Page 24

MILLIE

Julian's going to lose his shit. Not because I left practice-players walk off the ice for a hundred reasons-but because I used the words family emergency and forgot, for one incredibly stupid second, that my coach also happens to be my uncle.

And unlike the league, Julian knows exactly who counts as "family" in my life.

By the time I make it into the locker room the next morning, the tension is already thick in the air. Everyone goes quiet when I walk in. Even the rookies look nervous, like they're waiting for a bomb to go off.

He doesn't even wait until warm-ups to pull me aside.

"You made me worry sick, Amelia."

His voice is sharp but not raised. That's worse. Those ice-blue eyes of his land on me like a slap, and suddenly I'm ten years old again, getting caught sneaking out past curfew with Gracie.

"I thought something happened to your moms," he says. "Or your sisters. You didn't give a damn explanation. Just left."

"I had to." I meet his stare without flinching. "Harper needed me."

He groans like I've personally betrayed him. "Harper. Your roommate, Millie. Not family."

I cross my arms. "She was sick. She had no one else."

"You think you're the only person on this team with people they care about? You don't get to walk off the ice in the middle of a run-through unless there's blood or fire."

I shrug, but my jaw tightens. "I'm a Bennett."

"You sure as hell are," he mutters. "I thought you'd be the easy one."

"Well, sorry to disappoint." My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. "You should've known better than to expect 'easy' from this family."

He sighs. "Luna was a professional. A captain."

"My mom," I interrupt, "skipped half a season to stay by Mom's side when she was hurt. She flew home in the middle of playoffs just because Mom had a fever."

"That was her wife, Millie. Harper is not your-"

"I know," I snap. Silence crackles between us. "I know she's not my wife. Jesus."

I run a hand through my hair, pacing a step. My pulse is still loud in my ears from last night, from the way Harper had leaned into me, feverish and dazed, whispering, "No one's ever taken care of me like this before."

"She's not my wife," I say again, quieter this time. "But I'd do it again."

Julian stares at me for a long beat, and then he shakes his head, rubbing his temples. "What am I supposed to do with you?"

"Whatever you want. Just tell me so I can leave."

He doesn't say anything at first. Just sighs again like he's been holding his breath since I walked in.

"I'm benching you for the first ten minutes of the game tomorrow."

I nod once. Fair. I expected worse.

"Millie," he says before I can turn to leave. "Just... be careful, okay?"

I frown. "With what?"

"Whatever this thing is." His voice softens just enough to make it feel personal. "Don't let it take your eyes off the ice."

He means it like a warning, a reminder of what's at stake. And I know he's not wrong-he's my coach. But it still hits sideways. Still pisses me off more than it probably should.

Because Harper isn't a distraction.

"You're the one who said I needed a fake relationship to..." I arch a brow, "What was it again? Soften me?"

"Yeah," he nods, dead serious. "For the public."

He lets the words hang for a beat, then adds, "I don't see any cameras following you around when you leave practice to pick her up from a party because she's sick."

I stare at him, jaw tight. "I'm sorry if giving a shit about people makes me less of a hockey player to you, Julian. My moms raised me better than that."

There's a flicker of something in his expression-regret, maybe-but I'm already turning away, walking out before I say something I'll regret more.

The hallway outside the rink is cold and smells like sweat and old tape. I don't even bother showering. I just yank on a hoodie over my damp shirt and head for the parking lot with my bag slung over my shoulder, chest tight.

I don't know why he's acting like this. Like Harper is some threat to my focus.

I'm not distracted. I'm on fire. We've been winning game after game, home or not-I'm scoring, leading, setting up plays like I'm thinking three moves ahead. I've never felt more electric on the ice.

And yeah, maybe I think about her too much during warmups.

Maybe her laugh is still stuck in my head from this morning when she tried to cook and nearly set the toast on fire.

Maybe I glance at my phone a few times more than I used to.

Maybe I dream about her sometimes, when I'm too tired to fight it.

But none of that changes what I do when I lace up.

I unlock my car and slide into the driver's seat, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles go white.

My breath fogs faintly against the window.

My chest's still tight with leftover heat from that argument-Julian's voice echoing in my head like a goddamn buzzer.

But it isn't just the fight. It's the way he said Harper.

Like she's just a placeholder. A softness I was only meant to borrow for the sake of the press.

As if I could fake the way it feels to be near her.

I tilt my head back against the seat, close my eyes. Breathe deep. She's probably in my bed right now, lost in sleep, wrapped up in my hoodie, smelling like lemon and warm skin and that soft perfume she thinks no one notices. But I notice. I notice everything.

And tonight, I need that to be enough.

When I get home, the lights are dim, just a warm glow spilling out from the hallway and under the crack of her door. But it's not until I walk into the living room that I freeze.

I find Harper curled sideways in the corner of the couch, a thick paperback held lazily in one hand, her other tucked beneath her chin.

Her hair's twisted into a loose, messy knot, a few strands falling around her face.

She's got on my old hoodie again-hood down, sleeves pulled over her fingers-and a pair of fuzzy socks that don't match. One navy, one gray.

She looks soft. Settled. And suddenly I forget how to breathe.

She glances up when she hears me-eyes slow and warm, like she's been waiting. "Hey."

"Hey," I manage, peeling off my coat and kicking off my shoes. My limbs feel heavier than they should. Hockey adrenaline mixing with frustration, with everything I didn't say in Julian's office.

"You're late," she says, like it's not really a question.

"Coach talk," I say, slumping against the back of the couch. "You know. Family drama."

Her lips lift, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She watches me a second longer before dog-earing her page and setting the book on the armrest.

"Was it about me?" she asks gently.

And god, I wish she didn't ask that.

I don't want her to carry this.

I shrug like it's no big deal, but she sees right through me. Of course she does.

"Julian's just... protective of the game," I say, running a hand through my hair. "And maybe a little too familiar with my last name."

Her expression flickers. "You mean like, legacy pressure?"

"Exactly." I let out a breath, my elbows braced on my knees, shoulders caved forward like I'm trying to fold myself small enough to escape it.

"He doesn't get it. Any of it. It's not about fake dating or cameras or headlines.

I didn't leave practice to make some statement.

I left because you needed me. And I wanted to be there. "

There's a pause.

And then she swallows, her voice low and rough. "You didn't have to."

I look at her. The curve of her legs curled under the blanket. The gentle dip of her collarbone where the hoodie has slipped a little off her shoulder. The faint crease between her brows, like she's still bracing for the catch-like care always comes with a hook.

"Maybe not," I say, softer now. "But I wanted to. I wanted to bring you soup. And draw your bath. And make sure you were warm. And safe. And sleeping in a room that didn't feel lonely."

Her eyes lift slowly to mine, and it's like I've just undone a seam she didn't know was holding her together.

She doesn't say anything. Just stares. Like she's looking at me through new eyes, ones that can't quite believe I mean it.

And then, voice barely above a whisper, she asks, "What's the verdict?"

I blink. "Huh?"

She lifts her chin slightly, like she's trying to act unaffected but can't stop the way her lips twitch. "From Julian. Did he scream? Ban you from breathing near me again?"

That gets a reluctant laugh out of me. "Ten minutes off a game," I say with a shrug. "Could've been worse."

Her smile slips in, small and a little crooked. "Still kind of brutal."

"Don't worry about it," I murmur. "Seriously. You were worth it."

There's a pause. A breath. A beat of silence thick with something I don't dare name.

And then-so quietly I almost miss it-she says, "I... I missed you."

Three words. So soft they might've vanished in the air if I wasn't already straining toward her.

If my entire body wasn't wired to tune into hers.

But they don't vanish. They land with weight.

They stay. And they ripple through me like a stone dropped into still water, echoing through every part of me that I've been trying to keep calm.

My throat tightens. My chest goes hot. It aches in this way I didn't expect-like she's cracked something open with her voice. Like hearing her say that broke through every layer of cool detachment I've tried to build between us.

"I missed you too," I say, and it comes out truer than I mean it to. There's no performance in it. No safe, neutral mask. Just me. Completely fucking exposed.

She's been on my mind the entire time I wasn't with her. She lingers in my thoughts like a ghost I don't want to let go of. The curve of her lips, the way her shoulders fold inward when she feels small, the quiet strength she carries like armor she doesn't even realize she's wearing.

I thought about her when I tied my skates.

When I took my shots. When I shoved bodies out of my way with pure rage in my veins.

Her little whimpers I had my face hurried between her legs haunted me during warmups.

Her moans echoing in my memory while I lined up at center ice.

That delicate sound of her laughter-barely there, like she doesn't think she's allowed to be loud.

Those big, stormy grey eyes of hers flash in my head every time I take a shot.

And that mouth. That soft pink mouth that always looks like it's on the verge of saying something honest. The kind of mouth that makes you want to lean in, slowly, just to hear what might come out next.

"I wanted to text," she says, her voice small. "I didn't know if I was supposed to."

That stops me cold. Like she thought she needed permission. Like this thing between us comes with fine print and warnings. Like she still doesn't know where we stand. Like she still thinks this isn't real.

"You don't need to ask," I say, trying to keep my voice low, steady. Unshakable. "You can always reach out. I mean it."

She nods. Slowly. Like she's letting herself believe me one inch at a time.

Her eyes stay on mine, unblinking. Like she's filing it away in some secret corner of her mind, where the truths she wants to believe live.

The ones she doesn't trust yet. The ones she thinks she doesn't deserve.

There's a silence that settles after that.

But it's not empty. It's full. Of tension.

Of possibility. Of words unsaid and feelings barely contained.

Of everything we're both pretending not to feel and everything we can't help but show anyway.

It feels like waiting. Like a wire pulled tight between us.

Her knee shifts under the blanket, brushing against mine, and it's such a small thing-but it lights me up like I've been struck. Her body leans toward me, just a little. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to say I feel this too.

And I want to touch her. I ache to. Not just because I'm attracted to her-though god, I am-but because being close to her feels like the only thing that makes sense right now.

Like maybe if I just let myself reach out, I'd understand what this is.

I'd get to stop wondering and just feel it.

But I don't.

I know she's still healing.

And I'm still convinced that no matter how real this is starting to feel...

I might still be the rebound.

I'm not stupid. I know what it's like to be the distraction. The safe, convenient someone that fills a hole left behind by someone else. I've played that role before. It never ends well.

And Isaiah? He wasn't just someone. He was the first. The guy she thought would stay. The guy she thought would build a life with her. The one who made promises and then broke every single one.

She doesn't talk about him, but I see it. I feel it. In the way she hesitates before letting herself lean on me. In the way her voice catches when she talks about trust. In how tightly she wraps her arms around herself when she thinks no one's looking.

She's not ready. Not really. And even if she were.

.. she wouldn't be ready for me.

Because I want her in ways I can't control.

Because I already care about her too much.

Because the line between pretend and reality has been a blur since the second she walked into my life, and now it's completely fucking gone.

I don't know where I end and she begins anymore.

She shifts again beside me, this time a little closer.

The blanket rustles. Her hand brushes mine.

Just the lightest sweep of skin against skin-but it sends a shock through me so sudden, so sharp, that I have to hold my breath to stay still.

Her fingers don't move away. Neither do mine.

Our hands just stay there, touching, barely.

Like a secret only we know.

Her voice breaks the silence, small and tentative.

"You don't... you don't have to stay, you know. If you've got somewhere else to be."

I look at her. Her eyes are wide, uncertain. She's trying to give me an out. But I don't want one.

"I'm exactly where I want to be," I say.

And I watch the way that sentence lands. The way her whole body stills. The way her breath hitches. The way her eyes flicker with something that looks a lot like hope-and a little like fear.

I want to lean in and kiss that expression off her face. But I don't. I can't let myself have her-not like that-not until I know she wants me, not just someone. Not just anyone.

Instead, I reach out gently and thread a few strands of her hair through my fingers.

The softest contact, like I'm testing the air between us.

She doesn't flinch or pull away. Her head dips slightly forward, like she's giving me permission.

I tuck a piece behind her ear and let my thumb graze her cheek without thinking.

Her skin is warm beneath it. Soft. Too soft.

I'm playing with fire.

"Will you come to my game tomorrow?" I ask, trying to sound casual. Like this moment isn't threatening to unravel me.

Her eyes lift to meet mine, drowsy and unguarded. "Of course," she says, like it's obvious. Like she never considered not coming. "I'll be there."

"With my jersey?" I add, smirking a little. I'm teasing. But I'm not. Because the idea of her in my name, wrapped in my colors, sitting in the stands with those wide eyes focused only on me-

God. She tilts her head and her lips pull into that dangerous, slow grin. "Mmm... I don't know," she says, dragging the words out. "Maybe I'll wear an NHL one."

My jaw drops theatrically. "You wouldn't."

Her eyes sparkle, sharp and playful. "Which guy do you think is the hottest?"

I roll my eyes but snap right back to her, narrowing mine. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, don't tempt me, Bennett." Her voice dips, soft and teasing, but there's an edge to it. Something sharp under the sugar.

She leans in the slightest bit, not enough to close the distance, just enough to make me feel it. Her shoulder brushes mine again, and this time I don't pull away. I can't.

"Careful," I murmur, and my voice is lower than I meant it to be. Rougher. "You say that like you want me to stop you."

She blinks at me slowly. And then smiles. Not the sweet, tired one she gave me earlier. This one is full of heat. Challenge.

And maybe she's playing. Maybe this is still part of whatever weird middle ground we've created between us-where everything feels like a game until suddenly it doesn't.

But right now? I swear she's looking at me like I'm not just the person who brought her soup or drew her a bath. She's looking at me like she sees me. And it wrecks me more than I want to admit.

"Who are you playing with?" she asks, her voice quiet like she's trying not to sound too concerned, even though I can already see it in her eyes.

"Toronto," I say, stretching my arms behind my head.

Her whole face falls. "Oh, no. Is that the bitch who hurt you? The one with the evil elbows?"

I laugh-loud and surprised-and the sound feels good. God, she's cute.

"Jenna?" I ask, still grinning. "Yeah, it's her team."

Harper narrows her eyes like she's preparing a vendetta. "I swear, if she lays a hand on you again, I'll walk straight out onto the ice and knock her teeth out myself."

The image she paints is absurd-this tiny, soft-voiced woman storming the rink in boots and a puffer jacket, swinging at pro athletes-and I lose it.

I laugh so hard I have to double over, hand over my chest. "You're so fucking cute."

She crosses her arms, pretending to pout. "I'm not trying to be cute. I'm trying to be intimidating."

"Oh, you are," I say, still catching my breath, "but please don't do that. I'll be fine."

"I don't know," she says, narrowing her eyes. "I've got decent reach and pent-up rage. You really think I couldn't take her?"

I raise an eyebrow, turning toward her fully. "You wanna test that on me?"

She lifts her chin like I've challenged her. "Maybe I do."

And suddenly we're both smiling, too wide, too much.

That buzz under my skin is back. That electricity I feel every time we're in each other's space for more than ten seconds.

It's not even about the words-we're past that.

It's the way her eyes move to my mouth for half a second too long.

The way her leg is angled toward mine, even though there's a whole couch between us.

The way her hair's still a little messy from sleep and it makes her look soft in a way that undoes me.

I lean back just slightly, pressing my shoulder into the couch cushion so I don't lean toward her again without thinking. I'm too close to letting something slip-something I don't have the right to say.

"Do you even know how to skate?" I ask instead, trying to smother the way my voice softens when I look at her.

That makes her nose wrinkle, her whole face scrunching up like she's pretending to be offended. She shrugs one shoulder, casual and cocky.

"I'll figure it out with the adrenaline," she says, like charging across a rink in boots to defend my honor would be no big deal.

I laugh under my breath. "You're adorable."

Without thinking, I reach over and poke her nose. Just lightly. Just enough to watch her eyes go wide and her head jerk back like she wasn't expecting the contact.

She blinks at me, stunned for a second-and then grins.

"Rude," she murmurs, but her voice is lighter now, and she's fighting a smile like it's something private.

God, I want to kiss her.

I can't. Not when her heart's still tangled up in the ghost of someone else. Not when she looks at me like she's still searching for the shape of what comes next. I don't want to be someone she chooses because it's easy. Or safe. Or because I'm the one who showed up.

I want her to want me.

"You hungry?" I ask, dragging myself back to neutral. "Maybe we can make something?"

She nods, tucking her legs up onto the couch. "I could eat."

There's a pause before she adds, quieter, "Can we do pancakes?"

"Pancakes?" I blink at her. "It's, like, six p.m."

She shrugs, playful now. "I like pancakes."

"You know that's not a meal, right?"

"Says who?" she says, stretching her arms above her head like she owns the room. "You play a sport where people fistfight on ice skates. I think I can eat pancakes for dinner."

I shake my head, but I'm smiling. "I'll allow it."

We make our way to the kitchen, moving around each other in that clumsy-but-easy way we're starting to find. I hand her a bowl, and she hands me flour. She keeps "accidentally" nudging me with her hip like it's no big deal. Like she doesn't know it's driving me insane.

At one point, she gets a bit of batter on her mouth, and without thinking, I reach out and wipe it off with my thumb. My skin touches hers and I feel it. She feels it. There's a pause. A look. A flicker of something in her eyes that makes my breath catch.

But she doesn't say anything. Just keeps whisking. The pancakes come out slightly lumpy and a little too golden, and she insists on drowning hers in syrup while I try not to stare at the way her tongue catches the edge of her lip when she takes a bite.

We eat on the couch, legs stretched out.

A movie plays in the background, but I couldn't tell you a single thing about it.

All I know is this-her shoulder, pressed against mine.

The sound of her laugh when I say something dumb.

The way she looks at me when she thinks I'm not paying attention.

And this ache in my chest that's getting harder to ignore.

Later, when the movie ends and the plates are empty, we don't move. The silence between us is soft. Comfortable. But something's simmering under it. Something quiet and unbearable. Harper yawns and shifts closer, her head falling lightly against my shoulder.

"Thanks for today," she murmurs, barely more than a whisper.

I close my eyes for a second. Just to hold the moment. Just to feel the weight of her leaning on me like I'm something solid.

"You're welcome," I whisper back.

She falls asleep like that, eventually. Her breath deep and even. Her hand resting lightly on my forearm. And I sit there, perfectly still, watching the rise and fall of her chest and trying not to fall apart.

I'm in so much more trouble than I thought.

She's warm and real and here, and I want her in ways I don't know how to quiet.

And I can't have her.

Not really.

Not when she's still healing. Not when I'm still just the in-between.

So I stay silent.

She'll never look at me the way she used to look at him.

And somehow, that breaks me more than any hit I've ever taken on the ice.