Page 6

HARPER

I crouch behind the plexiglass with my camera slung around my neck, a few memory cards already full and stashed in the side pocket of my backpack.

The sharp clack of blades cutting into ice echoes through the arena, mixing with the low hum of conversation and distant shouts of the coaching staff.

It's a regular morning at Rogers Arena—cold, loud, filled with the smell of rubber and sweat—but today it feels a little softer.

Mostly because I have Harriet Johnson sitting cross-legged on the bench beside me, looking like a pint-sized storm in a pink puffer jacket and sparkly mittens.

"So... you don't have a boyfriend anymore?" she asks, her voice high and clear, like a bell ringing straight through my quiet thoughts. Her head tilts slightly, curls bouncing around her round cheeks as she waits, all wide green eyes and blunt honesty.

The question hits me like a surprise slap, and I blink before letting out a laugh under my breath. God, kids don't hold back.

"No," I say softly, running my fingers through her hair again as I part a small section. "No, I don't."

"Why not?" she asks immediately, not missing a beat. She's in that phase where every answer needs another answer, every sentence leads to a follow-up. I can feel her stillness, which is rare for her—she's sitting completely still so I don't mess up the braid, but her mind? Running full speed.

I glance up for a second. Her dad, Lucas, is out on the ice with the rest of the team, barking something to one of the rookies.

His skates dig into the ice as he pivots, all fluid and control, sweat dripping from his helmet despite the freezing air in here.

A pro in every sense of the word. And his daughter? Absolute chaos in a glitter hoodie.

"Because... sometimes people aren't who you think they are," I say carefully, weaving one piece of her curls over another.

She hums, thoughtful. "Did he lie?"

"Yeah," I say after a beat, because that's the simplest version. "He did."

Harriet shifts a little but doesn't move her head. She stares out at the ice like she's watching a movie, then says, "You should get a girlfriend instead. My Nanna Mia says boys are too much trouble anyway."

I snort, the laugh bursting out of me before I can stop it. "Does she?"

"Mmhmm," she nods sagely, like this is gospel truth passed down through the generations. "She says girls are nicer and prettier and they actually listen to you."

"She might have a point," I murmur, finishing the last loop of her braid and securing it with the pink elastic she handed me earlier. "There. All done."

Harriet turns her head left and right to admire it in the reflection of the glass. Her curls are thick and wild, and braiding them takes a little patience—but the result is worth it. She looks adorable. Fierce. Like a tiny Viking.

"You're good at that," she says, a bit smug, like she hired me for this purpose and I've passed the test.

"Thanks," I grin, slipping my camera back into my hands. "It's one of my many talents."

"Is photography one of them too?" she asks, kicking her legs lightly, her boots clacking against the bench.

"Yeah. Probably the only one that pays the bills."

I raise the viewfinder to my eye and snap a few shots as the boy skate by, barking instructions at each other too far for me to hear.

The shutter clicks with that satisfying little rhythm, and for a moment, I'm back in my zone.

It's funny how it always pulls me in, the camera.

Like the second I look through the lens, the chaos fades away and the frame sharpens.

It's not about the noise or the heartbreak or the long nights anymore—it's just light, movement, timing. A moment caught forever.

"Do you like taking pictures of my dad?" Harriet's voice cuts through again, softer this time.

I lower the camera and glance at her. "This is my job, baby. But he's easy to shoot. He always knows where the camera is."

She giggles. "He does that thing with his jaw when he's concentrating."

"Yeah, I've noticed." I smile.

She goes quiet for a beat, then leans closer. "Do you think he's handsome?"

I choke on air.

"What?" I laugh, eyes wide. "Harriet, are you trying to set me up with your dad?"

"No," she says innocently. Then adds, "Maybe. A little."

"Oh my god." I bury my face in my scarf.

"It's just—he's really nice and lonely. And you're really pretty and you made me a braid, so I think you'd be good for each other."

I shake my head, laughing so hard my cheeks hurt. "You're trouble, you know that?"

She beams proudly. "That's what Auntie Audrey says too."

I glance back out at the rink where Lucas is skating drills with the defensemen, totally unaware that his daughter is playing matchmaker from the bench.

It's funny—I've known Lucas for a few years now. He's Audrey's brother, but I don't really know him.

Lucas is... Lucas. Good guy. Quiet. Keeps his head down and his skates moving.

I've worked this job long enough to know when players are full of it, and he's not.

I've never once seen him talk shit, flirt with a reporter, or throw a tantrum after a bad game.

He's thirty-something and I've never seen him with a woman.

Not in a he's-a-weirdo kind of way—more in a this guy has a very full plate and his priorities are clear kind of way. It's Harriet and hockey, in that order.

I know the basics. Harriet's mom died during childbirth.

It's one of those things people don't talk about openly, but it floats around locker rooms and team lounges like a ghost. Everyone knows.

Everyone respects it. Lucas raised Harriet on his own while building a career that most players would kill for, and he never once asked anyone to feel sorry for him.

His whole family, they all stepped up, too.

Harriet's never lacked love. That much is obvious in the way she carries herself.

Bright. Bold. Sure of her place in every room.

And me? I play part-time babysitter when she's too bored sitting through practices, like today. Her cousins aren't here, her grandmother had errands, and Lucas had no other option but to bring her to work. She doesn't mind. She likes the rink. And for some reason, she really likes me.

"Okay, troublemaker," I say, giving her a playful elbow nudge as I finish tying off the braid. "Wanna help me pick the best shot for the team's Instagram?"

"Yes!" she says, practically leaping off the bench like she's auditioning for a gymnastics team. Her little boots land with a satisfying thud, and she bounces in place until I pull the camera into my lap and start scrolling.

I tilt the screen so she can see, and she leans in, her eyes wide. "Woah— that's a lot of pictures."

I laugh under my breath. "Yeah, that's kinda the job."

She points. "That one! Look at his face! He looks like he's gonna throw up."

I snort. It's a wide shot of one of the rookies mid-sprint, jaw dropped, eyes wide. Pure agony. "That's Cooper. He always looks like that during suicides."

She giggles. "They all look sweaty."

"They are sweaty," I say, making a face. "And smelly."

She laughs harder, pointing at a particularly unfortunate shot of one of the rookies mid-fall. "That one! He looks like he's trying to swim!"

I laugh too. "Okay, not Instagram-worthy, but definitely locker room material."

She keeps scrolling, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she flips through the photos. Then, more quietly, she says, "I like your pictures, Harp. You're really good."

And—God. I don't know why it hits me, but it does.

Maybe it's because she says it with so much certainty, no hesitation.

Like it's a fact she knows, not something she's guessing at.

I've been in a weird headspace lately—doubting things, second-guessing myself.

Wondering if I'm just... floating. But here's this kid, this bright little spark of a girl, telling me I'm good at what I do. Like she has no doubt.

I clear my throat. "Thanks, H. That means more than you think."

Before she can respond, the shrill sound of a whistle cuts through the arena. The guys start skating off the ice, one by one, clapping sticks, throwing chirps, tossing gloves and helmets in piles like overgrown kids.

"Nice hustle, Harper!" one of them yells—Cooper, of course.

"I was sitting on my ass braiding hair for twenty minutes, but thanks!" I call back.

He winks. "Yeah, but you looked like you were working."

"Can confirm," Harriet adds with a thumbs-up, and the guys crack up as they pass.

I shake my head. "You're gonna get me fired."

"You'd never get fired. You're too good."

I glance up to see Lucas walking over, towel slung around his neck, still breathing heavy from the drills. His face is flushed, his hair damp and stuck to his forehead, but he offers a rare grin when he sees Harriet perched beside me, looking way too proud of herself.

"She braided my hair and let me pick pictures!" Harriet beams.

Lucas raises a brow at me, playful. "So she's doing your job now?"

"Honestly?" I stand up and stretch, my knees cracking in protest. "She's got a great eye. I might be obsolete."

"Then she can pay the mortgage," he says, ruffling Harriet's hair with his gloved hand. "Alright, kiddo, go grab your snacks. I'll be out in five."

She scurries off, and I start gathering my gear—camera, lenses, laptop bag. Everything heavy, everything awkward. The life of a team photographer.

The unmistakable sound of skate guards slapping against concrete echoes behind us, followed by a too-loud voice. "Hey, Harp! Choose my good side to post, 'kay?"

Miller. I don't even have to turn around to know he's grinning like a five-year-old who just found a permanent marker. I roll my eyes before tossing a smirk over my shoulder. "You don't have a good side, Miller."

That earns a round of hoots from the guys still lingering in the hallway, shoving each other like it's recess.

"That's not what you said last night!" Miller fires back, and the locker room erupts like teenage boys who've never matured past freshman year.

I shake my head with a laugh, unbothered. "You wish."

Lucas lets out a low chuckle as he tugs off his pads. "They're like children."

"Which is why I babysit your actual child instead," I tease, nodding toward Harriet, who's now sitting cross-legged and braiding a friendship bracelet for herself.

He gives me a grateful look—subtle, but warm. "Seriously, thanks. It means a lot."

I nod once, brushing it off because making him say it twice would be weird. And I kind of hate when people get too sincere in public.

"Alright, kiddo," I say, ruffling Harriet's hair gently. "I'm headed out. Be good, yeah?"

She beams up at me, teeth missing in all the wrong places. "Tell Auntie Audrey and Millie I miss them!"

"I will," I promise, waving her off as I make my way down the corridor and out into the biting Vancouver cold.

The air outside is sharp, a slap to the face after the warmth of the rink.

I tug my beanie down lower and shove my hands into my coat pockets as I walk the familiar path toward the corner café I usually hit between shifts.

The sidewalks are slick with melted snow, and the city feels a little too awake for how heavy my body feels.

My camera's still slung across me, heavy and comforting, like a security blanket made of glass and metal.

I scroll through the pictures as I wait at the crosswalk, half-paying attention to the traffic light and half-lost in a shot of Paul mid-slapshot, the ice crystals kicked up behind him like glass fireworks.

I step into the coffee shop, greeted instantly by the rich scent of espresso and something sweet—cinnamon maybe. It's warm here. Safe. There's soft jazz playing over the speakers, and the guy at the counter gives me a nod like he's seen me a thousand times. Because he has.

"Hey, Harp," he says. "The usual?"

"You know it."

Within minutes I've got a hot vanilla oat latte warming my fingers and a blueberry muffin I didn't need but definitely wanted.

I take my spot at the window seat in the back, flipping open my laptop and transferring today's shots from my memory card.

I click through them absently, but my mind drifts.

Back to Harriet asking why I don't have a boyfriend anymore. Back to the way Millie's voice sounded when she told me not to buy a bed this morning. Back to that stupid oversized T-shirt she wore like she wasn't aware of how effortlessly sexy she looked in it.

I blink the thoughts away and focus on cropping a shot of Miller mid-celebration. His hair's a mess, mouth wide open, stick raised high. Pure chaos.

"Still not your good side," I mumble under my breath with a grin.

By the time the coffee cup's empty and my fingers are starting to cramp, the sun's dipped behind the skyline. The rush hour crowd starts to pour in, chattering and clattering around me, and I know it's time to go.

I zip up, toss the cup, and head into the cold again, camera tucked tight under my arm, trying not to overthink how I'm a little too eager to walk through her door again.

She's not home— she only left this morning after breakfast without even saying goodbye.

She just left her phone number on the island–for emergencies–and disappeared.

I'd be lying if I say it didn't hurt she didn't say goodbye but we don't know each other.

We share a roof and that's it, I don't know why I expected more.

I saved her number anyway. Then I met up with Audrey and let her drag me around the city for essentials—some clothes, a couple of throw pillows, a half-price mirror I'm honestly proud of snagging.

A cheap dresser that took us an hour to fit in the back of her car.

It helped, having her there. Audrey's steady in the way I used to be.

Now I'm walking home with that familiar ache in my chest, knowing I'll unlock the door to a quiet apartment that doesn't quite feel like mine. And for some reason, it makes the whole day heavier.

"Harp?" a voice calls out behind me just as I'm stepping up to the crosswalk. "Harp? Oh my god—is that you?"

I turn, and the name hits me like a slap before I even see her face.

Shannon. Of course.

She's jogging toward me in tall boots and a camel coat that probably cost more than my life. Her hair is perfectly curled, her makeup done like she walked out of a commercial. I feel like I've just stepped into a parallel universe. Or maybe a past life.

"Oh," I say, because my brain can't come up with anything better. "Hey, Shan."

"I missed you!" she says, throwing her arms around me and almost making me knock over my camera. She pulls away after a second. "How are you? What are you doing here? This is not... your scene."

"Just walking home," I shrug. "What, uh, what are you doing here?"

"Shopping for the wedding! Are you coming? Where are you staying?"

"Oh, uh... just with a friend."

"Let's have a girls night soon, yeah? I'm so glad I ran into you.

" She reaches into her bag. "I didn't know where to send this.

I'm not sure where you're living, but here's a save the date.

You're in the wedding, so you already know all the details, but I wanted you to have one.

"

I take the ivory envelope from her. "Thanks. I'm so excited for you."

"You'll help with the bridal shower, right? And the bachelorette, if you're in town?" She laughs like we're old college roommates again. "I'll need you for theme planning and décor. You're the best party planner we've got."

It hits me then—how much I used to love doing all that.

Not because I needed the attention, but because I loved seeing people I cared about happy.

Loved watching them feel celebrated, even for the little things.

That was my role in the group. The reliable one.

The hype girl. The hostess.

I truly do love it, but it hurts a bit to remember that not a single one of my friends, outside of Audrey, congratulated me on my success.

Plastering on a smile, I tell her, "Of course, I will. Anything you need."

Shannon's face softens. "Are you doing okay?"

What a loaded question. No, I'm not okay. I'm rebuilding my entire life from scratch. I lost the man I thought I'd marry. The home we built. The future I saw so clearly. I'm sleeping on the floor. I'm being polite to strangers who act like they didn't watch me unravel and say nothing.

But before I can say any of that, she adds, "Isa's still in the wedding, so I totally understand if you have hesitation. You both have plus-ones, though. Hopefully that'll help."

Help what? Blur the betrayal? Make it more palatable to pose for pictures beside the man who ripped my life apart?

She reaches out, squeezes my arm gently. "Can't you forgive him? I just want everything to go back to how it used to be. All of us together."

My body stills.

"What?" I laugh, but it's hollow, brittle. "Shannon, he slept with someone else. In our bed."

She doesn't flinch. "He made a mistake."

And that's the final blow. I can feel the tears rise, sharp and hot at the corners of my eyes. I blink them back, force the smile. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want someone—just one person—to take my side without needing an explanation. Without trying to shrink what happened to a "mistake."

Instead, I say, "I have to go."

I start to turn, my fingers clenched around the save-the-date.

"Okay," she calls after me. "Let's talk soon, okay?"

Yeah– right. Why am I the one being punished when he's the one that fucked it up? Why am I losing everything and he gets everything? It's not fair. None of this is. Am I being irrational?

The doorman spots me before I reach the building. He straightens, polite and warm like always, and pulls the lobby door open for me.

"Miss Lane," he greets with a small nod. "Welcome back."

I stop just short of the entrance and glance up at him. "Carl. Can I call you Carl?"

He chuckles, soft and surprised. "Sure you can."

"Good," I say, carefully pulling one of the remaining lattes off my drink tray. "Because I brought you this. My favorite coffee shop's just around the corner and I figured... why not?"

His face shifts—somewhere between pleased and touched. He takes the cup from me like it's gold. "I love a good latte. Thank you so much."

"Of course," I say, brushing wind-tangled hair off my forehead.

"Oh—before I forget," he says, glancing toward the desk. "You had a package delivered. It's already upstairs."

My brows furrow. "A package?"

He nods. "Big one."

I thank him again and head toward the elevator, trying to mentally retrace my steps. I didn't order anything. I would've remembered—right? Unless I blacked out and online shopped in my sleep, which... has happened. Once. Maybe twice.

Still, this doesn't feel like that.

The elevator dings open, and I step inside, pressing the button for the top floor, my stomach weirdly tight.

The ride is smooth, quiet, and my reflection stares back at me in the polished silver doors—messy hair, flushed cheeks, circles under my eyes.

I look tired. Not just physically. Deeper than that.

Millie's key is cold in my hand when I reach the apartment door. It slips into the lock easily, and I let myself in, greeted by dim, early evening shadows.

"Hello?" I call softly, just in case.

But there's only silence.

Of course there is. She's gone for the weekend, probably off doing something wild or meaningful or both, and here I am—tiptoeing into an apartment that still feels more like hers than mine.

The only sign of life is a sticky note still on the kitchen island from this morning.

Her handwriting—sharp, slanted, confident.

"For emergencies."

I set the remaining drinks down and kick off my boots, walking toward my room with the camera still tucked under my arm.

It's been a long day. My heart feels bruised from too much pretending.

And all I want is to sink into a pile of pillows, wrap myself in something warm, and maybe—finally—let myself cry.

But when I open my bedroom door, I freeze.

I stop breathing.

Right there, on the wall opposite me is the most beautiful bed I've ever seen.

A king-size, absurdly beautiful, luxurious-looking bed.

The kind of bed that feels like a hug. Creamy sheets pulled tight.

Soft-looking gray duvet folded down like it's waiting for me.

Fluffy pillows stacked perfectly, too many of them for one person.

It smells faintly like clean laundry and vanilla.

And it takes up nearly the whole room—but somehow, it fits. Perfectly.

My hand flies to my mouth before I can stop it.

She did this.

Millie. Somehow—without telling me, without making a big deal—she bought me a bed.

Had it delivered. Made it up like this, like it wasn't just furniture but something I needed in a way I didn't even know how to ask for.

My eyes burn from fresh tears wanting to surface because I'm a crier and I can't help it.

Sue me. But this is one of the most kind and attentive things someone has done for me in a long time, and it means more than I know how to express.

Especially after a rough morning.

For someone who walks around acting like she doesn't give a damn about anything—or anyone—this was.

.. a lot. I run my hand across the comforter again, letting my fingers glide over the cool, soft fabric.

It's plush. Heavy in the best way. The kind of bed that makes you want to burrow in and never leave.

I don't fake shock. I don't clutch pearls over rich people doing rich-people things. Millie's got more money than God, and that's her business. But this? This mattered. Not because it was expensive—but because it was thoughtful. And quiet. And exactly what I needed, without me ever having to ask.

None of my so-called friends had shown up for me like this. Not a single one. No one came running when I lost my home. No one offered me a bed or a warm meal or even just... space to breathe. But she did.

I grab my phone, pulling up her chat.

It only takes a few seconds before the typing bubbles appear—then disappear. Then come back. She's thinking about it. That already makes me smile. Finally, a message.

I lean back against the headboard. I can't help it—the grin is unstoppable. My stomach flips a little. Not in a romantic way, exactly. Just in that stupid, undeniable way someone makes you feel when they see you clearly and still decide you're worth the effort.

There's a longer pause this time. The dots show up and vanish a few times before she lands on something.

I laugh under my breath. Just a bed, my ass. I've slept on floors. On couches. On air mattresses that hiss in betrayal at 2 a.m. This is not "just a bed." I shift under the covers, still texting.

A beat.

The typing bubbles pop up again. Stay. Then go. Then come back. I stare at them, heart in my throat for no good reason. Then the message lands.