Page 4

MILLIE

My forehead hits the back of the door with a soft thud. I don't even wince-maybe I deserve worse. I close my eyes and let the weight of it settle on me. That came out so much harsher than I meant it to. I didn't want to snap. Not really.

The entire drive home, I kept rehearsing some version of a polite welcome.

Something halfway decent. Something that wouldn't make me sound like a complete jerk.

My mom always says that when the world pisses you off, you don't throw that anger at the first person who breathes wrong.

And I tried. I really tried. I planned it in my head: walk in, say hi, maybe even smile a little, then point her toward the first room on the right-the one I cleared out on purpose.

Because I know she's a photographer. I figured the lighting would be good, and I thought.

.. I don't know. That maybe it'd help. That maybe she'd see I wasn't completely heartless.

But then I walked in. And there she was-standing in my space like she belonged there.

Hoodie too big, light brown hair short over her shoulders, her soft grey eyes scanning my books like she was trying to read something about me.

She looked smaller than I remembered. Not weak, just.. . quieter. And tired, maybe.

And then my brain short-circuited. All that rehearsed crap flew out the window and what came out of my mouth was the worst version of myself.

I wanted to say something soft. I did.

But all night, I'd been at some glittery, fake-ass city event where men twice my age still think it's fine to comment on my body instead of my stats.

Couldn't swing a champagne flute without hearing a sexist joke in my direction.

I smiled through all of it. Swallowed it like I always do.

And by the time I got home, I was simmering.

And she was just... there. She didn't deserve that.

My teammates haven't stopped talking about her since they found out she was moving in. I thought they remembered her because she insulted me to my face in the most accidental, awkward way possible. But no, apparently the lasting memory was "Millie, that girl is stupid hot."

I rolled my eyes at the time. Told them they were imagining things. But they weren't. Of course they weren't.

She's annoyingly beautiful.

Soft brown hair that looks like it smells like honey or whatever girls in romantic comedies always smell like.

Full pink lips that part like she's holding back ten thousand things she's too polite to say.

And those grey eyes... I don't even know how to describe them.

They're quiet. But not empty. Like she's seeing more than she lets on.

And she's shy. Polite. Still managed a smile even after I snapped at her like a feral cat with a sore paw.

Fuck this.

I push off the bed, irritation crawling up my spine like static.

I can't afford to be distracted-not now.

Not by someone's big gray eyes or the stupid ache of guilt sitting at the bottom of my stomach like a rock.

Harper's here because Audrey asked me to help.

That's it. We're just sharing a roof, nothing more. I don't owe her softness.

I step out onto the balcony, hoping the night air will cool the fire under my skin. The city sprawls in front of me-quiet, glittering, a thousand windows lit like stars. Usually, this view calms me. Reminds me I've made it further than most expected. But right now? I feel like I'm slipping.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my sweats, and when I pull it out, the name flashing across the screen makes me roll my eyes.

Elena.

I swipe to answer, already bracing for whatever she's about to throw at me. "Hey."

"Millie," she says, all brisk efficiency and tight-lipped concern. "Sorry to call so late, but we need to go over tomorrow."

I press my fingers into my temple, leaning one shoulder against the glass door. "What's tomorrow?"

There's a pause. Then a dry snort. "Seriously?"

I say nothing.

"The interview, Millie. National spotlight? Frontline Sports Weekly? You know, the biggest one we've lined up since playoffs ended. I have the talking points. Thought I'd send them over so you can rehearse."

Right. That. I close my eyes and exhale slowly through my nose. Rehearse the answers. Because god forbid I just... speak like a real person.

Elena's been my agent since I was eighteen. Back when I still thought that being drafted meant I'd finally arrived. She got me the interviews, the endorsement deals, the magazine spreads where I'm wearing eyeliner and a jersey, gripping a stick like it's a damn accessory.

She's good at her job. And I owe her a lot. But every favor has its strings. Because every time I sit in those chairs-bright lights in my face, cameras rolling-I have to smile and speak like I'm grateful to be a woman in a space that still doesn't want me.

I have to pretend I don't hear the patronizing tone when they ask if it's hard to keep up with the men. I have to pretend it's flattering when they call me the face of women's hockey, like I didn't bleed for this sport, like I didn't earn every minute on the ice.

And tomorrow, I'll have to sit across from another smug host who'll call me sweetheart before asking what it's like to be "a girl in a man's game.

" Like the NHL is the holy grail, and the league I play in is just..

. warm-up. I'll have to sit and smile when they comment on my body- on my family. On my moms.

"Send the questions," I murmur into the phone. My voice is flat, but Elena doesn't comment on it.

"Will do," she says, then pauses. "And Millie? Maybe try to smile a little more this time. The execs said you looked cold in your last segment."

Cold. The word lands like a punch to the ribs. I press my thumb to the edge of the railing, biting down on the inside of my cheek so I don't say something I'll regret. Smile more. Be softer. Be easier to digest. Even when they're slicing you open and calling it praise.

"Sure," I say, because it's easier than fighting. "Goodnight, Elena."

She hangs up without saying it back.

I run my hands through my hair and groan at the dark blue sky.

Don't get me wrong- I love my life. I love playing, I love the rush, the adrenaline, I love winning- but I hate having to stay quiet when it's the last thing I want.

My moms taught me to speak up, to be loud, to scream my truth, to defend my rights- and I can't do that in this world where I'm being watched everywhere every time.

Why do I have to let men walk all over me when my mom taught me not to let anyone do that?

Why do I have to smile and nod when they talk shit about the CWHL when it's just as important as the NHL?

Why do I have to let men comment on my body- my life, my sexuality and say nothing? Fucking bullshit. I'm not this person.

It's late but I still change my clothes into some sweatpants and an oversized hoodie planning to go on a run, but as soon as I get out of my room I hear it.

A soft whimper coming from the first room.

Oh, fuck me.

Why the hell did I agree to this?

Oh, right. Audrey. And now I have a short haired brunette crying in the other room.

Was what I said really all that mean that she's crying over it?

Another whimper and another muffled weep punch through the door and invade my chest.

You don't owe her anything.

Ignore. Ignore. Ignore.

I can't. As much as I'd love to be that person, I'm not.

Taking a deep breath, I walk towards her room and raise my fist to knock on it before opening it without permission.

The sight makes my chest twist. She has her knees tucked into her chest as she sits on the wall facing the window, hiding her face in her crossed arms, and I don't know what the fuck to say to get her to chill out.

How am I supposed to get her to stop? I don't even know the girl.

Say something nice, something comforting. Like your moms taught you.

The light from the window casts soft shadows across the hardwood.

The room's empty except for a couple of boxes, her camera bag, and Harper-curled up against the wall, knees tucked to her chest, hoodie sleeves swallowed by her hands.

Her face is buried in the crook of her arms, shoulders shaking so quietly it makes the silence louder.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

Immediately, I hate it. Are you okay? She's clearly not okay. She's unraveling right in front of me and I'm out here tossing clichés at her like I'm on autopilot.

Her head snaps up. Her gray eyes are swollen, rimmed with red, and still somehow wide with surprise. Her cheeks are blotchy and wet and flushed from the cold air leaking in from the open window.

She sniffs, blinking at me like I just landed here from another planet. "Yeah. Just perfect," she says with a watery, sarcastic half-laugh. The kind that tries to make a joke of the wreckage.

My nose wrinkles, unconvinced. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you crying?" I ask. "What's wrong?"

Her laugh isn't amused-it's sharp, bitter, and a little unhinged.

"What's wrong?" she echoes, like I've asked if she stubbed her toe instead of fallen apart.

Her voice spikes as she pushes herself up from the floor, her movements jerky, ungraceful with the weight of everything she's been holding in.

She's smaller than me. A good few inches shorter. But right now? She looks ten feet tall. And I'm a bit scared of her.

"What's wrong is that my entire life has imploded, okay?

" Her voice cracks around the edges. "Sorry I can't smile through it, Amelia.

" I stiffen at the sound of my name on her tongue.

"My boyfriend-ex-of six years cheated on me.

With some random girl. Six years." Her voice shakes as she says it, and her hands flutter uselessly at her sides like she doesn't know where to put them.

"And because of it, I lost the apartment.

My apartment. The one I decorated, paid for, cleaned, lived in.

He kept the furniture. He kept my bed."

She turns her head, like she's ashamed to look at me.

"I have nothing left," she says, quieter now.

"I can't afford to live alone, not in this city.

I'm broke. My mom's- I just... I'm here-in some stranger's apartment-where I'm clearly not wanted.

I don't want this. None of it."

Her voice drops to a whisper, and it hits harder than the yelling. "I want my old life back."

I don't move. I should. I should go to her, say something kind, maybe place a hand on her shoulder like people do in those comforting scenes from books or TV. But all I can do is lean against the doorframe and watch her break apart like a wave hitting rocks-loud and messy and so damn human.

She exhales shakily and presses her fingers to her temple like she's trying to physically hold herself together. "I don't know what the hell I'm doing with my life," she admits. And that's when the fight drains out of her-like someone just pulled the plug.

Her shoulders slump, and suddenly she looks so much smaller again. Tired. Crushed under the weight of everything she's carrying.

I already knew some of it. Audrey told me the basics-She met the guy when they were teenagers and started dating at eighteen, guy got some job here and they moved.

Six years later he cheated on her, kicked her out, and she has nowhere to go.

It sounded dramatic at the time. Messy in a way I didn't want invading my space.

If someone ever did that to me, I would've set fire to their stuff, taken my shit, and left nothing behind but ashes. But now?

Now I see her. Really see her. And it feels different.

Because standing here, all I can think about is how she doesn't look like someone who burns things down.

She looks like someone who waited too long for someone else to put a ring on her finger and be faithful to her.

She looks like someone who believed in love the way my moms and sisters do-soft and forever and kind.

She looks like someone who probably reads paperbacks with pink spines and dog-ears her favorite scenes and daydreams about being kissed like the girls in those stories.

It's written all over her. In her trembling voice. In the way her chest rises and falls like it's struggling to keep up. In the quiet grief pooling in her eyes that still haven't stopped crying, even though she's trying so damn hard to hold it in.

And for reasons I don't fully understand, it makes something twist deep in my chest.

She inhales a deep, centering breath as she runs her hands down her sweatshirt that looks about five sizes too big on her. "I'm going to move out. We don't know each other, and you're right. You didn't ask for me to be here and that's not fair to you-"

"No, you're not."

"Excuse me?"

"You're not moving you. I'm not a monster. I know you're going through some shit and I won't toss you out on the street. You're Audrey's friend, she's my friend. She trusts you and I trust her. You can stay. Just... stay in your side and I'll stay in mine."

She blinks at me like I've just spoken in a different language.

Her mouth parts like she's ready to argue, ready to keep herself on the defensive, but nothing comes out.

Just another shaky breath. The kind you take when you're trying not to cry again.

She runs her hands down her sleeves again-slow, nervous movements, like maybe if she keeps moving she won't shatter completely.

That hoodie is massive on her. Probably not even hers.

The sleeves hang past her wrists and the collar droops off one shoulder.

It makes her look younger. Smaller. Like she's trying to hide inside it.

"I mean it," I say, quieter this time. "You're not leaving."

She swallows, and I watch her try to keep her composure, like it's something she has to hold with both hands. Her jaw tightens. "I didn't come here to be a burden."

"You're not."

"Really?" Her voice is sharp again, but there's no heat behind it-just tiredness. "Because you kind of made it clear I wasn't welcome."

Ouch. I wince, even though I deserve it.

"I know," I admit, pressing my palm against the doorframe to keep myself grounded. "That was... shitty of me. I shouldn't've said that."

I don't apologize easily.

It's not that I don't know how-it's just that I grew up in a house where actions spoke louder than words. Where 'sorry' was said by showing up the next morning with coffee and a pastry, not with a huge speech. Still, I say it, because I think she needs to hear it.

"I'm sorry."

Her eyes flick up to mine. Quiet. Studying.

She doesn't say anything. I don't think she believes me yet, and honestly, I can't blame her.

"I had a shitty night," I continue, running a hand through my hair and tugging at the roots, trying to release the tension knotted there.

"And I took it out on you, which wasn't fair. None of this is. I know that."

Still nothing. Just her watching me like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I exhale, drop my hand to my hip. "Look, you don't have to like me.

We don't have to be best friends braiding each other's hair and watching romcoms or whatever.

But this is a big apartment, and you've got enough going on.

You shouldn't have to worry about a place to sleep on top of everything else. "

She presses her lips together, and her eyes go glossy again. I think she's holding it back more for her own sake than mine.

I step back, giving her space, because if it were me in her place, I'd need it. And I'm not trying to fix her. I can't. I wouldn't know how even if I tried.

"I meant what I said. Stay in your lane, I'll stay in mine. We don't have to talk. Make yourself at home. I'm not gonna give you crap for existing. I just... my life is loud, too much noise, too much people I just need quiet when I get home. That's all. This is my safe place."

She nods, small and slow.

"Okay," she says softly.

And that should be the end of it. That should be when I leave and pretend I've done my part. That I've said enough to not be the asshole anymore.

But I don't move.

Because I can still hear the ghost of that muffled cry she made earlier.

I can still see the way her knees tucked into her chest like she was trying to fold herself into nothing.

And no matter how many times I tell myself I'm not responsible for other people's feelings, I still feel the weight of hers, pressing up against the edges of mine.

So I look around the room. It's bare. A couple of boxes stacked near the wall, her camera bag by the window, but that's it. No bed. No furniture. Just her, a sweatshirt, and an oversized mess of pain she's trying to hide.

"You'll have the place all by yourself tomorrow and the next two days. I'm leaving on a trip for a game... I.... okay." I shake my head, walking backwards to the door. "I'll leave you to it."

She gives me another small nod, before whispering, "Thank you." it's barely there but I catch it.

I don't say anything, just turn my back to her and close the door behind me. Releasing a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Fucking Audrey.

I hope I don't regret this.