Page 7

MILLIE

"What do you mean I'm not playing?" My voice is sharp—cutting. It hangs in the air like a slap no one saw coming.

My coach/uncle doesn't even flinch.

He's used to my temper.

But right now, it's not just temper—it's betrayal simmering under my skin, clawing its way out of me.

My fists are already clenched, nails digging into my palms as I stare at him across the coaching office.

The walls are lined with framed jerseys and photos of former players, accolades, articles.

All things I'm supposed to care about. Right now, they look like static.

"Exactly that." His voice is cold. Tired. "You're benched until you fix this."

I blink, trying to register the words. They don't make sense. I'm in peak shape.

I'm not injured. I just came off the best two games of my season.

"For what?" I demand, breath short. "Because I embarrassed the team? Because I had the audacity to answer back when someone called me—what was it? A media prop? A 'pretty little distraction'?"

Julian doesn't answer right away. That makes it worse. His silence always pisses me off more than his lectures. He leans back in the office chair like he's got all the time in the world, like he didn't just gut-punch me without lifting a finger.

"You know what you did, Millie."

"Bullshit!" I snap. "Say it! Out loud. I'm being punished because I didn't sit there and smile like a good little girl while some asshole with a microphone reduced me to a pair of boobs and called me a slut."

Julian's mouth pulls into a flat line. "You lost control."

I laugh. It's not funny, but I laugh anyway—sharp, bitter, all teeth.

"Are you fucking serious? You saw what he said," I continue, my voice rising now "You watched the interview, didn't you?

Everyone fucking did. So don't stand there and pretend it wasn't that bad.

It wasn't a joke. It wasn't some throwaway comment or competitive trash talk.

He meant it. Every fucking word. He looked straight into the camera and said—'Millie Bennett's just another pity contract in a legacy jersey.

She was handed ice time because her moms were good at the game—not because she is.

'"

I don't realize my voice is shaking until I hear it bounce off the walls.

My fists clench. "He said I'm only here because of them.

That I've been riding on the coattails of my mom like some glorified mascot with nice thighs.

That no one would even know my name if I had a different one.

He didn't just take a shot at me—he gutted everything I've worked for.

"

I blink hard, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

"And he didn't stop there. He called my moms a PR stunt.

Said the league parades us around to look progressive and pat themselves on the back for being 'inclusive.

' He made them sound like a fucking marketing campaign, not the reason I ever picked up a stick.

"

I breathe in, sharp and ragged. "He didn't just insult me, Julian.

He insulted my family. My blood. You are part of that family.

And you want me to sit down and breathe through that?

You want me to keep my head down and play nice?

" I laugh, bitter and humorless. "Fuck that. I'm done playing nice."

"I don't make the rules," he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose, he looks as hurt as I feel.

"You think this is what I wanted? You think I want to tell my niece she can't lace up and hit the ice?

And can't defend herself? I wanted to kill him right there too, Amelia.

You think I want to deal with press calls and sponsors threatening to pull their money?

This is bigger than you. Bigger than me. "

The sound of my name coming out of his mouth like that—meant to cut, not comfort—makes something twist in my chest. "No," I spit.

"This is exactly about me. You're telling me I don't get to play because I defended myself.

Because I didn't play the part. Because I snapped when someone dragged my name, my body, and my goddamn worth through the mud on live television. "

He doesn't deny it. Just meets my eyes, stone-cold.

"That reporter was baiting you," he says. "We all saw it. But you took the bait. You didn't just defend yourself, Amelia—you torched the bridge. You called out the league, you insulted half our sponsors, the host on live TV. You walked off mid-interview. Mic still hot."

"If I were a man, no one would've said that shit to me. If I were a man and lost my temper, I'd be praised for 'passion.' For being 'fiery' and 'bold.' I lose my temper, and suddenly I'm a liability. An embarrassment."

Julian's jaw flexes. "I know it's not fair. I know you didn't deserve it. But this? This blew up. And now I've got the GM, the owners, the press team breathing down my neck."

"So what?" I throw my arms up. "I'm supposed to sit down, shut up, and do damage control while some misogynistic clown calls me a distraction with boobs on national television?"

"No," Julian says. He takes a step forward, voice low.

"You're supposed to be smart enough to pick your moments, Amelia.

You're not just any player—you're a Bennett.

And like it or not, the name comes with weight.

You don't get to burn bridges without the fire catching everything around you. "

"You think I don't know what the name means?" I whisper. "You think I haven't spent my whole damn life proving I deserve it?"

He crosses the room slowly, the soles of his shoes scuffing against the locker room tile. His hand settles on my shoulder, warm and steady. His voice drops low. Gentle. Honest.

"You're one of the most relentless players I've ever coached," he says. "You've got more grit than half the league. But fire, Millie? It burns both ways. And right now, you're standing too close to it."

I blink fast. My throat stings, but I won't cry. Not here. Not in front of him. I clench my jaw tighter and turn my face slightly so he can't see how much that lands.

Because I know he's right. It's not fair. None of this is. But that's the game. If you want to stay in it, you play smart, even when it breaks your heart.

Julian sighs, hand dropping to his side. "You've got to fly home tonight."

My head jerks toward him. "What?"

"I'm not doing this to punish you. I'm doing this to protect you."

"By sending me away?" I ask, disbelief curling around the edges of my voice.

"No. By giving you the space to reset. To get ahead of this before the league eats you alive. You know how it works, Millie. They'll twist it until you're the villain. The angry woman. The bratty Bennett."

I flinch. Because I know he's right again.

My fists curl at my sides.

"You're gonna get a call from PR," he adds. "They've got a strategy. Some kind of image rebuild—they didn't give me all the details. Just said they need to 'reposition' you in the public eye. You need to play the game off the ice, too."

I snort. "Let me guess—they want me to smile more? Say I'm sorry in a pre-written statement and bake cookies on camera?"

Julian actually laughs. "Not quite."

My eyes narrow. "What then?"

Julian doesn't answer. His silence hangs between us like a ticking bomb. He just shrugs, that same helpless look tightening the corners of his mouth. "I don't know the full plan. Just what they said on the call. PR's handling it."

I scoff. "Of course they are."

Because when in doubt—when a woman finally dares to defend herself—the men in suits swoop in to put her back in her place. To clean up her mess. As if it's mine.

My blood simmers under my skin, hot and sour.

He gives my shoulder a squeeze, but I can't feel it over the tension crawling through my body. "Go home, Millie. Lay low. Let them do what they do."

Lay low.

Like I'm the problem.

Like I'm the one who lit the match.

The truth is—I snapped. Yeah. I did. But you would've too, if you heard what he said.

It wasn't just a question. It wasn't even just sexist.

It was a fucking ambush.

The interview was supposed to be a season preview—light, fun, harmless press for the league's only female skater on the roster.

That's how they pitched it. "Good PR," they said. "Show your personality," they said.

But five minutes in, he asked me if I felt I deserved my spot on the roster—or if my last name did the heavy lifting. I laughed it off. I've heard that one before.

Ten minutes later, he made a crack about how the locker room must be distracting for the guys. I told him that if they were that easily distracted, they probably weren't NHL material to begin with.

Then he said worse things— I knew he was baiting me, waiting for me to attack and for a moment I didn't give in. Until it was too much.

"Do you think you'd still be here if you weren't a Bennett?" he said. "Or if you didn't look the way you do? Do you ever worry that you're more valuable to this league as a marketing tool than as an athlete?"

And I saw red. Not because it was personal—though it was—but because of the way he said it. Like I was a gimmick. A body. A fucking prop. As if all my years of training, my championships, the bruises and breaks and blood I've poured into this sport didn't mean shit next to my face or my last name.

He smirked when he said it. Like he wanted to watch me crumble on camera.

So no—I didn't crumble. I burned.

I said things I probably shouldn't have.

Called out the league. Called out the media.

Told him to shove his misogynistic bullshit up his spine and spin it somewhere else.

Told him I wasn't a puppet, a cheerleader, or a damn model.

Told him if he wanted a token woman, he could talk to the ones who smile through that garbage—not me.

I told him I got here on grit and skill, not lip gloss and legacy. And yeah. I might have said it loud. I might have slammed my mic down and walked out mid-segment. But I'm not sorry. Not for standing up for myself. Not for being mad. Not for defending the game I love.

I am sorry that this is what it costs me.

I'm sorry I have to pack my shit and leave the rink like I did something wrong.

I'm sorry that my uncle had to be the one to bench me.

I'm sorry that the league would rather have me silenced than see me angry.

Because when a man snaps, it's passion.

When a woman does, it's a problem.

"They called Mom a liability too," I mutter, staring at the floor. "They said she was too loud. Too sensitive. They made her feel small until she believed them."

Julian's eyes soften. "And she still got back up."

"Yeah, well. I'm not her," I whisper. "I don't have her patience."

"You have her fire. And that's why they're scared."

I swallow hard, blinking up at the ceiling to keep the tears where they belong. "So what now?" I ask. "What's the brilliant PR move that's going to fix this? A fake apology? A photoshoot in pink?"

Julian tries to hide a smile, but it fades quickly. "They didn't give me all the details," he admits. "Just said they're working on a narrative shift. Something big."

I fold my arms, already bracing for the ridiculous. "Define big."

He hesitates. "I don't know exactly. Just—play along. Give them this one. You win on the ice. Let them handle the rest."

That's when it clicks. The phone call. The PR team's buzzwords. The sudden urgency to "rebuild" my image, like I'm some damn brand they can repackage.

"They're trying to soften me," I say flatly. "They want me palatable. Harmless. Desirable."

Julian's silence says everything I need to know. I exhale a bitter laugh. "They want me to play pretend. To smile and hold someone's hand and convince the world I'm not a threat."

"You're not a threat, Mills," he says, and I love him for trying. "You're a woman who stood up for herself. But the league isn't ready for that. Not really."

And then, almost as if on cue, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

I stare at the message, heart pounding, then slowly lift my eyes back to Julian. "So what's the next move?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

He shrugs helplessly. "Play the game."

And for the first time in years, I don't know if I can.

────────── ???? ──────────

By the time I get home, it's well past midnight and I'm running purely on caffeine, spite and the residual anger of a thousand headlines.

The apartment is dark, silent. The kind of quiet that feels too still, too heavy. I kick off my sneakers by the door, dragging my duffel behind me like it personally wronged me. My shoulders ache. My hoodie smells like recycled airport air and I have a tension headache so sharp it could cut steel.

I don't bother turning on the lights. I know the place well enough now to navigate by memory—kitchen to the left, hallway straight ahead, Harper's room on the right. Mine at the far end. The place is calm. Peaceful. I should be grateful for the quiet, but I'm so strung out I could chew drywall.

And then something shifts.

A creak from the living room.

I freeze.

Another sound—soft, like a footstep.

Okay. That's either Harper... or a serial killer with very polite indoor shoes. I move slower now, heart thudding. My eyes have mostly adjusted to the dark, and I can just barely make out a silhouette standing near the couch. Small, tense.

Then the lamp comes flying at me.

Not like flying flying. But definitely swung at face level with more force than I'd expect from her. I catch it almost immediately before it reaches my face. "JESUS—" I yell, free hand in my heart. "What the fuck, Harper?!"

"OH MY GOD!" she screams, eyes going wide as she jumps back like I'm the intruder. Another lamp—another—is clutched in her hands like she's about to audition for one of those true crime reenactments. The dramatic, low-budget kind.

"It's me!" I shout, throwing both arms in the air. "Millie! You lunatic!"

"WHY ARE YOU HERE?!" she yells, lamp still raised like she's seconds from taking me out with it.

"I live here!"

"You weren't supposed to be back for days!"

"Just—" I drag a hand down my face, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Put the lamp down, Harper. And stop trying to kill me with my own stuff."

She blinks at me, like I'm slowly coming into focus. "Oh my god," she gasps, her face folding in horror as she lowers the lamp. "Oh my god, I am so sorry. I thought—I thought you were someone breaking in, and I was here alone, and I almost died. I panicked—oh my god."

I glance down at the shattered remains of what used to be a perfectly good lamp. "Yeah, well. You and me both."

"I'll replace it. I swear. I'll go online right now and find the exact one, or better, maybe an upgrade? Something that won't double as a murder weapon? Fuck my life," she mutters, breathing like she just ran a mile. "I was two seconds away from calling 911."

"You assaulted me with a lamp," I deadpan, brushing my hair out of my eyes. "Pretty sure that's a felony in three provinces."

She trails after me as I head toward the kitchen, her voice still flustered and fast. "You didn't text! You didn't call! I thought you were in god-knows-where until Sunday! You can't just—appear like that. Jesus, I aged ten years."

"Yeah, well," I sigh, leaning against the counter and scrubbing both hands over my face. "Plans changed."

Harper watches me for a moment, then quietly sets the unbroken lamp back on the table with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.

"What happened?" she asks softly. "Are you okay?"

I glance at her from under my hand. My whole body still feels tight, like I'm holding myself together with duct tape and rage. "You saw the interview?"

She nods slowly. "Everyone saw the interview."

"Then you know."

She does. She knows—but it still doesn't begin to explain how it feels. Being called every name in the book for standing up for your own damn family. Being torn apart because you didn't shrink down and smile when someone came for your mother.

Harper's face softens as she crosses to the kitchen. "Do you want coffee? Tea? Something stronger?"

"No," I mutter. "I want to punch through drywall and then commit arson."

She smiles a little, already reaching for the cabinet. "Noted."

My stomach growls like an angry bear.

"But also maybe... a cheeseburger?" I admit, pressing my hands to my abdomen like I can quiet it with sheer will.

"That I can do," Harper says, moving toward the fridge with practiced ease. I watch her open it, pull out ingredients like this is just a normal Tuesday night. Like I didn't just drop back into her life two days early with the emotional equivalent of a tornado warning.

I don't think she knows she's wearing one of my hoodies, which makes my stomach flutter. Her short hair's messy, her socks don't match, and she looks like she was halfway through a movie when I crashed into her night. There's something weirdly comforting about it.

She's dangerous. Beautiful. Effortless. The kind of person who feels like home and chaos in the same breath.

I shake the thought off, trailing after her into the kitchen. "PR's gonna spin it," I mutter. "Julian said they're planning some kind of image rehab tour."

She quirks a brow over her shoulder. "Like a spa retreat for your reputation?"

I snort. "God, I wish. No, it's probably gonna be some staged nonsense. Smiling for the cameras. Handpicked soundbites. Pretend I'm sweet and soft and sorry."

"They want to rebrand you as... what, a Disney princess?"

"Exactly," I say. "Meanwhile I'm ready to throw hands with every man in a blazer."

Harper laughs under her breath. "You say that like people don't already like you."

I glance at her. "They want me to be palatable. Which is code for 'shut up and be a good little girl.'"

She doesn't argue with me. Just turns back to the pan and lets the silence stretch for a moment.

"What's the plan?" she asks eventually.

"No clue," I say, dragging a stool out and sitting at the island. "They'll probably call tomorrow with some grand strategy. What were you doing up, anyway?" I ask, trying to sound casual, even though the buzz of adrenaline hasn't fully worn off.

She shrugs, facing away from me now. "Couldn't sleep."

"The bed's uncomfortable?"

She spins around like I've offended her deeply. "Excuse me? That bed is a damn miracle. It's like sleeping on the softest cloud in heaven while angels rub your back and whisper affirmations in your ear."

I huff out a laugh. "Okay, okay. Glad you approve."

Her cheeks pink just a little. "Thank you, seriously. You didn't have to do that."

I shrug, brushing her gratitude off before it can land too heavily. "Consider it a welcome home gift."

She turns back to the stove, shoulders rising and falling. "I don't know. Just too much in my head tonight."

I hum in agreement, not asking for more. "You don't have to cook, by the way," I tell her. "I can feed myself. You can go back to... whatever you were doing. Hopefully not breaking more of my shit."

She looks over her shoulder and makes a face. "That was a one-time thing. You scared me half to death."

"Try being half to death," I mutter.

"I'll buy you another one," she insists. "Promise. A better one."

"There's no need," I say, quieter now. "It was just a lamp."

She blushes again and tries to hide it by adjusting the hood of my sweatshirt, even though her hair's too short for it to do much good. I find myself thinking she's cute— because she is. No one can deny that.

She slides a plate in front of me twenty minutes later—burger stacked like it could qualify as architecture, fries a little too golden, and ketchup in a little swirl like she's trying to get extra credit.

"Here. Your drywall-punching fuel," Harper says, sliding into the stool across from mine with her own plate. She's sitting cross-legged, hoodie sleeves bunched up past her elbows, still looking sleep-rumpled and entirely too good for someone who almost gave me a concussion.

I grunt something like thanks and pick up the burger. It's hot, fresh, and somehow exactly what I needed. I take a big bite, chew, and groan. "Okay. You win. This is stupid good."

She smiles a little, nudging a fry into her mouth. "You think they'll cancel your contract for threatening arson on live TV?"

"Only if they find proof I meant it."

She lifts her brows. "Did you?"

I take another bite. "I mean, I haven't not Googled his home address."

She laughs, real and soft. It makes something loosen in my chest. Like my body forgot what it felt like to be near something warm.

We eat in silence for a minute. The kitchen lights are dim, just the little bulb over the stove on. Outside the windows, everything's still. No cars. No wind. Just the kind of quiet that feels like it's holding its breath.

"I know it's not my business," Harper says eventually, gently, "but he really said that about your mom?"

I don't look at her. I'm too busy gripping my glass like I want to shatter it.

"He said she spent more time on the ice than raising me—which is bullshit.'" The words still taste like poison in my mouth. "Said I was another 'angry Bennett kid riding her name like a gravy train.'"

Harper exhales slowly, like she's trying not to break something too. "What the actual fuck."

"Yeah."

"And you—what? You defended her— yourself, your family and now they want you to apologize?"

I nod, jaw tight. "They don't say it like that, though. They call it 'course correction.' A few soft interviews. Maybe a charity event. Smile. Deflect. Be digestible."

Harper frowns. "So basically, shrink down and let people talk shit about your family."

"Exactly."

She's quiet for a second, chewing her bottom lip like it holds her words in place. Then, "Your mom is a legend."

"She's more than that," I say. "She's the reason I'm here at all.

Sometimes I feel responsible. She's nothing they said.

My mom literally retired to raised me and let my other Mom follow her dream.

They wanted me. I know they did, but people sometimes.

.. they talk, I listen and I need to keep my mouth shut.

Today was just a lot. What they said was just.. . wrong. All of it."

My throat tightens. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth to stop it from turning into something worse.

"And if anyone thinks I'm gonna sit there and nod while they rip them apart on national TV just because I wear the same jersey?" I shake my head. "Fuck that."

"You shouldn't have to fix this," Harper says. "You didn't break it."

That knocks something loose in me. Not all the way, not enough to fall apart, but just enough to breathe again.

"Tell that to the PR team." I try to laugh. It comes out hollow.

Her head tips toward me after a while. "So what happens next?"

I let out a breath. "Tomorrow PR calls. Tells me how I'm going to make everyone forget I have opinions."

"And until then?"

I look at her. Really look at her. The shadows under her eyes. The way her voice still sounds a little hoarse from the adrenaline.

"Until then," I say, "I guess I sit on my kitchen with a girl who almost murdered me with a lamp."

Harper smiles, and it's small, but it's real. "You scared the shit out of me."

"I live here."

"You didn't text."

"I was emotionally compromised."

She snorts. "That's not a legal defense."

"Sue me, Harper."