Page 48

MILLIE

Playoffs are happening right now—and it was never a question of whether we'd make it.

It was when. What does surprise me, though, is the six-game winning streak we're riding like a wave that refuses to break.

We're untouchable. Unstoppable. It's not just something we believe in the locker room—it's a headline now.

A mantra. The world says it. The media screams it.

Even the ones who spent months tearing me apart are finally shutting up long enough to write about my game instead of my personal life.

I don't know what cosmic shift flipped that switch—what moment made them care more about my slapshot than my relationship—but Harper had something to do with it.

Of course she did. Jaz says it all the time, laughing like she knew it would happen from the beginning.

"You're welcome, baby Bennett. Can't believe I arranged this,"

I don't play for them, though. I never have. I play for my team. For my family. For myself. And now—for her.

Every practice these last two months has been a war zone.

Every game, more brutal than the last. The ice is colder, harder, sharper this time of year.

You feel every hit in your bones, carry every mistake on your back like a second jersey.

But we're built for this. We've handled it.

The pressure. The cameras. The nonstop buzz of expectations.

And when I look across the rink and meet the eyes of the girls who've bled with me all season, I know we're ready.

We've trained for this. Breathed for this. Lived for this.

The finals are this weekend. One more game.

That's all that stands between us and the Cup.

The locker room is wired with tension and adrenaline, like something electric is simmering just beneath the surface.

Every skate lace, every stretch, every whispered pre-game ritual feels heavier, more sacred.

The stakes couldn't be higher. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't feeling it in my chest like a second heartbeat.

The city's watching. Hell, the world's watching. And I know the cameras will be on me. They always are. They'll want the post-game interview, the slow-mo highlights, the narrative. And for the first time, I don't care about any of it. Not the spotlight. Not the pressure. Not even the title.

All I can think about is Harper.

It's been three months since Marianne passed. Three months since I held Harper as she broke open in my arms. Her grief was something private, sacred, something she didn't want to make other people carry.

And yet, she let me carry it with her.

That's love, isn't it?

We don't talk about it every day. She doesn't need to.

I can tell by the way her fingers will sometimes pause on her camera when she's photographing at the rink, or how she'll stare out the window with that soft, far-off look like she's trying to remember the sound of her mother's voice.

Some nights, the grief crashes into her like a wave she didn't see coming.

She'll curl into herself on our bed, silent tears soaking my T-shirt as I hold her against me, whispering words that don't fix anything but maybe soften the sharpest edge of it.

But some days... she's the sun.

Bright, warm, breathtaking. She hums when she cooks now. Laughs when I chase her down the hallway. Falls asleep with her head on my chest like I'm home. I think that's the most unexpected thing about grief—it doesn't erase the joy. It just teaches you to hold it more gently.

We've flown to Florida twice in the last couple months. Not for a vacation—though the locals probably thought we were tourists with our sunglasses and iced lattes and tangled fingers. No. We went for her. For her mom. For the memories Harper was brave enough to revisit.

She showed me her childhood home—this white-and-blue beach house that looks like it came straight out of a movie.

It sits right at the edge of the sand, so close you can hear the ocean even from the attic.

She walked me through it barefoot, pointing out little marks on the walls, stickers she never peeled off her dresser, photo frames slightly crooked from a life lived with love.

We slept in her old room that night. On a twin bed barely big enough for one of us. I held her while she whispered stories about summer birthdays and beach picnics and watching storms roll in from the porch.

She told me she wanted to sell it.

I said, "What if you didn't?"

She looked at me, eyes glassy. Vulnerable. I brushed a piece of hair from her face and said, "What if it's just... our beach house? We can come in the summer. Bring the family. You can take photos. We can breathe here."

She didn't say anything right away. Just curled into me and whispered, "Okay."

Now we're renovating it. Slowly. Quietly. Getting it ready for July. She wants to paint the guest room lemon yellow. I told her I'd build her a darkroom. We dream like that now. Together.

She's healing. Slowly, yes. But truly. And me? I'm different, too.

For so long, hockey was everything.

It was my first love. The thing that shaped me.

I bled for it. Broke bones for it. Lost parts of myself chasing perfection on the ice.

I never thought I'd want anything more than a ring and a banner and a legacy that people would talk about long after I was gone.

But then came Harper. Now I want mornings with her.

I want the feel of her bare thigh brushing mine while we eat breakfast half-dressed in the kitchen.

I want to walk through grocery store aisles debating pasta shapes.

I want to take photos of her when she's not looking, when her smile is small and real and all mine.

I still love hockey. Still play like it's stitched into my DNA.

But I've learned there's something more important than the roar of a crowd or the weight of a trophy. There's her.

I wake up beside her. Fall asleep with her body tangled in mine.

We share coffee cups and kiss like we have all the time in the world.

We drive each other to work—sometimes she waits for me outside the rink, camera slung over her shoulder and lips red from biting them.

Sometimes I tag along to her shoots, pretending not to be jealous when she laughs with the boys and makes magic out of shadows and light.

We're in our bubble. A world we made with our own hands. No one gets to pop it.

She's never looked happier. And I've never felt more seen.

She photographs everything. People, trees, strangers in love. But mostly—me. And I photograph her. She doesn't know how many pictures I have. How many moments I've captured when she's laughing into her cup or brushing her hair behind her ear or looking at me like I'm something holy.

She's a fan of the world.

I'm a fan of her.

And today? She's turning twenty-five.

Which brings me to now—sitting in the lobby of our apartment, half-awake, legs jittery from caffeine and nerves, a big black box tucked by my feet. Her gift. Or gifts, I guess. One was already a miracle to find. Two was probably overkill. But I don't care.

I wanted this to be perfect.

I asked every photographer I could get in touch with.

Our team's media guy, the NHL's head of photo operations, even slid into the DMs of five of Harper's favorite portrait artists on Instagram.

I felt like a complete idiot. Half of them didn't reply.

One sent me a voice note explaining ISO settings and shutter lag. But they all agreed on one thing:

If she's serious—really serious—about her career, there's only one camera that could keep up with her.

So, here I am. Holding my breath, watching the elevator, praying she doesn't come looking for me before the delivery guy shows.

The first gift is a Canon EOS R1. Fast. Powerful.

Built like a tank but precise as a scalpel.

This is her action camera. Her rink-side shooter.

Her "I just caught someone mid-fight and the blood is in crisp 4K" camera.

I got her the RF 400mm f/2.8 lens to go with it.

The second is... different. Not for work.

Not for the games or the pressure or the job.

This one's for her soul.

It's a Phase One XF IQ4 150MP.

A camera so sharp it captures the freckles on your nose in moonlight.

Paired with a Blue Ring 80mm f/2.8. It's for her walks.

Her silences. Her stillness. The slow, thoughtful pictures she takes when she's alone with her thoughts and her lens and the light.

I want her to have both. The sharp, fast, powerful part of herself. And the soft, still, dreaming part.

The delivery guy stands there, arms full, face slightly flushed from hauling two giant black boxes through the lobby like they're filled with gold.

Honestly, they kind of are. He recognizes me immediately but I don't give him the time to ask for anything, I sign with a shaky hand and tip him way too much, barely remembering to say thank you before I'm juggling the boxes like a lunatic and trying not to drop the one that weighs more than Harper on a good day.

I head to the apartment door, balancing both boxes with my knee, hip, and a prayer, and when I finally get the key to work—

She's there.

Harper.

Standing barefoot in the kitchen, sleepy and golden in the soft morning light.

Her hair's a mess—like she rolled out of bed five minutes ago and only got halfway through fixing it before she got distracted.

She's wearing my hoodie with nothing underneath it.

There's a spoon in her hand and a smear of yogurt on her lip, and she looks so beautiful it makes my throat go tight.

Her eyes widen when she sees me, then narrow in suspicion as they drop to the giant boxes I'm half-hiding behind.

"Nooo," I groan dramatically, already losing the battle. "You were supposed to still be asleep. I had a whole plan. Breakfast's ready I was going to bring it to bed. A cute birthday playlist. Maybe some seduction. And now you've ruined everything."

She leans on the counter like she's settling in for a show. "Oh no. God forbid I ruin seduction. What is that?" she gestures to the box behind my back.

I straighten up like I've just remembered I'm an actor in a very serious play. "These?" I gesture at the boxes behind me like I've never seen them before. "Pfft. These are just... empty boxes. Recycling. I'm going green."

Her eyebrow arches, amused and unbothered in the way that drives me completely insane. "Is the recycling full of camera gear shaped exactly like something I told you not to buy me?"

I smile, caught. "Possibly."

She puts the spoon down and pads toward me, slow and graceful like she's always moving through water. There's a slight rasp to her voice this early in the morning, soft and low, and it hits me somewhere deep every time she speaks.

"Millie," she says, quiet but certain. "I told you. No gifts."

And I know she did. She told me a dozen times, actually—no presents, no pressure, no making a big deal out of this birthday.

But I also know the way she looked when she talked about how hard birthdays are now.

The way her voice cracked when she said she didn't want to celebrate without her mom.

And the way she finally whispered, weeks later, when she thought I was asleep: "But I do want to feel something. I want to feel happy."

So I step aside and let the boxes speak for me.

"I know," I tell her, as she stares at the labels on the side. "But you also said you wanted to start over. And I figured... maybe it helps to start with something that makes you feel like you again."

She doesn't move at first. Just stands there, blinking at the packaging like it might disappear if she looks too long.

Then, gently, she sinks to the floor, tucking her legs under her like she's folding into herself.

Her fingers brush the tape on the Canon box.

She reads the model number out loud, just once.

And then she looks up at me with this expression I can't fully name—part awe, part disbelief, part. .. something deeper. Something sacred.

"You got me two cameras?"

I laugh softly and kneel beside her. "One for your work. One for your heart."

She doesn't cry, not exactly, but her eyes shine in that way they do when she's feeling too much at once and trying not to overflow.

She reaches out and grabs the hem of my hoodie—her hoodie now, really—and tugs me closer.

I go willingly, like I always do with her.

She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me into her lap, and suddenly we're tangled together on the hardwood, two girls in love, surrounded by expensive gear and bad timing and all the softness we've built between us.

"I love you," she whispers into my shoulder, and my heart does that thing it always does when she says it—stops, then starts again, stronger.

"I love you too," I say, kissing her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth. "So much it scares me sometimes."

She smiles against my jaw. "It doesn't scare me anymore."

I know what she means. We've come so far.

From pretending, to almosts, to missteps and silent hopes.

From hotel beds and fake smiles to real kisses and laughter so loud we forget to be afraid.

We built this. Us. In the quiet moments, in the mess, in the grief and the healing and the way we found home in each other.

Her fingers trace the back of my neck as I lean into her.

My hand rests on her thigh, thumb brushing circles against bare skin.

The air between us hums—not rushed, not needy, just alive.

That soft, slow tension that's always there.

The one that simmers low and steady. The kind that doesn't need to boil over to feel real.

"You didn't have to get me these, love," she whispers, her fingers ghosting over the label on the box like it might burn her. "These probably cost more than this whole building."

I laugh, light and a little smug. "Good thing I've got money, huh?"

She gives me a look and smacks my arm with the back of her hand—not hard, but enough to make a point. "Amelia."

God, I love when she says my name like that.

"I told you. No gifts," she says, shaking her head as she leans into me. Her forehead rests against mine and her breath is warm and steady between us. "This is..."

"Not enough," I interrupt, gently, anchoring one hand around her waist and the other sliding up to cradle her cheek. "You deserve the best in the world, Harper. And if I can give it to you, I will."

Her eyes flicker—something soft, something breaking open inside her.

I've seen this look before. The one where she wants to argue, wants to deflect, but can't because she knows I mean every word.

Because love has taught her how to receive now, not just give.

Because she's learning how to let someone hold her, too.

"I don't want anything," she says, and it comes out quiet, honest. Her lips brush mine like a secret. "Just you."

I breathe her in like air. "Well, you have me and now you have these."

The grin that spreads across her face is so full of joy it nearly knocks me over. She pulls back just enough to look at the boxes again, and then she's wrapping her arms tighter around my neck and pulling me into a kiss that tastes like laughter and yogurt and something impossibly sweet.

"You're insane," she whispers against my mouth.

"You love that about me," I murmur.

She kisses me again, softer this time, like a thank-you she can't put into words. "Thank you, my love."

My love.

The words ripple through me like a wave. Not because I haven't heard them before, but because they still hit me like a first time every time. Because I'm her love. Because she's mine.

There's something about being wanted that way—without conditions, without armor, without pretending.

It's not loud or dramatic. It's Harper in my hoodie, on the floor, in the morning light.

It's the way her legs fold under her like she's always meant to be curled up against me.

It's the way her voice softens when she's vulnerable, the way her fingers brush my skin like she's memorizing me again and again.

"Happy birthday, baby," I whisper against her lips, and seal it with a kiss that makes her melt into me.

She sighs into it like she always does and I love it. Her fingers twist into the fabric of my shirt—tight at first, then gentler, like she's afraid I'll disappear if she lets go. Like she still doesn't fully believe this is real. Us. Here. Now.

So I hold her tighter. I kiss her like I'm anchoring her in place, like I can press my certainty into her skin and keep her steady.

Her mouth moves against mine with something soft and slow and familiar, the kind of kiss that knows me by heart.

I breathe her in—lavender and sleep, that slight citrus edge from her face cream, the smallest trace of vanilla from the whipped cream I forgot to put away. She tastes like everything I want.

"Come on," I whisper, nuzzling against the curve of her jaw, my lips dragging over the warmth of her skin. "Birthday girl needs her pancakes."

She groans dramatically and buries her face in my neck. "I need you."

"You have me," I murmur, letting my hands trail down her back, slipping beneath the oversized hoodie she's stolen from me a hundred times. My fingers settle just above the waistband of her sleep shorts, resting against her warm skin. "Forever, if you want me."

She lifts her head then, eyes soft, sleepy, glowing in the morning light like she's been carved from gold and honey. She cups my face in both hands, brushing her thumbs gently along my cheekbones. "You're it for me, Millie."

God.

My chest tightens, swells, hurts a little in the best way.

There are a million ways to say I love you, and she finds new ones every day.

Quiet declarations slipped between sips of tea.

A steady hand on my lower back when she knows I'm anxious.

Tying my skates before a game because my fingers are too jittery to do it myself.

Her voice in the stands. Her name on my phone.

Her toothbrush next to mine. Her heartbeat beneath my palm when we fall asleep.

I kiss her again—brief, reverent—and then tap her thigh. "Okay, come on. I didn't nearly burn the kitchen down for you to ignore your breakfast."

She lets me help her up, still wrapped in my hoodie, and pads barefoot across the wood floors like she owns the space now.

Like this is hers, because it is. Our apartment doesn't feel like mine anymore.

It's full of her—her plants, her books, her favorite mugs.

Her camera bags by the door, a forgotten scarf over the arm of the couch, tiny polaroids stuck to the fridge with mismatched magnets.

And everywhere, in everything—her softness.

Her presence. Her laughter caught in the walls.

I watch her climb onto one of the stools by the kitchen island, folding her legs underneath her like she always does. She rests her chin in her palm and smiles at me like she's watching the best part of her day walk around. And maybe she is. I feel that way about her all the time.

"Okay, don't judge me," I say, sliding the plate in front of her. "They're not as pretty as yours, but they're very fluffy. And the whipped cream is legit homemade."

She gasps, already beaming. "No you did not."

"I may have googled the recipe at five a.m."

"Millie!"

"Hey, you're the one who decided to be born today."

She leans forward and drags her finger through the whipped cream, tasting it like it's the most decadent thing she's ever had. Her eyes flutter closed. "Oh my God."

I laugh and pour her a cup of coffee—black, one sugar, just how she likes it.

I hand it over and she wraps both hands around the mug like it's a lifeline.

For a few minutes, we just sit. Eat. Sip.

The only sounds are the soft scrape of her fork and the occasional hum she lets out when she really likes a bite.

She does that with food she loves—makes these tiny happy sounds without even realizing it.

I lean my elbows on the counter, watching her eat like I'm memorizing the moment. Because I am. Every freckle on her nose, every sleepy blink, the way she chews with the edge of her lip tucked in like she's trying not to smile too hard.

"I could watch you forever," I say before I can stop myself.

She looks up, cheeks pink. "You're so in love with me," she teases.

"Desperately." She laughs, soft and full and real, and it makes me fall all over again. "I mean it, though," I continue. "This? You. Pancakes and bare feet and hoodie mornings? It's my favorite version of heaven."

She tilts her head, the light catching in her eyes just right, like the universe wants me to remember this exact second. "You wanna know something?"

"Always."

"I was really scared," she says quietly. "After my mom. I didn't know if I'd ever feel okay again. And then you... you were just there. You didn't push. You didn't try to fix me. You just stayed."

I swallow around the lump in my throat. "I'd stay a thousand times over."

Her hand finds mine across the island, her fingers slipping between mine like they were always meant to. "I'm still healing," she says. "But this morning? You? This? I feel happy."

I bring her hand to my lips and kiss the back of it, slowly, reverently. "Happy birthday, Harper."

She smiles at me like she's in love. Because she is. And I'm hers.

Hours later, We end up on the couch, tangled in a blanket that still smells faintly of fresh laundry and the lavender oil Harper drops in the dryer sheets.

Her plate's empty, mine too. The morning light has shifted now—less gold, more soft gray where the clouds start to roll in over Vancouver, quiet and expectant like the city knows we're staying in today.

Her bare legs are draped over mine, her cheek resting against my shoulder, one hand absentmindedly tracing small circles on the inside of my wrist like she's mapping the lines of me, over and over. It's nothing, but it's everything.

There's music playing low from the speakers—her playlist, not mine. It's mellow, acoustic, dreamy. I don't know the names of the songs, but I know them by now, just by feel. The way they settle into the room like old friends, the way they make her hum quietly under her breath.

She yawns, stretching slightly, and settles closer into my side. Her voice is soft when she says, "You know I've never had a real birthday party?"

I glance down at her, surprised. "Seriously?"

She nods without looking up. "I mean... my mom and I would do cake, or go somewhere. Something just us. She wasn't big on crowds or decorations. It always felt more like a day to reflect. And then, after college, I just stopped making a thing of it. I always said I didn't want the attention."

"But you do," I say gently, because I know her now. "At least, a little."

She exhales, smiling. "Yeah. I think I do. I think I want to be celebrated. Just this once. Not because I earned something or published a photo or made it through a hard year... but just because I'm here. Because I survived it. Because I get to be alive, and with you."

My heart flips in that way it only does for her. I shift, kissing the top of her head, breathing in her softness. "Then you're in luck. Because my moms have been planning this thing like it's the event of the year."

She groans into my chest, laughing. "I'm actually scared."

"You should be. They've got banners."

She looks up, wide-eyed. "Banners?"

"Gold foil. Glitter letters. Your name, your face, some weird inside joke between them that involves a fake Harper fan club. There's talk of matching t-shirts."

"Oh my God, Millie."

"And a cake so big, it's being delivered on a tray the size of our coffee table."

She's laughing now, full and rich, her head falling back against the armrest, her hands over her face. "They're going to scare your entire team."

"Please. The team lives for my moms. Tash already offered to DJ the playlist. Two of the girls are baking cupcakes shaped like your cameras."

She stares at me. "You're lying."

"I'm not. And I'll warn you now—there will be speeches. Aunt Lauren has a slideshow."

She groans again, but her cheeks are pink, and her eyes shine with something tender. "You're all absolutely unhinged."

"You love it."

She rolls her eyes, grinning. "I do. I really, really do."

I run my hand slowly down the side of her thigh, not even thinking about it—just needing to touch her, to be tethered. "It's your first official Bennett birthday. There's no going back."

"First of many," she whispers. "You think you're stuck with me, Bennett?"

I meet her gaze. Steady. "I know I am."

The silence after that is comfortable, soft, sacred. She shifts up so she's lying across my chest, her arms tucked under her chin, just watching me. Her thumb brushes my collarbone, lazy and slow. Her eyes drink me in like she's taking inventory of the life she's building here. With me. With us.

"I wanna renovate the beach house this summer," she says quietly. "Not just paint. I want to make it ours."

"Ours?"

She nods. "I want to build something with you. Something that lasts. We could add a deck. String lights. Maybe get some chairs for the porch."

"Hang some of your prints on the walls."

"Photos of us," she adds.

My throat tightens. I nod. "Yeah. Us."

Her lips find mine again, but this time it's slower, more intentional.

Less birthday kiss and more promise. Her fingers cup the side of my face, brushing my hair behind my ear like she needs to see every inch of me when we kiss.

She hums softly when I pull her closer, like she's memorizing the moment.

When she pulls away, her eyes stay on mine. "This is my best birthday," she whispers.

"Mine too," I say.

She frowns, playful. "It's not your birthday."

"I know," I grin. "But it's the day you were born. And that's the best day in the world."

She rolls her eyes again but blushes hard, trying to hide her face in my chest. "Okay, Hallmark card, calm down."

I just laugh, wrap both arms around her, and let her fall asleep on me, right there on the couch. Because there's nowhere else in the world I want to be. And because this—this soft, ordinary, beautiful morning—is everything I've ever wanted.

"I love you,"

"I love you more,"

She narrows her eyes, lips twitching. "Don't start."

And just like that, our first fight begins—soft, playful, no real heat behind it.

Sometimes, I let her win. But not this one. Not today. Because the truth is, I do. I love her more.