Page 26

HARPER

The hospital is chaos. A zoo of flashing cameras, murmured names, security badges, and clipped voices speaking too fast and too loud.

It's a blur of suits and lanyards and people who've never even watched a game until Millie was carted off the ice unconscious.

Reporters. Executives. Fans wearing her number like it gives them access to her pain.

It makes me feel sick.

The worst part is—none of them are here for her.

Not really. They're here for the story, the headlines, the drama.

The moment she opens her eyes, someone will already have the quote ready.

Someone else will have a camera pointed at her face.

Her team already released a statement—an update—before she even knew where she was.

They're planning her recovery like she's a fucking machine.

Like she doesn't get a say in her own body.

And not a single one of them mentioned the girl who hit her.

Not the fact that Millie's helmet flew off on impact.

Not that she lay motionless on the ice, her head twisted at an angle that haunts me every time I close my eyes.

Not that Toronto kept playing like nothing had happened.

Not that she skated away without a penalty, without consequence, without looking back.

No.

Millie's the one under scrutiny. As if she asked for it. As if her being injured is somehow more disappointing than the brutal hit that caused it.

Jesus. She almost died. And people are mad because she won't finish the season.

I don't know how Luna managed to keep the room private, but somehow she did.

She stormed down this hospital like a hurricane in a jacket, and whatever fire she threw at the suits must've worked, because the room is finally—mercifully—quiet.

Just a soft beeping from the monitors, the sterile hum of fluorescent lights.

Millie's sitting upright in the hospital bed, wrapped in pale blue blankets that don't match her skin tone at all.

There's a thin bruise blooming along her temple, like spilled ink, and a gauze patch pressed to the back of her head.

Her waves are flattened on one side, a little matted where they had to clean the blood. I try not to stare.

She's wearing headphones, the oversized kind that look like they were stolen from a studio. I think Mia brought them.

Her eyes are open, unfocused, staring somewhere over the window.

I stand just inside the door and feel like I'm trespassing.

She doesn't see me right away. And I'm not sure I want her to—not until I get my breathing under control, not until the pounding in my chest stops sounding like an alarm. I feel like I'm about to cry again, and I already used that card in the waiting room. I can't fall apart now.

Millie sighs softly—more breath than sound—and slowly peels her headphones off, letting them rest around her neck.

Her eyes flick toward me, and even now, bruised and pale under hospital lights, she manages a half-smirk.

"Taking a picture might last longer, Harps," she says, her voice low and rasped, like it's been dragged across gravel.

It's hoarser than usual, rough from the tube they must've put down her throat or whatever sedatives they gave her, but it's hers. That voice I know too well—sharp, teasing, edged with something soft she only ever shows me.

It cracks something open in me.

I haven't smiled in hours—not since she collapsed, not since I saw her body go limp on the ice like someone had stolen her bones right out of her. But now, my lips tug upward before I can stop them. It's small, and shaky, but it's real.

I walk toward her like I'm wading through knee-deep water—slow and uncertain, every step a question I don't know if I'm allowed to ask. She doesn't look away. She just watches me, letting me come to her on my own time, like she knows I need it.

I sit down in the chair beside her bed. It creaks quietly under me.

I'm close enough now to smell the faint trace of her shampoo—something citrusy and warm that clings to the ends of her flattened curls.

Her hospital gown is too big, her skin too pale, but just being near her feels like my lungs are working again.

Not the hospital. Not the world.

Just me.

Her eyes meet mine, and I swear I stop breathing for a second.

They're a kaleidoscope—blue and green. I've always noticed them, but tonight, they're different.

Dimmed. Not just tired—dark. Like there's a storm moving behind them that hasn't passed yet.

Pain, maybe. Or anger. Or something else she hasn't named.

"I didn't know if I'd ever see you like this," I whisper. My throat tightens around the words.

Her brow lifts in that way she does when she's trying to make me laugh without admitting it. "Hot? Battered? Wearing a gown that opens in the back?"

"Alive," I say. And that word tastes like blood and fear in my mouth.

Millie looks away. Down at her hands, folded in her lap. Her fingers twitch a little, like they're still gripping a stick, like part of her is still back on that ice, still in the middle of a shift. There's a pause, heavy but not awkward. Just full.

"They said it wasn't a concussion," she murmurs. "Just a contusion. Mild swelling. I'm lucky, apparently. Out six to eight weeks. Maybe longer."

The words hit me like a gut punch.

"That's the rest of the season," I whisper.

Millie shrugs one shoulder, but even that small movement makes her wince. "Yeah. Guess I'm benched."

She laughs, but it's hollow. It disappears into the sterile air.

And then, quieter—so soft I almost miss it—she asks, "Why are you here, Harps?"

My head jerks up like she's just slapped me. "What? You got hurt," I say too quickly, too defensively. "What do you mean, why am I here?"

Her gaze doesn't flinch. She stares right into me, and I swear I can feel it—the way she's looking for something under my skin. Her voice is still gentle, but her words are sharp.

"But why are you here?"

And I get it, all at once.

Because aside from Luna, Mia, her sisters, not a single person in this hospital is here for Millie Bennett the human being.

They're here for the star player. The icon.

The legacy. The brand. They want her to recover so she can play again—not because they care if she's okay. Not because they love her.

I swallow, try to breathe through it, but my fingers are already curling into the arms of the chair like they're bracing for something I'm not strong enough to name.

Millie looks away first. She turns her head toward the window—toward a view that's probably just another roof, a few bleak trees, the half-lit glow of a parking lot. But she stares like there's something out there worth getting lost in. Something easier than this.

"Is it because of the public?" she asks, quietly. "Was it because it would look suspicious if you weren't here?"

The question feels like ice water poured over my skin. It shouldn't hurt. But it does. Because she actually thinks that. Because it means she believes, even for a second, that I'd show up here—scared, shaking, heartsick—for optics.

"Is that what you think?" I say, my voice soft and breaking. "That I came here for the cameras?"

She shrugs, still facing the window. Her voice is low, a little empty. Like she's trying not to sound like she cares as much as she does. "I don't know what to think."

I sit up straighter, the words climbing out of me before I can polish them.

"I'm here to see you, Mills. Not the player.

Not the brand. I've been here since the second your helmet hit the ice.

I didn't care about the reporters or the fans or the executives circling like vultures.

I don't give a single shit what anyone thinks.

I couldn't care less who you are to them.

"

She doesn't answer. Her hand curls slightly into the blanket.

"To me," I continue, my voice softening, "you're.

.. I don't know exactly what you are, but you're important.

You, the person. The one who gets too competitive during game nights and puts on a blanket on me when I fall asleep reading, you that take care of me even when I don't ask you to.

You, that do so many little things for me that you'd think I don't notice and I do. You're important to me, Amelia."

Millie's jaw clenches. Her lips part just slightly, but no sound comes out. And then, finally, she whispers, "I don't want you to see me like this."

"Like what?"

She still won't look at me. Her shoulders are tight, her hands clenched now into fists beneath the sheet.

"Weak," she says, and her voice cracks. "Broken. This isn't me."

I don't think. I just stand. And then I move slowly, deliberately, around the bed until I'm beside her, not hovering, not pushing—just close enough to feel her breath when it hitches.

I lower myself onto the edge of the mattress, and with the gentlest touch I can manage, I lift my hand to her chin.

My fingers are trembling, but I guide her to look at me.

Her skin is warm beneath my touch.

And when she finally meets my gaze, her eyes are swimming.

Not just with tears—but emotion. Anger. Shame.

Vulnerability so sharp it makes my chest ache.

Those ocean-colored eyes, always vibrant, always sharp, look waterlogged and raw, like they've been holding back a tide for too long.

"This is you," I tell her, quiet but steady. "Because you're human, Millie."

She lets out the smallest breath. It's not a sob. Not even close. But something in it deflates. Like a muscle that's been clenched too long finally relaxing.

Her bottom lip wobbles. She tries to smile but it's crooked and cracked. A single tear slides down her cheek, and I don't wipe it away. I let it fall. Because she's allowed to cry. She should cry. She's carried too much for too long without anyone letting her fall apart.

"I'm not allowed to be human," she whispers, like she's confessing a secret.

"I'm not allowed to be weak. I'm not allowed to mess up or step out of line.

I'm not allowed to get injured. Not allowed to take time off.

I'm not allowed to say no. I'm not allowed to speak up, to defend myself.

I'm not allowed to be tired. I'm not allowed to be anything other than perfect.

"

She sucks in a sharp breath—shaky and brittle and barely held together.

"The pressure," she says, voice nearly gone, "it feels like it's inside my lungs.

Like I can't even breathe unless someone says I'm allowed to. I feel... suffocated."

I don't even realize I've stopped breathing until her voice goes quiet.

I'm still holding her hand—still tracing slow, grounding circles over her knuckles with my thumb like it might help keep her here with me, tethered to something.

I can feel the tremble beneath her skin.

The kind that comes from trying to hold back for too long.

Her words echo in my chest like they've carved a hollow space inside me. 'I feel suffocated.'

I press my lips together hard enough to hurt. Just to keep it all inside—everything I'm scared to say, everything I wish she didn't have to.

I saw it.

From the front row.

The way the world handles her like a product.

Like a PR campaign that never ends. Smile here.

Pose like this. Be softer. Be gentler. Don't scowl.

Don't talk back. Say sorry, even when you're not.

And then the fake dating—Jesus, this.

All of this started because someone thought she needed to look more lovable.

And she agreed. She said yes to all of it, just to claw back some kind of approval. Just to be someone they could stand behind.

And then I saw her on the ice—crumple, collapse, go silent. The way her helmet spun across the rink like something discarded.

I saw the panic in her teammates' faces. The delay. The disbelief. Like even they couldn't imagine a world where Millie Bennett doesn't get up.

But she didn't.

And I couldn't breathe.

And now she's here, eyes glassy and voice frayed at the edges, telling me she's not even allowed to feel that pain. That she's not allowed to break.

She turns her head, her cheek brushing the stiff hospital pillow, and whispers like it's the most casual thing in the world, "Are you okay, Harps?"

"What?" I blink at her. Confused. Off-balance.

She looks at me like she means it. Like she's really asking. "Are you okay? You don't have to be here, you know. They're discharging me tomorrow."

And I don't know what to say.

Because am I okay?

I close my eyes and see it again—the hit. The way her body jerked, the sound of her skull against the boards, the terrifying stillness that followed. Her helmet rolling to my feet. The sick weight of adrenaline, fear, knowing I couldn't reach her. Couldn't fix it.

This hospital reminds me where my mom is, still fighting for her life. The amount of things I have to pay for her just to take one more breathe. To keep her with me even though she doesn't wanna see me.

"I was scared," I whisper.

She blinks.

No one's ever quiet around her, not really.

People bark orders. They cheer. They chant.

They scream her name or curse it, depending on whether she's won them the game or not.

But no one whispers to her like this. Like the world might stop if we get too loud.

"I was so scared, Millie." Her eyes flick toward mine, heavy and shiny and curious in that gentle way she gets when she's not hiding behind sarcasm or swagger.

When she lets herself be a girl instead of a legend.

"I couldn't move," I go on, my voice barely making it out.

"When you went down—I just... froze. Like my body forgot how to work.

I thought—God, I thought that was it. That you weren't getting up.

"

She watches me now, really watches.

Her fingers twitch in mine. "I saw the way you fell.

The sound—" I break off, my throat clenching, "—the sound of your head hitting the ice.

It—it hasn't stopped replaying. Over and over.

And I couldn't do anything. I was just watching.

"

I finally look down at our hands. Her skin is paler than usual, bandaged in places.

There's a faint bruise blooming up her forearm, like the shadow of everything she's just confessed.

"You scared the hell out of me," I whisper.

"I thought I'd lost you before I ever...

really had you." I barely say the last part, but she hears it.

Millie exhales. It's the kind of sound that might be a laugh if it weren't so exhausted. She blinks once, twice, like her eyes are too full and she's trying not to let any more spill.

And still—still—she tries to make it easier for me. She whispers, "You're kind of dramatic, Harps."

"Don't do that," I say, gently. "Don't make yourself smaller to protect me. You don't have to right now. Not with me."

Millie looks at me like she wants to say something but the door swings open with a quiet click, and we both flinch like we've been caught sneaking out past curfew.

My hand is still in hers. Too warm. Too close. Too obvious. I let go a second too late.

Luna Bennett enters first, all presence and sharp eyes, her gaze slicing through the room with the accuracy of a seasoned coach and a protective mother rolled into one.

Her brows lift—barely—but the look says everything.

I've been seen. We've been seen. Not just me sitting at her daughter's bedside, but the way I was looking at her.

The closeness. The hand-holding. The very-not-fake tension in the air.

Behind her, Mia follows with a gentler kind of energy, tilting her head like she just walked into a conversation she doesn't want to interrupt but absolutely plans to decode later.

"Don't mind us," Mia says, smiling as she slides the door closed behind her. "We figured she'd be awake by now."

Millie clears her throat, but it comes out scratchy, like her voice hasn't quite caught up to her brain yet. "Hey, Mama. Hey, Ma."

Luna crosses her arms, standing at the foot of the bed like she's assessing the damage herself, as if the doctors weren't enough. "You look like hell," she says, but there's no malice in it—just that very Luna Bennett brand of blunt affection.

"You should see the other guy," Millie mutters with a crooked smile, and I bite back a laugh.

"She got suspended, by the way," Luna adds, still eyeing her daughter like she's both proud and annoyed she had to find that out through Twitter. "Six games."

"Only six?" I say before I can stop myself, and Luna's eyes flick to me like a hawk who just noticed a field mouse had opinions.

"She's lucky it wasn't permanent," Luna replies coolly, but then—there's the twitch of a smile. Almost teasing. Almost.

"Lu," Mia says softly, walking over to place a hand on her wife's arm. "Let her breathe."

"I am letting her breathe," Luna mutters, but she shifts her stance, less like a guard dog now and more like a very invested mother trying not to pace.

Mia turns to Millie and brushes her red hair gently back from her face, her eyes scanning her like she still doesn't fully believe she's okay. "You scared the hell out of us," she says, her voice low and full of love. "But you're here. You're okay. That's what matters."

Millie leans into her touch without hesitation, like she's a kid again, like she's found the one place she doesn't have to hold herself up.

I shift in my chair, trying not to make noise, not to interrupt. But Mia glances at me with a smile that makes my chest ache a little. She walks over and sets a gentle hand on my shoulder like she's known me forever.

"Thank you for staying," she says, like I did something remarkable. Like I didn't need to be here. Like it wasn't the only thing that felt right.

"She's been here all day?" Millie asks, and her voice is thin but steadier now, like it's finding its way back to her.

"She has," Mia says, glancing back at her daughter with a soft kind of pride. "Since the moment they brought you in. Hasn't moved an inch."

Millie's eyes flicker to me. I meet them, even though it feels like standing in front of a fire I asked to be burned by.

"Have any of you eaten?" she asks, and it's so Millie—so her—to worry about everyone else when she's the one in a hospital bed with a bandage over her eyebrow and pain stitched into every inch of her.

Mia smiles faintly. "Mom bought food but no one really ate much. Lauren's waiting at home with dinner. You should come too, Harper."

The invitation floats in the space between us like it's nothing. Like it's casual. But my stomach flips because it feels like everything.

"I, uh..." My voice catches, and I glance instinctively toward Millie, as if I need her permission to answer, like she's the one anchoring me to this moment.

She doesn't say anything. Just looks at me with those tired, unreadable eyes.

"I think..." I clear my throat, "I think I want to stay with her for a little longer. "

The room stills for a second—not in a dramatic way, just in the kind of silence that notices something small and important.

Mia's smile softens even more, like she's watching a puzzle come together that she's known the shape of all along. "Of course. We'll bring you something back, just in case."

Luna, who's been standing stiffly near the window like she's ready to interrogate a nurse or threaten a GM, finally speaks. "You don't have to stay if you're tired."

The words sound like they're giving me an out, but the look she gives me is the opposite. It's sharp and weighing, like she's measuring my intentions down to the molecular level. Like she's asking: Do you know what you're doing here? With my girl?

"I'm not tired," I say, straighter now. "I want to stay."

Luna doesn't reply. Just nods once, slow, and I get the distinct feeling that if I'd said anything else, she would've remembered it forever.

"Luna," Mia says again, dragging out her name with a smile that's so fond it practically wraps the room in a blanket. "Stop being scary."

"I'm not scary," Luna insists.

"She's a little scary," Millie whispers, just loud enough for me to hear, and I bite down on a grin I can't hold back.

Mia shoots her wife a look that's both scolding and amused. "She adores you," she says to me, her voice low and kind, and it takes me a second to realize she means Luna. "She just has a funny way of showing it."

"I heard that," Luna mutters, but there's no heat behind it. She finally moves to the chair on the other side of Millie's bed and sinks into it like the adrenaline's worn off and exhaustion is winning.

Mia leans in and kisses Millie's forehead, then gently takes her hand. "You'll get through this," she murmurs. "We'll get through this. No matter how long it takes. I'm so glad you're okay, baby."

"Come on," she says, tugging gently at her wife's arm. "Let's let them be."

Luna hesitates for a second longer, like she wants to leave behind a rulebook or a list of approved topics, then sighs and presses a kiss to Millie's temple. "We'll be back to spend the night with you."

"Love you," Millie murmurs, her voice small and full.

"Always," Mia says, her hand lingering briefly over Millie's blanket-covered foot before she and Luna slip out of the room, the door closing with a soft click.

And just like that, we're alone again.

The quiet rushes back in, but it's different now—warmer somehow, not so sharp at the edges.

Still thick with everything unsaid, but not unbearable.

Millie shifts slightly, wincing as she tries to get more comfortable.

I move to help, adjusting her pillow with careful hands, and she lets me.

She lets me, even though I know how hard it is for her to let anyone.

"You didn't have to say no," she says after a beat, her voice scratchy but clear.

"To dinner?"

She nods.

"I wanted to stay," I say. "That's it. No performance. No pressure. I just... I needed to."

She looks at me then, really looks, like she's trying to find the lie. But I don't think she does, because her shoulders relax just a little.

And then, so quietly I almost miss it: "You make it feel okay to breathe."

The words hit something tender in me. Something I didn't know she even had the space to offer. I swallow around the lump in my throat and reach for her hand again—this time slower, less hesitant—and she doesn't flinch. Our fingers curl together like we've done this before, like we'll do it again.

"I'm not going anywhere," I whisper. "Not unless you tell me to."

She doesn't— and I stay.

I'll stay for as long as she lets me.