Page 2

MILLIE

There's a kind of silence that lives in the breath before the puck drops.

Not in the arena. No, the arena is thunder. A roar that climbs the walls and rattles the boards, fists pounding glass, music screaming from the speakers, voices blending into one solid wall of noise. But inside my head?

Silence.

Stillness.

Focus, so sharp it could slice bone.

I bend at the knees, knuckles tight around my stick, heart a calm, patient thud in my chest. Across from me, their center shifts her weight, lips pressed thin. She's good. Not good enough.

The ref raises his arm. I inhale.

The puck hits the ice. I don't think. I move.

Skates rip into frozen ground, the cold biting at my face, my lungs burning with the sudden burst of speed.

My stick is already there-fast, sure, ruthless-guiding the puck beneath me as I push forward like a shot fired from a gun.

A defender shadows me. I feel her breath at my neck, the cut of her blade too close behind.

I cut left-hard. She stumbles. I don't. Too slow.

They're always too slow.

The ice sings under me, every muscle in my body alive, electric.

This is the only place I breathe right. This is the only place I feel like myself-out here, in the blur of speed and sweat, where instinct overrides thought.

Where the noise in my head drowns under the clean, fierce rhythm of go, go, go.

I spot her-Tash, my left wing-cutting through the slot, a wall of defenders collapsing around her. I don't call for it. I don't have to. We've done this a hundred times, a thousand. She knows where I am. She drops it behind her, a clean, soft pass across the blue line.

I'm there.

I don't stop.

One stride, two, and then-snap.

My stick cracks forward. The puck screams off the blade and slams into the back of the net.

Goal light flashes red.

The horn blares.

The arena detonates.

My fist slams the air, and I circle behind the net, teammates crashing into me in a frenzy of shouts and helmet taps. I let them. I soak it in. But I don't smile yet. Not really.

Because it's not about the goal. It's about the hunt.

3-1. Third period. Six minutes left. The bench is vibrating, coaches yelling out lines, the glass behind me rattling with the thunder of the crowd. But all I hear is the thud of my pulse and the glide of my skates as I line back up at center ice.

Because I'm not done. Not until they remember my name when they close their eyes tonight. Not until they feel it tomorrow in their ribs. Not until they know-I am Amelia Bennett. And I don't miss.

Coach calls out a shift, but I wave him off.

He knows better than to argue. My jaw is tight, my mouthguard shoved half out between my teeth as I skate into position.

Across from me, their center waits. A little older.

A little hesitant. She's trying to psych herself up.

I can see it in the way she adjusts her gloves, how she won't quite meet my eyes.

I grin at her, all teeth. "Try not to embarrass yourself, sweetheart."

She narrows her eyes, "Fuck you, Bennett."

I snort. Good. I like it when they fight back.

The puck drops.

I explode.

Everything falls away-sound, weight, worry, names, headlines.

My body takes over, a perfectly tuned machine, brutal and graceful, born on blades and raised on this very ice.

My mothers carved this path before me-one in skates, one in the studio-and I followed with fists and grit and open fire in my chest.

I don't do elegant. I do fucking war.

My name is carved into the bones of this sport-Bennett.

The picture of my mom holding her trophies is hanging the ceiling.

My aunts and uncles left blood on this ice and trophies on the shelves.

I was raised in rinks, slept in hotels, learned to skate before I could walk.

My first mouthguard was glitter pink. My first fight was at nine.

My mom taught me how to hold a stick before I could even hold my head up straight.

My other mom taught me how to stand my ground in a world that only respects you when you fight for your place in it.

My uncle taught me how to throw a punch on the boards and make it look like strategy.

My big sister showed me how to score like a sniper.

My other sister taught me how not to lose my heart to the pressure.

People think I got here because of my last name.

They think I stepped into a legacy and was handed a crown.

But let me make this crystal fucking clear: I fought for this.

Every morning skate. Every missed party.

Every broken bone and every sleepless night on the road.

I earned my spot-not in spite of my name, but in defiance of what they thought it meant.

So yeah, maybe I'm loud. Maybe I'm aggressive. Maybe I play like every shift is my last. That's the point. Because every time I hit the ice, I'm not just playing to win. I'm playing to remind them why I wear this name now.

The horn sounds. The game ends in a roar-crowd on their feet, sticks thumping the ice, the goal light still pulsing red from my last shot. I let the breath leave my lungs in one long exhale, sweat cooling against my skin as I glide toward the bench. I don't lift my arms. I don't celebrate.

Not yet. Not until I see them.

I tear off my helmet as I step into the tunnel, soft waves clinging to the back of my neck, cheeks flushed, chest heaving. My legs are sore. My ribs ache from a hit that didn't get called. My knuckles sting from an elbow I shouldn't have thrown-but did anyway.

And I can't stop smiling.

Because I know what's waiting for me.

Past the locker room, beyond the sting of sweat and metal and the sting of sports tape peeling from skin, past the gaggle of reporters shouting names and shoving microphones in faces, there's a hallway that smells like bleach and old Gatorade.

It's quiet here. Not silent-but calmer, muffled.

Like the world takes a breath before it lets me exhale.

At the end of that hallway is the players' lounge.

Every rink has one. It's never fancy. Always sort of ugly, like someone half-tried to make it feel less like a storage closet and more like a place meant for humans.

This one has mismatched couches that sink in the middle, a vending machine that eats your money if you so much as breathe near it, and carpet that's been here since before I was born.

But the second I walk through the door, it smells like warm french fries and too many bodies in too small a space. It smells like home.

And my family is here. Always.

I hear them before I see them. Of course I do. You don't have a family like mine and not hear them coming. Loud. Wild. The volume of love turned up past any reasonable setting. They're arguing over something dumb-probably a bet someone lost-but the moment my skates hit the floor, the room shifts.

Aurora's the first person I spot. Hard to miss her-red hair bright and unbothered, pulled into a messy bun like she's just stepped out of a photoshoot even though she's been wrangling a four-year-old all night.

She's got Lia on her hip, those giant pink noise-canceling headphones swallowing half her head.

Lia's eyes are closed, face buried in Aurora's neck, probably overwhelmed by the noise and the lights and everything she doesn't quite have words for yet.

My niece doesn't do crowds. Doesn't do loud.

But when she peeks over Aurora's shoulder and sees me-

Her whole face lights up.

But her cousins beat her to it.

Before I can even drop my gear bag, I'm under siege.

Fizzy hits first, all knees and elbows and curly light brown hair. Nico barrels into my other side a second later, his jacket half-zipped and his grin even bigger than mine. They shriek like they haven't seen me in months-which is ridiculous because I just babysat them last week.

"Aunt Millie!"

"You scored! Did you see us?! We were yelling SO loud!"

"You totally checked that girl into the wall!"

"I did see you," I laugh, staggering a little as they jump on me, "you guys were louder than the announcers."

My arms loop around both of them, warm little bodies squished into my sides, and I grin so hard it actually hurts.

"You were amazing," Fizzy breathes against my shoulder.

I tap her nose. "So are you."

Summer appears next, windblown and bright-eyed, handing me a bottle of water she somehow always remembers to bring. Her wife, Willow, gives me a soft nod from behind her, already trying to talk Nico down from bouncing directly off the walls. Summer kisses my cheek without warning.

"You crushed it out there," she says, like it's obvious.

Camille and Aurora come closer too, Lia still curled tight against her mom. Camille presses a hand on my sister's waist and offers me a soft smile.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

"I am now," I say, and mean it.

Because no matter how hard I play, how fast or brutal or sharp I am out on the ice, this-this-is what brings me back to earth.

These people. These tiny humans who scream my name like I'm a superhero, my sisters who still see me as their baby even when I'm breaking records, their partners who chose this chaos and never once looked back.

"Where are they?" I ask, scanning the room instinctively. Because the moment the dust settles, the adrenaline fades, and the noise dies down-even if I don't see them yet-I feel them.

"They're coming," Summer says with a knowing grin, nudging my shoulder like she already knows the question before I finish asking it.

And then I hear them.

Mama's voice comes first-clear, calm, always warm but always in charge.

Mom's laughter follows a second later, that breathless, bright sound that hasn't changed since I first heard it.

The second they walk into the room, everything shifts.

The volume doesn't lower. If anything, it rises, because everyone's greeting them, pulling them into the circle like gravity, like instinct.

But for me-it's like time slows.

Mom's the first I see-soft wavy red hair braided down her back, wearing one of those oversized team hoodies she insists are only for warmth (they're not, she's always been our biggest fan).

She's still laughing at something Mama whispered in her ear, and when her eyes find mine, they crinkle in the corners like they always do.

I could pick that smile out of a thousand people.

Mama's next-tall and calm and radiant, like she's always been.

She's got a coffee in one hand, probably from hours ago, and a pair of my gloves tucked under her arm like she picked them up on her way through the hallway and didn't even think twice about it.

She walks like someone who's seen every one of my games and still watches me like I'm brand new.

She sees me-and her whole face softens.

"There she is," Mama-Luna- says, voice soft but steady, arms already open.

And like a kid again, I go.

I fold into her hug like I'm seventeen and just lost a final, or twelve and crying in the car because I got benched, or five and scraped my knees at practice. Her arms are always the same-safe, solid, warm. She holds me like I'm something breakable, even when the world thinks I'm made of steel.

"I'm okay," I whisper, because she always asks, even if she doesn't say the words.

"I know," she says back, and pulls away just enough to kiss the top of my head.

Mom-Mia- swoops in next-kissing my cheeks, patting my face like she's trying to make sure I'm real.

"You made that shot look so easy," she says, eyes shining, voice a little choked. "You were flying out there, baby."

"It was a lucky pass."

"Don't lie to your mother," she teases, pinching my chin, "I've seen you skate. That wasn't luck, that was magic."

I don't even realize I'm crying until she thumbs away the tear at the corner of my eye. "Oh, love," she says, softer now. "What did we say about letting the big wins in, hmm? You get to feel this. You earned this."

God, I missed them.

Even when they're there, I miss them. Even when they've never once missed a birthday or a win or a heartbreak.

Even when they've raised me and held me and cheered until their voices broke.

I miss them the way you miss the sun in the winter-desperately, even when you can still feel the warmth on your skin.

Because they're mine. These two people-these two brilliant, stubborn, fiercely kind women who built our family from nothing but love and hard work and sheer willpower.

The world's best mothers. The world's best team.

They kiss each other when they think no one's looking. Still. After all these years. And it never fails to ground me. To remind me what love looks like when it's done right. Not just loud, but quiet. Not just bright, but steady. Still standing. Still choosing.

I watch as Mama takes Mom's hand without thinking.

It's casual, second nature-like they've spent the last thirty-something years falling into each other's gravity and never once drifting.

And Mom leans into her side with the kind of ease that only comes when you've built a life together, brick by brick.

They don't even say anything. They don't have to.

They just watch Fizzy showing Lia how to do a cartwheel beside a vending machine that's been broken since last season.

Watch Nico explaining some imaginary game to Willow with wild hand gestures.

Watch Summer balancing one conversation with Camille and another with me like only she can.

And they watch me-check on me, always-with eyes that don't miss anything.

And that's when I feel it, the full ache of it.

I could score a hundred more goals, break every record left to break, stack up trophies until the shelves collapse. I could be named the best in the world a thousand times over.

But this-this stupid little lounge with its terrible lighting and peeling leather couches and vending machine humming too loud-this is what makes me feel like I've already won.

This family. These people. This life.

Then Mom smiles, eyes lit up with something suspiciously mischievous. "We have a surprise for you, Mills," she says.

I raise a brow. "A surprise?"

"She's waiting for you outside," Mom adds with a too-casual shrug that instantly puts me on alert.

I frown. "She?"

Mama's lips twitch, failing to suppress a grin. "We'll wait for you at home, yeah? Come celebrate with us."

I pause, just long enough to take them all in one more time-my sisters, their wives, my chaos twins, baby Lia still holding onto Aurora's neck like it's her personal anchor. And my moms, still so in love it makes my chest squeeze.

They all have these full lives. Busy lives.

Lives that don't always have room for late-night games and post-practice FaceTimes and championship stress.

Summer runs an entire ballet school.

Willow's halfway to another Grammy and barely in the same country two months at a time.

Aurora and Camille are both technically retired, but Camille's coaching the next generation and Aurora's pouring her soul into being the best mom Lia could ask for.

Their days are full. Their hands are full.

And still, they're here.

For me.

The youngest. The single one.

The one who still hasn't figured out how to build a life that isn't strapped into skates.

"I'll be there," I say, and my voice comes out softer than I mean it to. "Thanks for coming."

It sounds stupid. Not enough. But it's the truth.

They all pull me into one last tangle of hugs and kisses and soft "so proud of you"s before filing out, dragging kids and gear and each other with them.

The hallway outside the lounge is quieter-cooler, emptier, like the world's paused for a breath.

And then I see her. Leaning against the wall like she owns the place, hood half up, dark braid falling over one shoulder. Same face I've known since we were both in diapers. Same smirk that used to get me into trouble every other weekend when we were ten. Same eyes-bright, sharp, teasing.

Audrey.

She straightens when she sees me, and it hits me all at once-how long it's been. Weeks. Longer than it should've been. Texts and calls are one thing, but nothing replaces the way her hug feels. The way her voice sounds in person. The way she always, always smells like spearmint and bad decisions.

I don't say anything.

Neither does she.

Not at first.

Then-

"Jesus Christ, Bennett," Audrey says, her voice all wind and laughter, eyes lighting up like I just walked off the set of a movie and not a frozen slab of ice. "Do you ever let up?"

"Not when I know you're watching," I shoot back, walking straight into her open arms like I never left.

And god, it's her. It's actually her. I don't realize how much I missed Audrey until she's holding me like this-tight and familiar and real.

Her chin tucks against my shoulder like it belongs there.

I smell cinnamon gum and the vanilla perfume she's worn since high school.

I think I might actually breathe for the first time all week.

"You didn't tell me you were coming," I murmur as we pull back.

"Yeah, well," she says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, "I didn't want to cry when you scored."

I laugh, too soft to be cocky. "I missed you."

Her smile gentles. "Yeah. Me too."

We walk toward the car like we've always done-side by side, shoulders brushing, steps in sync. There's a rhythm to us that's never gone away, even when weeks stretch between texts, even when grown-up lives try to wedge space between us.

She unlocks the passenger side with a beep, and I slide in, the leather cold and familiar. I look around and grin.

"You still haven't cleaned out your glovebox."

She smirks, sliding into the driver's seat. "That's rich coming from the girl whose entire trunk is a hockey equipment graveyard."

"Touché."

The drive is all streetlights and soft music, the heater blasting and our voices filling the space like no time has passed. Audrey updates me on her life-how her classroom is full of tiny dictators, how aunt Lauren still cries every time I score on national television. I laugh until my ribs hurt.

"You're still loud," she teases, glancing at me as we hit a red light.

"And you're still my favorite person," I say, without thinking.

It's not a confession. Not a revelation. Just a fact, spoken easily, because that's what she is. Always has been.

We pull up outside my apartment, and it's like stepping into a different kind of quiet. One I didn't know I needed. Audrey follows me up, and she doesn't ask if she can stay-because she doesn't need to. She knows the answer.

Inside, my apartment hums with that soft, quiet kind of luxury-the kind you only notice when you really look.

The floors are dark wood, polished but lived-in, faint scuffs from my skates even though I swear I never wear them in here. Floor-to-ceiling windows span the entire living room wall, the city glittering beyond the glass like it's trying to compete with the view inside. It doesn't stand a chance.

The furniture's all curved lines and soft fabrics, deep blues and creams that feel more like a hug than a showroom.

A plush velvet couch, big enough for three people to sleep on if we all tried, sinks under us like it's missed us too.

There's a stack of half-read books on the coffee table, a candle flickering lazily beside a hockey puck someone painted gold as a joke.

There's a throw blanket we're wrapped in that Mama crocheted for me when I first signed pro.

It's soft and huge and ridiculous and perfect.

The walls are dotted with framed photos-some magazine covers, some action shots from the ice, but most of them are messy, candid pictures of my family.

Me and the twins making faces. Lia asleep on my chest after a game.

Summer in the middle of a dramatic ballet pose at a backyard BBQ.

One of Audrey and me when we were seven, both missing front teeth and soaked from the lake, grinning like fools.

"You've upgraded since the bunk beds," she murmurs, voice teasing.

"You're just jealous you don't have heated floors."

She laughs and sinks deeper into the couch, her legs draped over mine like they belong there. "You have three bedrooms and still never use them."

"I do," I protest, even though I don't. "One's a guest room. One's a gym-slash-equipment closet. The other's... storage?"

Audrey raises an eyebrow. "Storage with a bed and fresh sheets and that candle that smells like vanilla and rosemary?"

"I like options."

"You like pretending you don't make room for people when you do."

I nudge her foot. "You overthink everything."

"And you never think about anything," she fires back easily, grinning.

This is us. Always has been. We tease, we tangle, we exist like we never grew up, even though the world insists we did. She knows exactly how to take the pressure out of my chest without even trying.

"Want a beer?" I ask, already getting up.

"Obviously." she rolls her eyes.

I pad into the kitchen. It's sleek-matte black cabinets, warm gold fixtures, marble countertops that probably cost more than my first car.

But there's warmth in the mess too: a bowl of half-eaten strawberries, a scribbled grocery list with Audrey's handwriting on it from two visits ago, and magnets shaped like tiny hockey sticks stuck to the fridge in no real order. Home. My version of it.

I hand her a beer before we sit down on the couch, turning on the TV.

We sit like that for a while. Two girls, grown now, but still tangled up in something real and safe and older than most things in our lives.

No cameras. No fans. No noise. Just us, and the quiet hum of the city outside the windows, and the way her head drops to my shoulder like it's the easiest thing in the world.

We stay like that for a while. A comfortable silence.

The kind of silence that doesn't ask to be filled.

Our beers are half-finished, a random movie playing in the background.

Audrey's head is still against my shoulder, one leg draped lazily over mine, like we've done this a hundred times-because we have.

But I can feel her fidget.

Her foot taps once against the coffee table. Then twice. Her fingers drum against her mug, slow and steady.

I glance at her without turning my head. "You're twitching."

"I'm not twitching."

"You're always twitching when you're about to say something weird."

Her head tips back with a sigh. "Okay, maybe I'm twitching a little."

I lift a brow, waiting. She flinches, like she hoped I wouldn't catch on so fast. "You remember Harper, right? My friend-the one who works with Lucas' team?"

A beat.

I turn my head slowly to look at her, eyes narrowing. "You mean the girl who couldn't even look me in the eye and then talked shit about me behind my back?"

"She didn't know you were there!" Audrey blurts, wincing. "She didn't mean it like that. She's just-she's going through a lot right now."

I set my beer a little harder than I mean to.

"No."

"Amelia," she says softly, like she's pleading already. "I haven't even asked yet."

"I know. I'm stopping you before you do. Because I know myself. I know you. I can't say no to you, and you know it." I shake my head, jaw tense. "So don't ask."

She exhales through her nose, dragging her hands down her face. "Millie, please. She has nowhere else to go. She's crashing at my place right now, and it's a disaster. She can't afford a place, she can't move in with me, and she's barely keeping it together."

"Isn't she an NHL photographer?" I snap, brows lifting. "Isn't that a decently paying job?"

"She's going through a lot," she repeats. "She just got out of a six-year relationship. He left her with nothing." Audrey's voice softens again. "And she's not asking. I am."

That's the part that makes me sit back, spine hitting the couch. Because if she were asking for herself-if this was for her-I already know the answer would be yes. Even if it cost me sleep, space, sanity. Audrey rarely asks for anything. And when she does, it's because she doesn't see another way.

"Come on, Mills. You've got three guest rooms. You're never here. You practically live out of a suitcase anyway. You wouldn't even notice her."

I rub a hand down my face. "You make it sound so easy."

"It will be," she promises. "I'll help her look for her own place. It'll be temporary."

I glance at her then. Really look at her.

Those big brown eyes-still the same ones that used to follow me around the rink when we were five, pouting every time I skated too far.

Audrey's always been this soft, relentless thing.

She doesn't push hard, she just... stays.

Long enough that you let your guard down. Long enough that you say yes.

And I do say yes. To her. Always.

I sigh, resting my head back against the couch. "You remember when we were eight and you asked me to pretend to be your goalie because the boys wouldn't let you play unless you had one?"

Her eyes light up. "You didn't even hesitate. Walked right into the net in your Halloween costume."

"Aurora made us dressed up as Marvel again." I smile.

She snorts. "Always winning, of course."

"I don't do well with strangers in my space. You know that."

"I know." She leans her head on my shoulder again, softer now. "But I also know your space doesn't feel so bad when it's filled with the right people."

"Is she the right people?"

Audrey doesn't answer right away. Just breathes. Then, finally, she murmurs, "She is. I trust her, Millie. I wouldn't be asking you this if I didn't trust her. I know it's a lot but she... She could really use a win."

I don't like it. I don't like the idea of someone new in my world, someone I don't trust, someone who once couldn't say two words to me without flinching or screwing them up.

But I trust Audrey. And if this is something she needs, then... maybe I can try.

"To be clear," I grumble, "I don't wanna do this."

"I know," she says, already smiling.

"And I'm not talking to her."

"She'll be quiet."

"And if she touches-"

"I'll replace them."

I groan, burying my face into the pillow. "This is gonna suck."

She laughs. "You Bennetts are so dramatic."