Page 17

HARPER

The Vancouver Storms took the win and made it feel like a damn coronation—4-0, with the final two goals from Millie.

Watching her dominate was nothing short of breathtaking.

I mean, I knew she was good, but this? This was something else entirely.

She was magic.

Every move she made on the ice had this almost choreographed precision, as if she could see the game seconds before it happened.

Skating through bodies like they were set pieces.

Dodging hits like they were leaves in the wind.

And when she scored—God, the way the entire arena seemed to detonate in sound and light—it was hard not to get swept up in it.

And maybe it's ridiculous, maybe it's naive, but I felt proud. Like watching her crush it out there meant something personal. Like somehow, her win felt like mine too. Tonight, with my heart still hammering in my chest, she didn't feel like a stranger. She felt like mine.

We're outside now, huddled near the players' parking lot, the cold cutting through my jacket in these short, sharp waves.

A few scattered fans linger, hoping to catch one last glimpse of their heroes.

Most of the crowd has long since disappeared, the electric hum of victory replaced by quiet conversations and car engines purring to life.

The Bennetts are magnets. Even outside the arena, people can't help but gravitate toward them.

Some fans recognize Luna and Mia and practically squeal, phones out before even asking.

They're good sports about it—laughing, smiling, posing like pros—but I hang back while Audrey ducks off to the bathroom.

"Harper?"

The voice doesn't just stop me—it yanks me back in time.

My stomach drops. I don't need to turn around to know who it is.

That voice has been burned into my memory, deep and permanent, like a brand.

There's a wedding date coming up on the calendar, and I've been quietly preparing for that day like it's a battle I have no choice but to fight.

But this? Now? I'm not ready. I'm nowhere near ready.

"Harper," he says again, like it's casual. Like it hasn't been months. Like he didn't watch me walk away and let me stay gone.

Slowly, I turn. And there he is. Isaiah.

He looks the same—too much the same.

Blonde hair, neat as ever. Brown eyes that used to feel like home.

He's got his hands in his coat pockets, like he doesn't feel the cold or the weight of our history.

Behind him, I see Killian and two others from our old circle, but they're background noise. Everything narrows to him.

My chest tightens, breath snagging like my lungs have forgotten what to do.

I haven't seen him since I left our apartment that night, since I found—

God.

I look away. Anywhere but his face. I can still see it so clearly in my mind—him tangled up with someone else, laughing like he hadn't broken me.

He never said sorry. Never tried. Not a call. Not a text. Not even a damn 'Are you okay?'

"Wow," he says, shaking his head, like I'm the surprise here. "What are you doing here? You've never been a hockey fan."

"I...uh..." I force a swallow. My mouth feels dry. "Audrey." I gesture toward the arena, even though she's not in sight. "She's with the Bennetts."

"That's right," he says. "Your best friend's a Johnson. Small world."

"They're family," I say, voice sharper than I intend. But it matters. That distinction matters.

He nods, looks me up and down. There's a wet patch visible on my shirt from earlier. My hair's wind-blown, my hands frozen. This isn't how I imagined seeing him again. I wanted heels. Lipstick. Power. Instead, I feel like a frayed wire.

"So, what's new with you?"

I blink. Is he serious? I feel like I've been punched and he wants a casual life update?

He's standing on a curb. Literally elevating himself.

He always hated when I wore heels—always hated that I could stand eye-to-eye with him, sometimes taller. He's not even six feet tall, and I'm tall. Tall for a girl, at least. And now, even metaphorically, I feel two feet tall.

"Taking pictures."

He smirks. "Always with your boys."

There's something venomous buried in that comment. I feel it sink under my skin like a splinter. He always made me feel like photography was my distraction, not my career. "You going to Shannon's wedding?"

"Yeah... I'll be there."

"Me too. I mean, of course. Shan and I are tight. She said you've got a plus-one." He pauses, eyes narrowing just slightly. "I have one too. Just thought I'd give you a heads-up—I plan to use it."

I don't respond right away. Because how do you reply to that?

It's cruel, in a quiet, casual kind of way.

I didn't know I was that forgettable, replaceable.

I feel small, even though I shouldn't. It's humiliating, I assumed what we had was mutual.

I'd rather he regret our relationship or maybe even wish that we had never crossed paths.

But to look at me as if I'm the most forgettable woman in the world hurts more than the rest ever could.

"Are you bringing someone?" he asks, almost too innocently.

"Harps."

The voice pulls me into focus Millie standing outside the players entrance.

Gym bag slung over her shoulder, red hair damp from a shower.

She's flushed from the cold or the game or maybe both, but her eyes are locked on us.

On me. On him. Studying. Calculating. I watch her read the scene in seconds, watch something tighten in her jaw.

Killian inhales sharply beside Isaiah. "Holy shit. Millie Bennett."

They all turn.

Her eyes land on Isaiah with a sharpness that slices clean through the cold air between us. It's the kind of look that could pin a man to the pavement without laying a finger on him—quiet, lethal precision. Her jaw flexes once, like she's holding something in, and then she looks at me.

Just me.

And maybe it's what she sees there—maybe it's the way I must look right now, crumbling under the weight of every memory, every humiliation, every word I haven't said out loud. My heart's in my throat, my stomach is ice, and my hands feel numb. She sees all of it, I think.

Because the next second, she drops her gym bag without a word. And then she walks.

Not runs, not rushes—just walks, slow and certain, like she's meant to be doing this, like the distance between us is hers to cross and no one else's.

And by the time my brain catches up to what's happening, it's too late to stop it.

Her hands are on my face. Cold from the air, but steady. One slips into my hair like she knows exactly where to hold me, the other frames my cheek, thumb grazing just under my eye like she's memorizing me with her fingertips. Her eyes don't move from mine until the very last second.

Then her mouth finds mine.

It's gentle at first—so much gentler than I expected from her, like she's asking for permission without words.

Her lips are warm, soft, coaxing mine to move, to respond.

And I do. God, I do. My whole body answers like she flipped a switch inside me.

I melt. I give in. I lose track of the people around us. The sidewalk. The cold. Time.

Her kiss deepens in small, perfect increments—her tongue just barely brushing mine, sending sparks all the way down to my toes. One of her hands slides from my face to the back of my neck, strong fingers curling there to steady me while the other moves to my hip, tugging me flush against her.

I gasp. Quiet, but real. It spills into her mouth and I swear I feel her smirk against my lips.

I knew it would be good. Knew kissing Millie would be something I'd remember.

But I wasn't prepared for this. For the way my knees weaken.

For how she makes me feel like I could float away if she let go.

Like I'm tethered to the ground by her alone.

Her body feels like armor, her kiss like a flame, and I'm standing right at the edge of both, helpless and dizzy and craving more.

I reach for her shoulders, sliding up over the firm bulk of her jacket until my hands rest behind her neck.

My fingers press there, grounding myself, anchoring us together.

My lips part more, opening to her fully, and there's this.

..whimper. God. A real one. From me.

I feel it escape like it was pulled out of my chest, uninvited but completely honest.

Millie hums into my mouth, and it's the most devastating sound I've ever felt vibrate between two people.

Then, slowly—like she doesn't really want to—she eases back.

Only an inch. Maybe less. But the cold hits me instantly.

I want to chase her mouth. I want to beg her not to stop.

But her hand moves to the small of my back instead, holding me close, and her lips begin to trail the softest kisses along the edge of my jaw.

Featherlight. Reverent. Too much. I'm shaking. Then she leans into my ear, breath hot against my skin. "You okay?" she murmurs.

Her voice is low and careful and protective in a way that undoes me completely. I'm not okay. I'm not remotely okay. My chest is heaving like I've run a marathon and my pulse is so loud in my ears I can barely think.

What the hell was that?

And when can we do it again?

I lie, nodding my head against her.

She breaks our connection to look around me, "Hey. I'm Amelia."

Oh, my god.

Isaiah is here."How do you know my girlfriend?"

There's a pause. A stutter. A visible trip of breath as Isaiah steps off the curb, returning to his natural height—still a few inches shorter than Millie but trying, desperately, not to look it.

"I, uh..." He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, awkward and unsteady. "We used to..."

Now who's fumbling?

Millie doesn't blink.

She doesn't even seem to register the tension coiling in the air between us.

One of her arms snakes smoothly across the front of my shoulders, pulling me flush against her chest. Her grip is warm, firm.

Protective in a way that makes something deep in my stomach clench.

Her chin lifts, eyes flicking down. "Oh," Millie says, all syrup and bite as she gestures toward the jersey Isaiah's wearing. "You're a fan?"

I blink.

I hadn't even noticed it.

But now that she's pointed it out, it's impossible to miss—the dark fabric stretched over his chest, the Vancouver Storms logo in the corner, and across the back... Bennett. Number thirteen.

I nearly choke. Of course he's wearing her jersey.

I bite my lip hard enough to feel it sting, doing everything I can not to laugh. Or grin. Or kiss her again in front of God and every regret I've ever had.

Millie's smile deepens, eyes glittering as she continues, "Were you waiting for an autograph?"

Is it too soon to tell her that I love her?

Because I think I do.

She says it so sweetly I almost miss the kill shot. Almost. But Isaiah doesn't. I see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his fingers twitch like he doesn't know what to do with them.

"Yes!" Killian blurts out behind him, practically bouncing.

Isaiah turns, flustered. "Killian."

But Killian shrugs like he couldn't care less. "It's Amelia Bennett," he says with the reverence of a man announcing royalty.

He pulls a Sharpie from his pocket—why does he have that?—and spins around, holding out the back of his jersey for her to sign like she's a rockstar.

Millie chuckles, low in her throat, and lets go of me just long enough to scrawl something across his shoulder blade.

"We should get home." Millie slides her hand to my lower back, turning me towards her car. "See you at the wedding, huh?" she calls to the guys over my shoulder before placing another lingering kiss on my temple for them to see.

She opens the passenger door like she's done it a thousand times before, casual and confident, as if this—we—are already a given. I slide in, my hands trembling in my lap, unsure of what to do with them now that they're not holding her.

A beat later, she crouches down beside the open door, resting her forearm on the edge so we're eye level.

Her face is close again. Close enough that I can count the freckles in her cheeks.

Close enough that I can still smell her—faint vanilla and salt and sweat and something warmer underneath. Something distinctly Millie.

She looks at me like I'm a question she doesn't quite know how to ask yet. "Are you okay?" she murmurs.

God. I don't know.

I want to say yes, but the truth is tangled somewhere between the pulse pounding behind my ribs and the static humming through every inch of me.

I feel like I just stepped out of a dream, or a movie, or a lie that might be a little too close to something real.

I nod anyway, too fast to be convincing.

But I'm okay. I am. In a strange, spiraling, upside-down kind of way—I'm more okay than I thought I'd be five minutes ago when Isaiah first said my name and every nerve in my body lit up with panic.

My eyes drop to her mouth. And that's when I realize I haven't taken a full breath since she kissed me.

"What was that?" I ask, the words barely audible. My voice is breathy, hushed, soaked in something I don't have a name for. I'm not asking for an explanation. I'm hoping. I'm inviting.

Millie's expression softens just a little. She reaches up, fingers brushing against my temple before tucking a strand of hair behind my ear in a gesture so gentle it undoes something inside me. "That was acting, baby," she says softly.

Oh.

The balloon filled with reckless hope pops in my chest.

"We, uh... we never talked about kissing," I manage to say, picking at the hem of my sleeve just to have something to do with my hands.

Millie nods slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. "But you were drowning out there," she says. "Was that okay?"

Was that okay?

Was that okay?

I feel like every nerve ending in my body is still trembling from the imprint of her mouth.

My knees are weak and I'm sitting down. My heart is still racing like I'm trying to outrun something I can't even name.

My lips are tender, swollen from a kiss that ruined me for every fake moment we might have ahead.

Was that okay?

It was perfect and terrifying and...

"Yeah," I whisper. "It was okay. Yes. Thank you?"

I want to ask if it was okay for her too, but the words stay locked in my throat. Because if I ask—and if she says no—I don't know if I'll recover.

She reaches up one last time and touches my chin gently, like she's anchoring me to the present, like she's saying something without needing to speak it aloud. Then she stands, smooth and quiet, and closes the door between us with a soft click.

And I sit there, staring at my reflection in the window, my pulse still uneven, the ghost of her kiss still branded on my skin.

What the hell just happened?

────────── ????──────────

My ears are still ringing by the time we walk into the apartment.

It's quiet. Not the cold kind of quiet, not sterile or empty—just..

. soft. Dim. Heavy with the kind of silence that carries the echo of everything unsaid.

Millie locks the door behind us, and I don't say anything, because I'm not sure I can. Not yet.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I glance at the screen.

A little heart emoji follows it. I blink at the name, at the warmth of it.

Our girl. I didn't even realize Mia had my number.

Maybe Millie gave it to her. Maybe she asked.

I don't know. But for a second, it feels.

.. nice. Like I belong. Like I'm not just tagging along in someone else's life, pretending to fit in.

I look up. Millie's already toeing off her boots, wordless and focused, her shoulders tense in a way that makes me want to cross the room and smooth them with my palms. But I don't. I can't. There's a wall of electricity between us now, too charged, too fragile.

We move in silence—not awkward, not hostile, just full. Thick with questions neither of us has the nerve to ask, with feelings too big and tangled to name. There are a million things I want to say but none of them have shape yet. None of them feel safe.

It's not even ten, and I'm not remotely tired, but I smell like sweat, stale beer, and arena air. My skin feels clammy, my shirt's sticking to my back, and all I want is to wash tonight off me before it stains too deep. So I mumble something about a shower and disappear down the hallway.

I don't look back to see if Millie watches me go. But I feel her. Like gravity. The water's already steaming by the time I undress and step inside. It beats down on my shoulders with a kind of urgency that scrubs away the worst of the night—but not the memory of her. Not even close.

Because as soon as my eyes close, she's there. Millie.

The kiss plays behind my eyes on repeat, torturing me in loops.

The heat of her body pressed into mine. The way her hands had moved like she owned me—one threading through my hair, the other anchoring my waist like she was keeping me grounded.

Or maybe like she was claiming me. I still don't know which.

Her lips were soft. That's what surprised me most. I thought she'd kiss hard, sharp, like everything else about her—loud, fearless, unapologetic.

But no. She kissed like she knew me. Like she understood exactly how to pull me under.

Slow. Sure. All heat and precision and pressure in the exact right places.

Her tongue barely touching mine, enough to steal my breath, enough to ruin me.

Try telling my body that the kiss was fake. I don't think a kiss has ever made me felt so fucking much.

My skin still burns from where she touched me. I swear I can still feel her mouth on mine, ghosting over my lips like a brand. I think about the way she held me—how small I felt in her arms, how safe, how completely out of control in the best, most terrifying way.

What would it be like if it wasn't fake?

If she kissed me like that in the dark, in her bed, with her fingers trailing lower, her body covering mine, her mouth doing far more than just shutting Isaiah up?

My knees weaken at the thought and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push the fantasy out before it makes the ache between my thighs worse.

But I can't stop imagining it.

What would it feel like to have her mouth at my neck, to feel her breath warm against my skin? Would she push me against the wall and kiss me breathless, or take her time and make me beg? Would she touch me the way she holds her stick on the ice—firm, confident, like she was born to do it?

My breath stutters. I imagine her stepping into the shower with me, water clinging to her lashes, her hands bracketing my hips.

I imagine the way her mouth would taste after steam and sweat and want, the way her body would press into mine, all sharp edges and softness in all the right places.

Her tongue sliding into my mouth, her fingers moving lower, parting my thighs with purpose.

"Fuck," I whisper, pressing my palm to the cool tile to steady myself.

I shut the water off before I lose my mind.

The bathroom is heavy with steam, hot and clinging. I wrap a towel around myself—too hurried, a little loose—but I just need to get out. To breathe. To clear my head.

I step out into the hallway and realize, too late, that I forgot to close the door to my room.

And Millie's there.

Passing by, barefoot in her sweats and a hoodie, hair still damp from what I guess must've been her own shower. She slows, stops, blinks at me.

Her eyes drop—slow and deliberate.

First to my collarbones, still damp, still dripping faint rivulets of water that trace the curve of my skin like a lover's touch. Then lower, to where the towel is knotted tight around my breasts. It clings to me, soaked through and scandalously thin. And her gaze lingers there.

Not subtle. Not safe. It's not the kind of look you give a friend.

Not the kind you give your roommate. It's a look that could set a match to skin.

The air shifts—charged, thick, electric. A wire pulled taut between us, vibrating with tension I don't know how to name but feel everywhere. My breath catches in my throat, and when her eyes finally drag back up to meet mine, they've changed.

Gone is the playful glint. What's left behind is darker. Hungrier. They're green. There's a wildness around the edges of her expression that makes something low in my stomach clench.

We don't move. Not at first.

It's as if we're caught in some kind of current, standing too close to the edge of something we're not supposed to name. And yet—she's the one who clears her throat first. Low. Gravelly. Like it hurts her to speak. And I—I don't know why I do it, but I speak first.

"You're staring."

Her lips curl up, slow and wicked. "There's a beautiful woman in my house. Naked." She lets the pause sit, heavy. "I'm going to stare."

A breathless laugh escapes me. "Is this what your wet dreams look like, Bennett?"

"Lately." Her answer is immediate, shameless.

She steps into my room like it's the most natural thing in the world—like I'm not standing there naked, skin flushed and hair dripping. Like I didn't just catch her looking at me like I was something she wanted to taste.

Her eyes flick away just long enough to take in my space—the room that was empty only a few weeks ago. Now full of color, soft textures, books on the shelves, a candle flickering on the nightstand.

"You've done a good job in here," she says, her voice casual—but her gaze is anything but. She's looking at me again. Drinking me in.

I tighten my grip on the towel. My fingers dig into the terrycloth. Part of me wants to hold on tighter. The other part—the bolder part—wants to let it fall. Just to see what she'd do.

"Uh, thanks?" My voice wavers, because her eyes haven't left me.

"Where are your clothes?"

I shrug. "In my closet?"

"Why aren't you wearing them?"

"I just got out of the shower?" I laugh—nervously, breathlessly. Her gaze has weight. Her eyes are so damn blue they might ruin me. My skin shivers, and I know she sees it.

She steps farther into my space, walking around my room like it belongs to her, like I belong to her. There's nothing casual about the way her gaze moves over me. Nothing innocent about the way she circles the space between us like a panther who's already decided I'm hers.

I don't know what's happening. I only know I don't want it to stop.

Suddenly, she's behind me—her chest to my back, her heat radiating against my still-damp skin. I inhale sharply, and she doesn't move. She doesn't touch me, not at first, but her presence alone is enough to unravel me.

"Adding this image to your brain for the next time you're alone in your room?" I ask, my voice tighter than I mean it to be.

"Yes," she says, without hesitation.

Then her palm glides across my lower back—barely a brush—and backs away just enough to let me breathe again.

"You're very pretty, Harper." Her voice is velvet and hunger, the kind that melts in your ears and settles between your legs. "You looked so fucking pretty in my jersey. Screaming my name."

My thighs clench. I swallow the sound trying to claw its way up my throat. "I—I was just playing my part."

She snorts. "Your part."

I turn toward her—and forget how to breathe. She's not wearing a bra. Her shirt clings to her like it's made of sin. Her chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, but her eyes are fire. She looks at me like she's already imagined what I'd sound like moaning her name.

"I'm flattered you think I'm pretty," I murmur.

Her mouth curves into something knowing. "Why're you so surprised?"

I don't answer. Not because I don't have words—God, I have too many—but because none of them will land right. None of them will explain the burning, aching, full-body pulse of heat that started the second she looked at me like that.

Instead, I step closer. Just one inch. That's all it takes.

My breasts brush against her chest, the contact featherlight but searing.

Her body heat radiates through the thin fabric of her shirt, and all I can think is how easily I could close the rest of the distance.

How easily I could lean in. Touch her. Kiss her. Fall apart for her.

There's no room left. No space. Nothing between us but heat and want and the loud, pounding echo of my own heartbeat.

Does she really feel nothing? Did that kiss not wreck her the way it wrecked me? Did her pulse not stutter when our lips met—when her hands were on my waist, in my hair, like she was trying to claim me?

I watch her throat bob as she swallows. Her breath is shallow now. Her chest rising just a little too fast. Her eyes flicker down to my mouth like she's fighting herself—and losing.

"What are you doing?" she asks, voice low. Hoarse. It scrapes over me like rough silk.

It's not a demand. It's not a warning. It's something else entirely—curiosity, hope, caution wrapped in want.

I don't blink. I don't back off.

"Pretending," I murmur. My arms lift slowly, wrapping around her neck with a kind of reverence I didn't expect.

My fingers thread through the soft ends of her hair. I tug, just a little. Enough to feel the weight of her inhale. "Acting. Just like you pretended tonight."

And God—if she moves back, even half a step, my towel will fall.

We both know it. Maybe that's the point.

Blue-green eyes burn into mine, and then her lips ghost against my jaw. Barely there. My breath hitches, stomach clenching so hard it borders on pain. Her forehead presses to my shoulder and she exhales—like she's been holding something in all day and it's finally breaking loose.

"Mmm," she hums against my skin. "That feels good."

It isn't acting. Not even close. Her voice is too soft, too rough around the edges. And when she speaks, she does it like it costs her something. Like her body's been fighting to stay neutral and it's losing fast.

My hips shift, move into hers—subtle, involuntary, slow. Searching for pressure, for friction, for the solid grounding of her body against mine. Anything to anchor me. I'm still only wrapped in this goddamn towel and now it feels like a burden. Like a layer I want her to strip away.

I want to be bare with her. And then, just when I think I might be the one to make the first real move— She moves. Fast. Smooth. Controlled.

Her arm wraps behind my back and suddenly the floor disappears. I gasp as she lifts me, muscles flexing under her shirt like it's nothing. I don't resist. I don't even think. I just let her guide me, let her set me down—no, place me—on my desk, like I'm breakable, like I'm hers.

She steps between my legs. Palms slide under my thighs and jerk me forward until I'm perched at the edge, legs spread just for her.

And she's everywhere. Her face in my neck, her breath skating over my collarbone, her scent—clean and sharp and devastating—surrounding me like smoke.

I'm consumed. Her broad thumbs begin to glide over the insides of my thighs, slow and agonizing. Her touch is firm, deliberate, leaving fire in its wake. Higher. Higher. Pushing the limits of what's appropriate, what's smart, what's sane.

She kisses up the side of my neck—lazy, languid, like she has all the time in the world. Like she's already won whatever game we're playing.

And maybe she has. My eyes flutter shut. My lips part. My head tilts back as I breathe her in, as my hips shift on their own, aching for more. For her. For the unbearable pleasure of her mouth a little lower. Of her fingers a little higher. Just a few inches and I'd come undone in her hands.

I want her mouth. I want her pressure. Her weight pinning me down. I want her body between mine like we're something urgent and messy and unstoppable.

The need builds in waves. My clit throbs. My whole body clenches, and I can't stop my hips from moving, grinding up into the air—desperate for her, even if I can't admit it out loud.

She's not even touching me there and I'm already falling apart. Her teeth graze my ear and my entire body jolts. A moan slips from my lips—soft, unguarded, needy.

"You don't want to play this game with me, baby," she whispers. The pet name hits like lightning. Her voice is low and dark and full of promise. "I will always win."

She pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are wrecked. Blown wide with want, like mine. Her lips are parted, her hands still on my thighs.

And all I can think—blazing through the haze of lust and heat and insanity—is that I want to lose.

But now, I'm hot and flustered and kind of pissed off. The audacity of this woman to leave me on my desk– naked and panting for more. "How are you so certain you'll win?"

Her brows lift, sending me a pointed glance that screams you're about thirty seconds from coming on the a tiny desk and you think I'd be the first one to cave?

I hold her stare, not wanting to back up as she walks towards my door. "I'm a Bennett, baby. I never lose." she says, closing the door behind her.