middle of the second period, something in me has cracked wide open—and for once, it's not because I'm trying too hard.

I'm laughing. I'm shouting. I'm leaning forward so far in my seat that my thighs burn, jersey bunched around my arms, hair falling into my face as I twist to keep up with the play. I'm here. Fully, completely here.

The arena is a cathedral of chaos. Bodies press together, row after row of voices raised like they're casting spells.

The air smells like ice and beer and expensive cologne, sharp and alive.

Lights flash above the rink, sending glimmers across the glass in bursts.

And just below us, the Bennetts are loud.

God, they're so loud.

Aurora's halfway out of her seat every time Millie touches the puck.

Summer's kids are screaming, not even at the game anymore but just because everyone else is.

Mia's got a foam finger on one hand and a cup of something in the other, and she's commentating like she's on a network panel.

Camille and Willow are yelling at refs like they've got personal vendettas.

Even Luna, who I swore was going to stay all stoic and cool, has been caught muttering "Take the shot, baby, take the shot" under her breath like a prayer she can't stop herself from repeating.

And me? I'm right there with them. Because how could I not be, watching her?

Millie is—Jesus. She's a storm on skates.

All speed and ferocity and finesse, twisting through traffic like it's choreographed.

Her jersey flutters behind her, number 13 slicing through defenders like the rink is hers and everyone else is just background noise.

She's on fire, and the crowd knows it, can feel it.

Every time she takes the puck, the arena rumbles.

Every pass she makes is sharp, precise. Every fake-out is art.

She hasn't scored—yet—but she's running the entire game like she's the sun it orbits around.

Her team's up 2–0, and they're playing like they've got something to prove.

The other team is unraveling—sloppy passes, late hits, more time in the penalty box than the actual ice.

One of their forwards took a hard run at Millie ten minutes ago, and you could feel the collective breath of the arena hold as she slammed into the boards and bounced back up like she'd just tripped on a sidewalk crack.

No retaliation. No reaction. Not even a glance back.

It's impressive. Painfully so.

Because if there's one thing I've learned about Millie in just the short time I've known her, it's that she doesn't let things go easily. She fights. She burns. But tonight, she's playing it clean. Cool. Controlled.

Which, somehow, makes her even scarier.

She's holding it all in—the temper, the pride, the need to give back what she gets—and yet there's still fire in her.

You can see it. It's there in the tightness of her jaw, in the flex of her fingers around her stick when the refs miss a cheap hit, in the way she stares down one of the other team's defensemen like she's daring him to cross a line she won't.

It's calculated. Composed.

And unbelievably hot.

"You okay?" Audrey shouts next to me, breaking through my trance.

"Huh?" I blink.

"You were just staring," Audrey teases, jabbing my side. "Might wanna wipe the drool off your chin."

"Oh my God." I drag my hand across my mouth, dramatic, just to play along, even though my cheeks burn. "Fuck you," I roll my eyes.

She snorts, and beside us, Mia glances over with a knowing grin like she's been clocking me the whole time. But I barely register it, because something shifts again on the ice—like the air takes a breath, holds it.

Millie's got the puck. And suddenly the arena isn't a thousand screaming strangers anymore.

It's her. It's only her. She cuts through two defenders like they're traffic cones—shoulder low, skates carving arcs into the ice so sharp they look like they should draw blood.

Her speed is blinding, a blur of red and white, jersey billowing like a flag.

Stick on puck, controlled chaos, and every single eye in this place is tracking her.

She's not flashy. Not reckless. She's methodical.

A split-second fake to the left sends the goalie leaning—and then she does the unthinkable. She waits. Just a beat. Just long enough for everyone to feel the breath catch in their lungs. The hush before the drop.

And then— Snap.

The puck goes top shelf, clean and fast and deadly. The red light flashes. The horn blasts. The crowd loses it.

I scream without realizing it. Everyone around me does.

Audrey grabs my arm like she needs to hold onto something or she might take off into the rafters.

Kids are jumping. Beer spills. The woman behind us is crying from joy, and Mia's waving that damn foam finger like she's signaling a plane to land.

And Millie—Jesus Christ—she's already spinning out of the follow-through, grinning like a wolf, triumphant and breathless. But she doesn't turn to her team right away. She skates straight toward the glass.

Straight to me. I freeze. My heart tries to escape through my ribs. My mouth goes dry.

Millie glides to a stop just a few feet away, snow from her skates misting against the glass like frost.

She looks up—directly at me. Helmet still on, but I can see the fire in her eyes even through the cage.

She pulls off her helmet in one smooth move, shaking her hair out like a movie star who moonlights as a hockey god. It's damp with sweat, sticking to her forehead, and she doesn't care. She's flushed and wild and fucking beautiful.

Millie lifts her stick. Points it right at me. "That was for you, baby."

My brain short-circuits.

I die.

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. I blink, reel, laugh like I've been knocked over the head with it. The crowd's still roaring, people still screaming her name, and all I can do is stare at her like she just set me on fire.

And then she's gone, swallowed by her teammates as they flood around her, crashing into her with cheers and sticks lifted high. She disappears into the celebratory chaos, into arms and gloves and helmets tapping against hers. But the damage is done.

"She did not just say that," I whisper.

"Oh, she did," Summer says, her voice somewhere between awe and hysterics.

"Jesus Christ," I mutter, pressing my cold fingers to my cheeks. "I'm gonna die."

"She's really playing the part," Mia adds casually from beside me, like this is just a normal Saturday night. Like her daughter didn't just look me dead in the eye, call me baby in front of twenty thousand people, and blow my entire nervous system.

My face flickers onto the jumbotron a moment later—split screen, me on one side, cheeks flaming and smile nearly splitting my face in half, and Millie on the other, focused and back at center ice for the face-off.

The arena howls when it happens, like they can sense the electricity pulsing between us even through high-def glass.

"Smile, Harp," Summer laughs behind me. "You're famous now."

"I look insane," I whisper, wiping under my eyes with my sleeves, trying to hide the way they're shining too much. "Oh my god."

"You look like someone who just got claimed by a Bennett," Camille says, sipping her drink. "Welcome to the club."

I laugh, head dropping, but my heart is doing somersaults. My hair's a wreck, cheeks aching from grinning so hard, body vibrating like I'm part of the arena's speaker system—but none of that matters. I feel warm. Seen. Like I'm in on a secret.

Even if it's fake—even if it's all for show—there's something in me that doesn't care. But the energy in the rink shifts. Just a little. Not everyone's happy.

I start noticing it after the next drop. The puck hits the ice, and something turns in the way the opposing team moves. Sharper. Slower. More calculated. They're not chasing the play so much as they're watching Millie.

And then I see her—number 19. She's not subtle about it either.

Every time Millie touches the puck, number 19 shadows her like she's wired to her stick.

Not going for the puck. Not really. Just there to antagonize.

Every nudge is half a second too late. Every turn she cuts off a little too close.

She's trying to piss her off, plain and simple.

Luna sees it too. "Jesus. She's doing it again," she mutters, leaning forward in her seat, voice low and dangerous. "That's the third time she's clipped Millie's ankle instead of the puck."

I glance at her. "Is that legal?"

"No," she says flatly. "But the refs don't always see it when it's off-angle. Smart little fucker."

Her voice is like gravel—tight with something dark and maternal. "Why would she target Millie?" I ask, even though I already know the answer.

Mia answers this time, still watching the ice, calm but sharp. "Because they're losing. And your girl's skating circles around them."

I look back just in time to see Millie snatch the puck like it belongs to her and cut clean through center ice—fast, fluid, dominant. She doesn't even glance at 19, doesn't give her an ounce of energy, and something about that makes me want to cheer even louder.

"She's not biting," Audrey says proudly.

"No," Mia says. "Because she can't afford another scandal."

But number 19 is getting bolder. Brazen.

She's not even pretending to play clean anymore.

Every shift, every whistle, she lingers too long, shadowing Millie like a bad thought.

She crowds her space during line changes, brushes her shoulder when the puck isn't even in play.

She's saying something—I know it. Her mouth moves, chin tucked down just enough that the refs can't catch it.

Her helmet hides her expression, but I can feel the smugness radiating from her.

Millie doesn't react. Not at first.

She's composed in the way only someone who's been trained since toddlerhood to smile in the face of pressure can be.

But it's tight. I see it. In her jaw. In the way her fingers flex around her stick, white-knuckled.

The tension is coiling in her spine, in her movements.

Still sharp, still skilled—but no longer fluid.

She's holding it in.

Until the next possession.

Millie bursts into open ice, a pass snapping to her from across the zone, and I lean forward instinctively—like my body already knows something's coming.

Number 19 is right behind her. Not chasing. Not blocking. Just hovering in her blind spot like she wants to be seen. And that's when it happens—something subtle. Her head dips in close to Millie's ear. I can't hear it from where I am, no one can, but whatever she says lands like a fucking dart.

Millie flinches.

Not visibly—not to anyone who doesn't know her. But I do. Her shoulder jerks. Her neck tightens. Her body stutters like she missed a beat in the rhythm she's spent years perfecting. She turns—just her head—and then—

Shove. It's not a full check. Not violent. But it's deliberate. A message. I can practically hear her telling her to fuck off.

"What the fuck did she say?" I ask, not to anyone in particular. My voice comes out low, raw.

The Bennetts around me are silent—but they're bristling. I can feel it. Summer's arms are crossed over her chest. Camille's lips are pressed into a thin line. Even Mia, usually calm and composed, has her brows drawn tight.

But Luna—Luna is the one that snaps.

"Fucking watch her," she growls, half-standing as Millie regains the puck again. "She's going for the shoulder."

I don't even have time to process that before number 19 comes barreling into Millie.

Not a play. Not even close. It's a full, dirty hit—shoulder to shoulder, straight into the one Millie's only just stopped wincing over in the mornings.

The sound is sickening. Not a crack, exactly, but the sort of blunt impact that echoes wrong.

Millie spins out, barely keeping upright, her skate skidding a little off the line.

And then she stops—grabs the boards, tight grip.

And she winces. A real one this time. Not a flicker. Not a maybe. Her face twists for half a second before she straightens.

"Oh my God," I breathe, both hands gripping the barrier in front of me now. My palms are sweating and my throat is dry and my entire chest is a mess of adrenaline and panic.

She's not okay. She says she's okay. She always does. She'll laugh it off and grin like it didn't hurt, like it didn't shake something loose inside her. But I saw it. I know what I saw.

"Ref! You blind piece of shit!" Luna is yelling now, no longer caring who hears her. "That's a fucking cheap shot and you know it!"

The ref's whistle does blow—but it's late. Too late. The damage is done.

Millie doesn't retaliate. She doesn't even turn around.

She just drags herself upright, rotates her shoulder like she's testing it—hiding the pain with the kind of practiced grace that shouldn't make me want to cry—and skates back to the bench without a word.

No one cheers this time. Because everyone knows exactly what just happened.

"She's not fine," I say under my breath, chest heaving. "She's not fine."

And I hate that I'm stuck up here. Behind glass. Behind cameras. Behind whatever this is we're pretending to be. I want to run down there and pull her off the ice myself. I want to wrap her in every layer I have and tell her it's okay to stop pretending she's made of steel.

And the worst part? She's still playing. Because that's who she is.

Because she doesn't know how to stop.