Page 40

MILLIE

Eventually, I had to show up.

There was no escaping it anymore. The calls, the texts, the calendar reminders my agent kept rescheduling like I wouldn't notice—practice was waiting, the media was screaming, and I was out of excuses.

I showed up to the arena just after sunrise, bleary-eyed, body aching from a week of holding Harper through grief and sleep and stillness.

I didn't even get a chance to lace my skates before Julian blew the whistle like I was a rookie.

I deserved it. Maybe.

Ten games off mid-season.

Half the league whispering. A quarter of the fans pissed.

And still, not even a sliver of regret in me.

Just exhaustion. A thick, bone-deep exhaustion that no stretch, no sprint, no suicide run could ever sweat out.

Julian's pacing the rink like he's trying to erase it with every stomp of his skates. "You think the team waits for you, Amelia?" His voice echoes off the walls. "You think because you had a good first half, you get to disappear?"

I don't answer. I skate harder. Legs burning. Chest heaving. My stick is slippery in my hands and I can feel the bruises blooming under my gear like old ghosts.

"You gonna tell us where the hell you've been?"

I don't. I don't give him anything. Not the real story, not the fake one either.

I just push until my lungs burn, because if I stop moving, I'll think about her.

About how she looked when I left her curled in my bed this morning, wrapped in my hoodie, hair mussed, eyes half-open and still red from crying.

About how her voice cracked when she said, "Good luck," and how I kissed her forehead before I could talk myself out of it.

The whistle blows again. More drills. More punishment. I bite my tongue until I taste blood.

By the time practice is over, I'm drenched in sweat and every joint in my body is humming with fatigue. I want to collapse. I want to go home. Not to my apartment—to Harper. Because that's what home is now. Her. Always her.

But Jaz is waiting outside the locker room. Leaning against the wall in a trench coat too perfect for the mess I've left behind. Her brows shoot up when she sees me.

"You look like shit," she says.

"Thanks," I mutter. "Missed you too."

She falls into step beside me. "We need to talk. Like, yesterday."

I already know what's coming. I've seen the notifications pile up.

Jaz has been calling me nonstop—first once a day, then every hour, and now, apparently, every five minutes.

I've ignored her texts, ignored the bullet-pointed crisis plan I know she's drafted, probably titled "What To Do When a Bennett Implodes Her Entire Career For A Girl. "

I don't even make it past the locker room doors before she finds me. Her heels echo down the corridor, her coat cinched tight, her eyes furious and glittering like she's been holding this in too long.

"The media is having a fucking field day," she snaps, falling into step beside me. "And I'm not saying that as an exaggeration—this is DEFCON ONE, Bennett. Do you know what you've done?"

I stay quiet, just keep walking, my body still sore from the skate drills, my shoulders heavy with everything I haven't said.

"Some fans think this whole thing is love," she says, voice sharp. "But more think it's a PR stunt. That you used a girl for fame. That you played the sapphic angle for attention and then vanished. They think you're lying, Millie. Lying to everyone."

I suck in a breath.

"Your social media manager is begging me for a statement. Any statement. Your agent wants an exclusive interview with someone, anyone who'll spin this into a comeback story. Julian wants your head on a stick. And I—"

"I don't care," I cut her off, too tired to dress it up in diplomacy.

She blinks like I slapped her. "Excuse me?"

I stop walking. Turn. Look her straight in the face.

"I don't care, Jaz. Not right now. Not when Harper—" My voice cracks before I can finish, and god, I hate how it cracks. I clench my jaw, fists tight at my sides. "Not when she needed me."

She steps back like she's trying to measure me again.

Like I'm someone new. "Millie. I love you, okay?

I do. I've worked with you for years. I've fought for you.

And I'm glad this whole fake dating thing helped you.

I'm glad you're in love or whatever the fuck this is.

But this—" she gestures wildly around us "—this isn't just your career.

This is your legacy. You were born into this game.

You built your name from nothing, then carried your mom's on your back.

You can't throw all of it away for a story. This is your mom's repu—"

"Don't bring my mom into this." My voice is ice.

She goes still. "I know this is my life," I grind out.

"I know what I did. I know the fans are pissed and the league is even more pissed.

I know they think I disappeared to play pretend.

I know what they're saying about me. I know they think I used her—God, Jaz, do you think I don't know? "

My heart is pounding, loud and messy. I swallow hard and press my hands into my eyes like that'll stop the pressure building in my skull.

"But you know what?" I keep going, softer now.

"They can hate me. They can burn every poster of me, they can strip my name off the boards, they can bench me, trade me, erase me from the season recap—whatever.

But I'm not sorry I left. Because I left for her.

I'd do it again." I breath, "Just tell me what to do so I can fix it.

That's your job, right? You give me a script, I read it— everything is good. "

Jaz looks at me like she doesn't recognize me. Or maybe like she's finally seeing the real me underneath the branding, the legacy, the curated post-game interviews. I don't know which is worse.

"You think this is something a script can fix?

" she says slowly, shaking her head like I've missed the point entirely.

"Millie, this isn't a pulled hamstring or a messy trade rumor.

This is your entire image going up in flames.

This is people calling you a manipulator, a liar.

This is Harper being dragged in the mud.

She's a real person, not a brand. And you—" she sighs, tilting her head at me, voice quieter now—"you clearly care about her. "

I swallow hard, my voice coming out rough. "It's not a lie. What we had—it started that way, yeah. But it's not fake now. Not for me."

Jaz nods like she already knew. Like maybe she's been waiting for me to catch up.

"Then don't read a script," she says, her voice calm but firm.

"Don't perform. Don't give them what they expect.

If you want to fix this—really fix this—you have to show them what's real.

Not the PR version. Not the fake dating fluff.

The truth. How it started. Why it changed.

Who she is. Who you are when you're with her. "

I stare at her, chest tightening. I feel like I've been cracked open, scraped raw. I've spent so long being careful, rehearsed, press-trained. I've spent my whole life being who people needed me to be—on the ice, in front of cameras, beside my mom at league galas.

But maybe that's the problem. Maybe the only way out of this is through it.

"I don't know how to be that honest," I whisper, and it's terrifying how true it is. "I'm not open about my personal life. You know that."

"Then figure it out," she says. "Before someone else tells your story for you.

"

She pulls out her phone and hands it to me.

"I already booked it. A sit-down. One-on-one.

National. Prime time. It airs this weekend.

You don't have to do it, but if you don't, someone else will.

And they'll get it wrong. They'll paint you as a villain, or worse—like none of it meant anything. Like she didn't mean anything."

I take the phone. Stare at the calendar invite. My stomach flips violently.

"I'm not doing an interview on my love life, Jaz," I say, shoving the phone gently back toward her.

"That's not who I am. I don't sit in a chair under stage lights and talk about how I feel.

This isn't a damn late-night scandal I can clear up with a viral moment.

This is Harper's life too. It's ours. And I'm not dragging her into some public circus for the sake of optics. "

She doesn't move to take the phone back. Just looks at me, patient and infuriating, like she expected this.

"I'm not saying you have to sell your soul," she says, "but you can't stay silent. They're tearing you apart in headlines and comment sections, Millie. The only thing louder than a lie is the silence that follows it."

I shake my head, jaw clenched so tight I can barely speak. "I'll post something. A video maybe. Or a statement. Something honest. I'll talk to the camera, not a stranger. I can control the narrative that way."

"You'll still be telling your story to the world."

"But on my terms." I cut her off, my voice firmer now. "No network edits. No cutting to commercial when I cry. No questions I didn't agree to answer. Just me. Just the truth."

Jaz considers it for a long moment. "Okay," she says finally. "But it has to be soon. You've got a few days before the fire turns permanent. And if you're going to put it out, you need to be brave about it. You need to tell them what really matters."

Her eyes soften, just a little. "You need to tell them why she matters—and how you're going to balance hockey and your personal life, because whether you like it or not, they're watching now."

The moment she leaves, I collapse onto the edge of the bench in the empty hallway, elbows on my knees, heart pounding like it's trying to claw its way out of my ribs.

The buzzing in my head won't stop. My ears ring with the voices of people who don't even know me—commentators, analysts, strangers online tearing me apart like they have some divine right to tell me who I am.

My mind won't shut off. Not from the pressure.

Not from the guilt. Not from the memory of Harper's hollow voice whispering you deserve better than me.

I stay there for a while, breathing like I just finished another round of suicides, until I hear footsteps.

Not hurried, not uncertain—just calm, confident steps that echo like a heartbeat down the corridor.

And then a voice I haven't heard in a few days, steady and familiar, cuts through the noise in my head.

"Get up."

I look up and see her—my mom, in all her no-nonsense, knows-me-too-well glory. Luna, still wearing her game-day jacket, even though she hasn't played in years. Her dark hair's pulled into a low ponytail, and her expression is unreadable—but her eyes? They're full of concern. Of knowing. Of love.

I blink. "What are you—how did you—?"

"Mom called me. Said you sounded like a zombie on the phone last night. Said Harper's barely eating. Said you're pretending you're fine and she's letting you."

I try to laugh, but it gets stuck halfway out of my throat. "She's wrong."

"She's never wrong," Mama says as she sits beside me, shoulder to shoulder. "You're both trying to be brave at the same time, and that's never worked for anyone."

We sit in silence for a beat, then another. The arena's quiet now. Everyone's gone home.

She nudges me. "Tell me what's going on."

"I don't know," I breathe. "I don't even know where to start. Everything's a mess. The league's pissed, the media thinks I used Harper for attention, my teammates are walking on eggshells, and I just... I don't care."

She nods, calm. "Good."

I blink at her. "Good?"

"Yeah," she says, turning her body to face me more fully. "Because it means you care more about her. More than you care about the noise. And that's the right kind of fucked up, Millie. That's the kind of fucked up that matters."

I let out a shaky laugh, rubbing my palms against my knees. "I'm trying, Mom. I really am. I'm trying to figure out how to be a player and a person. I'm trying to do right by her. But the pressure—it's so loud. And Harper's already hurting. I don't want to make it worse."

"You won't," she says softly. "Not if you keep showing up for her." She rests a hand on my knee, grounding me. "Did I ever tell you when I met your mom?"

"Kind of," I say. "You were already famous. She was a waitress. You coached Rory's little league? And granddad was mad because you started prioritizing her over the game."

Mama chuckles. "He was really mad and I couldn't care less.

I showed up. I stayed. Because the minute I saw her, I knew what mattered.

I knew I wasn't just a player anymore. I was hers.

And I didn't care if the league wanted me to smile and wave or play through it when she was in the hospital and needed me.

I walked out of a playoff game, Millie. I walked away from a title.

I just wanted her and your sister. Nothing else. "

I stare at her. "You never told me that."

She shrugs. "Didn't seem relevant until now.

The world will always ask you to be more, do more, give more.

They'll tell you that your love is a distraction, that it's weakness.

But it's not. It's the one thing in this world that's real.

That's yours. You don't owe the world your joy.

You don't owe them Harper." Her voice softens again, thick with emotion now.

"But you do owe yourself the right to love her.

Fully. Publicly. Quietly. In whatever way feels true to you.

Because that's what we Bennetts do, baby. We show up. We stay."

I swallow hard. "I don't want to let anyone down."

"You didn't. You chose her. You chose love. And I'm so damn proud of you for that."

She pulls me into her arms then, just like she used to when I was twelve and crying after a bad game. I bury my face in her shoulder, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, I let myself breathe.

"I don't..." My voice is so small I almost don't recognize it. "I haven't used the world love. I haven't— we haven't—"

Luna leans back just enough to look at me. There's that signature Bennett expression again—one brow raised, eyes sharp but full of heart. "Millie. Come on."

"I mean it," I say, pulling my sleeves over my hands like that might shield me from her honesty. "I don't know what I'm doing. It was all supposed to be fake, and now it's—she's—everything is different."

"Different how?" she asks, but I can already see the grin twitching at her lips.

I hesitate. "She makes me feel things."

Mama snorts. "Yeah, no kidding. You look at her like she's the last five seconds of a tied game. Like the outcome is going to rewrite your whole life."

My cheeks heat, and I groan into my hands. "Mom."

"What? I'm not wrong." She's teasing, but only just. There's warmth in it. Understanding. "I've seen the way you look at her, Mills. Soft. Scared. Sure. Like something matters more than the game for the first time in your whole life."

I blink hard, throat tight.

"I used to think hockey was everything," she continues, settling beside me on the bench, her voice low and thoughtful.

"I thought I knew who I was before your Mom.

Luna Bennett, the phenom. The legacy. The prodigy.

The story everyone wanted to write."

She smiles, but it's laced with something heavier.

"And then Mia walked into my life. Just rushing towards me with a tiny version of her.

And suddenly, none of the noise mattered.

None of the gold medals or the magazine covers or the pressure to keep proving myself.

When she looked at me, I remembered who I actually was.

The me underneath the jersey. It was like.

.. I found color in a world I didn't even realize was gray. "

I stare down at my palms. "That's what it feels like with Harper."

"Then stop questioning it," she says gently. "Stop waiting for some lightning strike moment to tell you it's real. If it grounds you, if it quiets the noise, if it makes you feel like yourself again—then it's already real."

I swallow, my chest tight in that terrifying, beautiful way. "I don't know who I am without hockey."

"Yes, you do," Mama says softly, no hesitation.

"You're the same girl who wouldn't let me kiss your mom in front of her because you said she was yours.

" Her lips curve into a knowing smile. "You're the same kid who used to make us all pause dinner to wait for you to grab your stuffed bear—remember that?

—and the little girl who climbed into our bed in the middle of the night the first time your sisters moved out because you felt too quiet in the house.

You made us watch those god-awful Christmas movies for seven hours straight once, and you cried at every one of them.

You're stubborn as hell, yeah. But you're kind.

Gentle where it counts. You're fierce and protective and so, so full of heart.

"

Her voice gets quieter, but firmer.

"I know who you are, Millie. You're mine. And now... you're hers, too."

The words hit a place I didn't even know was still sore—like pressing on a bruise you'd forgotten was there until it throbs again.

"She didn't ask for this," I whisper. "She didn't ask for me."

"No," Mama agrees softly. "But she chose you anyway."

I nod, teeth biting hard into my bottom lip.

"And you?" she adds. "You showed up for her in a way most people never would.

You dropped everything. You stayed. That's a real Bennett move, Millie.

We don't walk away when it's hard. We don't keep score.

We love. Loudly. Bravely. Even when the whole world is watching—and especially when it's not. "

"I—" My voice cracks. "I think I broke everything."

"No," she says. "You broke out of the version of yourself everyone else built for you. There's a difference. And it's a good thing."

I blink fast, but the tears still spill.

"You'd have done the same for Mom," I say, even though I already know the answer.

"I did," she says simply. "When your Mom was.

.. hurt— I would've missed an entire season if she'd let me.

Hell, I nearly did anyway. I got benched, lost my captaincy, got a call from the league that sounded a lot like a threat.

You know what?" Her eyes glint. "I'd do it again in a heartbeat. "

The silence that settles between us then isn't empty. It's full. Heavy in a way that anchors me instead of weighing me down.

I take a breath. Then another. "I miss Harper."

Mama's grin breaks through like sunshine. She bumps her shoulder against mine. "Then what are you doing here, baby?"

I look at her. My mother, the woman who gave up everything she thought she wanted to hold on to something that mattered more.

The woman who taught me how to be brave.

How to stay. And suddenly, it all feels so clear.

I rise slowly, legs still stiff from the punishment of practice, heart still raw—but steadier now.

Calmer. I don't know exactly how I'll fix the mess outside, the press and the headlines and the noise. But I know where I need to start.

"Come with me?"

She nods, green eyes glossy, "Always, Millie."