Page 9

MILLIE

It's been twenty-four hours since the incident—that's what the PR team keeps calling it, like it's just some tiny crack they can patch over with a carefully worded apology and a shiny new press tour.

It's not. It's a goddamn fault line splitting my life right down the middle.

I sit curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled over my knees, staring at the storm raging outside my window. It's been raining nonstop since morning, the sky a heavy, angry gray, and somehow it feels like even the weather's pissed on my behalf.

I already miss the ice.

Not just the sensation of skating or the controlled chaos of the game, but everything it means. The way my heart beats in time with the puck. The way nothing matters except the next play. The way the world goes quiet and sharp when I'm out there, and I know who I am.

And now I'm here. Benched in my own life.

I still have access to the rink with my last name plastered across it like a badge of honor—but what's the point if the world thinks I'm a liability? If my team is losing without me? If my hands are tied because some sexist asshole couldn't stand a woman succeeding?

Last night, they lost 2-1.

I clenched my fists so tight during the third period that my nails left little crescent moons on my palms.

I wanted to call my uncle, tear into him about the coaching decisions, the lack of urgency, the defense falling apart.

I wanted to scream, I should've been there.

But I didn't. Because the world was already sharpening their knives, and the last thing I needed was another headline about me.

So I swallowed it.

Again.

And now, here I sit, waiting for the inevitable.

I'm still trending online. Every notification that pings on my phone is another blow. Another video clip of me losing my temper. Another opinion piece debating whether I'm "unstable" or "refreshingly honest."

Another reminder that my reputation is dangling by a thread.

Any minute now, Jaz and Elena are going to show up at my door. Probably smiling that fake smile, contracts in hand, ready to tell me exactly how I'm going to fix this.

Probably ready to tell me who I have to be this time. A girlfriend. In love— quiet and stable little Millie Bennett.

I pull my knees tighter to my chest, feeling small in a way I haven't since I was a kid.

Since before the world decided I belonged to them.

Somehow—my place feels different.

It's always been quiet, always been mine.

But now, sitting here in the thick, heavy silence, I notice her absence more than I should.

Harper's at work, she's barely been here four days, barely long enough to unpack, and yet... she's everywhere.

Her books—dog-eared romances, thick fantasy novels, delicate poetry collections—are tucked next to mine on the shelves, like they've always belonged there.

There are flowers too.

Real flowers, not the fake ones I used to buy when I remembered.

Bright little pops of color in glass jars on the kitchen counter, on the coffee table, even one stubborn sunflower perched by the window.

She bought a purple espresso machine—because she said mine was "too serious"—and now it sits proudly next to my sleek black one like it's challenging me to smile every morning.

There's a picture she hung on the hallway wall: her and an older woman who looks exactly like her, arms around each other, both laughing.

Right next to it is an old photo of me and my sisters at a rink, ice spray kicked up around us like a frozen explosion.

There's another frame too. One of her and Audrey, both grinning so hard their eyes are nearly closed.

Somehow, without asking, without trying—she's made this place feel like her home.

A knock sounds at the door, forcing me out of my thoughts.

I jolt upright, heart hammering because I already know who it is.

Showtime.

Dragging myself off the couch, I shuffle to the door and pull it open.

Sure enough, there they are.

Jaz—my PR manager—is standing there in a tailored black coat, looking like she's two seconds away from a coronary. Beside her, Elena, my agent, looks marginally less murdery but still grim enough to tell me this isn't a social call.

"Morning, superstar," Jaz says briskly, brushing past me into the apartment.

Elena follows, offering a small, sympathetic smile as she passes. I close the door behind them and turn, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Save it," I mutter before Jaz even has the chance to start her corporate pep rally.

Jaz raises an eyebrow, a humorless smile tugging at her mouth. "Oh, good," she says breezily. "You're in a fantastic mood. This'll be fun."

Elena gives me a small, apologetic shrug, perching on the edge of the armchair like she wants to soften the blow that's coming.

Jaz doesn't waste any time.

She strides straight to the center of my living room like it's a boardroom and I'm a project in crisis.

"Let's be clear," she starts. "You're in hot water, Amelia. Really hot. You're trending for all the wrong reasons, you've pissed off half the league execs, and the other half are wondering if you're a PR nightmare."

I cross my arms tighter, nails digging into the sleeves of my hoodie. "I defended myself."

"You did," Elena says gently. "But the world isn't always fair, Millie."

"Clearly," I snap.

"We've been working nonstop," Elena starts, her voice smooth and professional. "And we think we have a strategy."

"You're going to love this," Jaz adds, way too cheerful to be trusted.

I narrow my eyes at them. "Hit me."

Jaz launches right in. "Okay, so the narrative around you right now is unpredictable, aggressive, angry—"

"Gee," I interrupt dryly. "I wonder why."

Jaz ignores me. "What we need to do is soften that image. Humanize you again. Make you relatable."

I feel the first flicker of real dread in my chest. "How?"

Elena meets my gaze steadily. "I understand you talked about it with Jaz yesterday. A relationship."

I blink. "You were serious about that? There's no other option?"

Jaz steps forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "Not really. You need a relationship. A public one. Someone who balances you out. Someone who shows the world you're not just the 'angry hockey girl'—you're a person with a heart and feelings and all that Hallmark crap."

I stare at them like they've grown extra heads.

"You're kidding."

"Dead serious," Jaz says, without even blinking. "We already have a few candidates. Guys with clean records, good looks, no drama—"

My stomach flips so hard I nearly gag.

I stare at her, incredulous. "Guys?"

Jaz looks at me like I'm the one not getting it. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Well, yeah," she says, casual as hell. "It's cleaner. Easier. Broader appeal. You know how it is."

Cleaner.

Easier.

Broader appeal.

Words that taste like acid in my mouth.

Before I even realize it, I'm shoving up off the couch, the cushions groaning under the sudden force.

My hands are shaking. Not from fear. From rage. From this... absurdity.

"You want me to fake date a guy?" My voice comes out low and dangerous, the kind of anger that builds slow and deadly in your bones. "Do you even hear yourself?"

Elena flinches at my tone, shifting awkwardly in the chair, but Jaz—Jaz just blows out an annoyed breath, like I'm the one making her job harder.

"It's easier, Millie," she says, with that same dismissive wave of her hand. "It's what the public understands. You date a nice boy, wear some cute sweaters, maybe bake a pie for charity—suddenly you're the golden girl again. It's simple."

Simple.

Easy.

Clean.

Words that have been shoved down my throat my whole damn life.

I feel the heat rising under my skin, clawing at my throat, my chest, burning behind my eyes.

"You want me to pretend I'm something I'm not," I say tightly. "To make it easier for the world to digest me. To be some... housewife fantasy for a bunch of people who think women should smile and stay quiet and not scare them with ambition."

Jaz frowns. "It's not about that—"

"Isn't it?" I snap, cutting her off. "Because it sure as hell feels like it!

You want to shove me into some mold I don't fit into just to make the headlines prettier.

Like I'm supposed to apologize for existing.

Like being myself isn't palatable enough unless I wrap it up in some straight, shiny little package.

"

They don't say anything. So I keep going, voice shaking but fierce.

"What are we in, the goddamn 1800s again?

Should I start wearing corsets and asking permission to speak too? "

Elena closes her eyes like she's bracing for a storm. Jaz presses her lips into a tight line, clearly trying not to lose her patience.

"You don't get it," I say, softer now, but no less furious. "You're asking me to spit in the face of everything I am. To disrespect my community. My moms. My sisters. Every kid who's ever looked at me and thought maybe they could be themselves too and still win."

My throat tightens, but I don't let the tears come.

I won't.

"You're asking me to lie," I finish quietly. "For your convenience."

Jaz throws her hands up, finally snapping. "Don't be dramatic, Amelia! This isn't about selling your soul, it's about saving your career. You can either play the game, or you can get steamrolled by it. Your choice."

"My career," I growl through gritted teeth, "exists because I refused to play by bullshit rules like this."

"You won't have a career if you don't fix this!" Jaz snaps right back.

"Okay, okay," Elena says quickly before I can snap something I might regret.

She claps her hands once, the sound sharp and jarring in the too-quiet room, and stands up with the kind of calm that feels like it's barely hanging on by a thread.

"Let's all just take a deep breath and think," she says, voice artificially gentle like she's talking to a skittish horse.

She turns to me, softening her expression.

"Millie, sweetie—We are out of time and options. "

I tense at the words, the way she says them. Out of time. Out of options.

Like I'm a problem to be solved. Like I'm some glitch in the system they're desperate to reboot.

"The world is eating you alive," Elena continues, crouching slightly like she's trying to meet me at eye level. "And it's time for you to eat them alive."

She says it like it's a pep talk. Like I should be grateful.

Instead, I just feel... small. Trapped. Cornered.

"We can give you our options," Elena says carefully, "or you can find your own."

Then she glances at Jaz, a silent handoff of pressure, and Jaz doesn't miss a beat.

"You told me you had someone," Jaz reminds me, tilting her head. Her tone is pointed now, a little impatient. "You said you were handling it. So... did you?"

My heart skips a beat so hard it physically hurts.

Do I?

Do I?

Of course I don't.

I don't have a fake girlfriend hiding under my bed like a goddamn emergency kit. I don't have some secret relationship I can whip out to save my ass.

This isn't a book, or a cheesy Netflix movie where everything lines up perfectly in the last five minutes.

My mind spins, grasping at anything—anyone—but it's just static. Because the truth is ugly and bare and it presses heavy on my chest:

I don't trust people. I don't even like most people.

How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to hand my entire life—my heart, my name, my family—over to someone and hope they don't drop it? Or worse—smash it for fun?

I can't breathe. My chest seizes up like it's shrinking.

"I—" I choke, my mind completely blank.

"You knew this was coming, Millie," Jaz presses, relentless. "You're not stupid. You knew the clock was ticking. So unless you want us to pick for you," she says, flipping open her folder like she's ready to start matchmaking on the spot, "you need to tell us right now. Who is she?"

The walls are closing in. The air is heavy and thick and mean.

Who is she?

I don't know.

I don't have anyone.

I can't trust a stranger.

I can't just pick some random smiling face off a list and pretend they mean something to me.

I don't trust easy. I don't fall easy.

My eyes flicker across the room, as if I'm searching for an answer inside my house. I need someone safe, nice, kind, someone who knows how my life works. How I work. My eyes travel across the new picture frame on the wall—

"Amelia, we are running—"

"Harper," I blurt, voice strangled.

Both women go still. Jaz's pen freezes halfway through a note. Elena's brows jump high.

I swallow, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Her name's Harper," I say again, lower now. Shakier. "Harper Lane. She'll help me— Just give me time to talk to her first."

Jaz gives me a soft nod, "Very well, then. You have until tonight. Talk to her. We'll text you the details for your first appearance. The Power Play Gala is this Friday. Black tie. You'll both be expected to attend together. We'll handle the press."

Well, fuck me.

────────── ???? ──────────

The second the door shuts behind Jaz and Elena, I sink to the floor, my back pressed against it like I'm holding the whole damn world out with my body.

What did I just do?

I stare blankly at the living room, at the coffee table still littered with Jaz's papers and my cold tea and Harper's purple espresso machine glinting in the kitchen.

It all feels too bright. Too sharp.

Harper.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes like I can undo it. Like maybe if I just wish hard enough, I can rewind time five minutes.

But I can't.

It's done.

It's out there.

I'm going to be expected to walk into a major hockey event hand-in-hand with a woman who doesn't even know I panicked and picked her like some desperate idiot playing Russian roulette with my own life.

I drop my head back against the door with a dull thud and groan. How the hell am I supposed to ask her?

We barely know each other. We've lived together, what—four days?

She's polite and nice and brings flowers into the house and smiles in a way that softens everything inside me, but that's not the same thing as trust.

That's not the same thing as Hey, wanna fake be my girlfriend in front of the whole world so I don't lose everything I've worked my ass off for?

My hands are shaking again, so I fumble for my phone, unlocking it blindly. There's only one thing I can think to do.

Text my sisters. The two people who, if nothing else, will understand the level of stupid I've just unleashed.

I pull up our group chat and type with my thumbs flying:

Seconds later, Summer's name pops up.

Then Aurora chimes in.

I rub my forehead, pacing the living room, chewing the inside of my cheek until it hurts.

The rain pounds harder against the windows. A part of me wishes it would just flood the building and give me an excuse to not deal with any of this.

Another text buzzes in.

I stare at the screen until the words blur.

My sisters. Their kids.

Their casual, steady love wrapping around me from a distance.

And all I want to do is cry.

This whole thing—

This whole mess— It's because I stood up for myself. Because I dared to look a man in the eye, on live national TV, and not smile when he tried to belittle me. Because I said, Enough. Now I'm the one paying the price. Not him. Me.

My throat burns. My hands clench into fists on the couch cushions like if I squeeze hard enough, I'll keep from shattering into pieces.

What did I do that was so wrong? What, exactly, am I being punished for? For not being quiet enough? For not being polite while I was being stepped on? For being a woman who dared to say no?

Maybe I could've said it differently. Maybe I could've smiled more, laughed it off, acted like it didn't bother me. Like a good girl. Like a proper nice housewife the way they clearly expect women to behave, even when they're getting slapped in the face.

I blink hard, dragging in a breath that sticks halfway in my chest. And yet, here I am.

Sitting on my own damn couch, in my own damn house, being told I have to lie about who I am to survive this. That I have to sell some fantasy version of myself the public can stomach.

A version where I'm sweet and soft and dating some safe, handsome man. A version where I pretend I'm not a lesbian. Where I erase myself.

The anger boils up so fast it makes my eyes sting.

It's not just about me. It's about every kid out there who's going to see my face plastered across magazines, holding hands with a man, and think, Maybe I'm wrong too. Maybe it's not safe to be me either.

I wipe at my face, furious when my hand comes away wet. I hate crying. I hate this.

I pull my knees to my chest, burying my face against them for a second, just breathing.

Trying to remember who I am. Trying to hold onto it. Because they'll take it if I let them. Piece by piece, until there's nothing left.

I lift my head slowly, the room spinning a little. The rain outside hasn't let up — tapping against the windows like it's trying to get in.

And I'm crumbling. The key turns in the lock and I jolt upright like I've been caught doing something wrong.

Which, technically, I have.

I just promised my roommate's soul without her consent.

The door creaks open and Harper steps in, shaking her umbrella free of rain before nudging the door closed with her foot.

She's bundled in a puffy navy jacket that makes her look small, her cheeks pink from the cold.

A camera bag is slung over one shoulder, a tote bag on the other, a rogue baguette sticking out of it like something from a cartoon.

She looks tired. And perfect. And completely unaware of the way my heart is currently trying to punch its way out of my chest.

Harper takes one look at me—still curled on the couch like some tragic Victorian heroine—and her brows lift. "Jeez, Millie," she says lightly, dropping her bags on the floor with a soft thud. "What happened? Who died? Should I call an ambulance?"

Normally, that would've made me laugh. Normally, I would've rolled my eyes and thrown a pillow at her.

But right now? Right now, my smile won't come.

It feels glued somewhere far behind my teeth, unreachable.

I just stare at her, my hands curling into the sleeves of my sweatshirt.

Trying to find the words. Trying to find the air.

Her smile falters, eyebrows pulling together.

"Oh, no." She steps forward, dropping the playful tone, slipping into something softer, more careful. "What's wrong? Are you kicking me out?"

The words barely register at first.

"What?" I croak, frowning, because—what?

Harper tugs at the end of her sleeve, looking suddenly guilty. "Is it 'cause I didn't do the dishes? I swear I was gonna! I just—got caught up, and then I was late to work and—"

I shake my head fast, cutting her off. "I'm not kicking you out, Harper. Jesus. Breathe."

She lets out a long, exaggerated exhale, "Thank god," she mutters, dragging a hand over her face. "Because I really, really don't want to live under a bridge at twenty-four."

Normally, that would make me laugh too. A soft snort. A shove to her shoulder. Something. But my chest still feels locked up tight, and all I can do is duck my head and scrub my hand over the back of my neck, nerves buzzing so loud I can barely hear anything else.

I hate this. I hate feeling like this—small, panicked, cornered.

But most of all, I hate that the world put me in a situation where I have to even ask her this. That standing up for myself made me a villain in the world's eyes. That being loud, being right, still makes me wrong somehow.

My skin burns with it. The injustice of it. But none of that changes the fact that I'm here. That I need her.

I lift my head, my voice dry and cracking. "Harper," I say.

Her name tastes strange in my mouth. Too fragile. Too important. She straightens up a little, the jokes draining from her face the instant she hears it. Like she knows—instinctively—that this isn't funny anymore.

"Can you..." My throat sticks. I have to force the words out. "Come sit?"

Harper blinks at me, surprised by the rawness in my voice, and then slowly, hesitantly, crosses the room.

She sinks down onto the couch beside me—not right next to me, but not far enough either.

Close enough that I can feel the faint damp chill of her clothes.

Close enough that the heat rolling off my body in waves of shame and fear has nowhere to hide.

She pulls one knee up onto the cushion, watching me cautiously, like she's waiting for me to crack in half right there in front of her.

"Oh no," she says lightly, trying again, trying to lift the mood even if her voice is softer this time. "You're really kicking me out, aren't you? I swear I already ordered a new lamp. And, like, I promise I'm gonna do the dishes tonight. You don't even have to ask. I'll even mop. I'm desperate."

The jokes land somewhere in the middle space between us, filling the silence for a second.

I just shake my head, my fingers mangling the hem of my hoodie like it's the only thing tethering me to the planet.

"Harper," I croak, and the crack in my voice makes her whole expression fold—into something softer, something even more careful.

She presses her lips together, her eyes flickering over my face like she's trying to figure out exactly how much damage she's about to witness. "You're freaking me out a little," she says gently, resting her elbows on her knees, leaning toward me just a fraction.

You and me both, I think miserably. I suck in a deep, shaky breath that doesn't do a damn thing to steady me.

"This is gonna sound insane," I start, hating how much my voice shakes. Hating how much smaller I feel than I ever have on any rink, any interview, any moment I was supposed to be tough. "And it's... it's completely fine if you say no. Seriously. Totally fine. Absolutely no hard feelings."

Harper tips her head at me, giving me a crooked little half-smile like she's trying to coax me into breathing normally again. "Ooookay," she says slowly, drawing the word out, her voice lilting into something light again, something gentle. "Not terrifying at all."

I press my hands hard against my thighs, trying to anchor myself. Trying to find the words.

They don't come.

Instead, my mind is running a hundred miles a minute—like if I don't spit it out now, I'll never be able to.

"I did something," I blurt out, the words tumbling from my mouth too fast, too loud. My heart is hammering, my chest aching with the effort to stay still.

Harper's brows pinch together in confusion, but she doesn't move away. She leans a little closer, her voice patient, careful.

"Okay," she says. "What kind of something?"

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, because even hearing her say that makes my stomach flip.

God, this is so stupid.

This is so fucking stupid.

When I open my eyes, Harper is still watching me—no judgment, just this careful, steady sort of waiting.

"It's not bad," I rush to add, my voice thin and breaking. "I mean—it's not illegal or anything. I didn't... like, run over someone."

Harper lets out a tiny, breathy laugh like she's trying to keep it easy for me. "Okay, no murders. That's good. I'm listening."

I pick at the frayed hem of my hoodie again, my fingers trembling so hard they keep slipping.

My throat feels raw, like every word is scraping its way out.

"My... PR team," I manage to say, barely above a whisper, "they—they came over today.

You knew that." Harper nods slowly, encouraging, still giving me that space to work through it.

"You know what they said. They said... that after everything that happened on TV," I say, my stomach twisting painfully, "that I need to clean up my image.

That the media's tearing me apart, and if I don't do something fast, I'll lose sponsors. Maybe even get suspended."

Harper's eyes flash something sharp at that—anger, maybe—but she doesn't interrupt. "And they had... a plan." The word tastes disgusting. I almost choke on it. I suck in another breath and force myself to keep going. "They want me to..." The words catch again, halfway up my throat.

Harper leans a little closer, her voice soft and warm. "Millie," she says, and it's not rushed, not impatient—just my name, steady and sure. A landing pad for my panic.

It gives me enough air to finally say it, though my voice sounds broken and strange. "They want me to fake date someone."

The words drop between us, heavy and miserable. Harper's eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but she doesn't say anything yet.

I swallow hard. "And at first," I continue, my voice wobbling all over the place, "they—they wanted it to be a guy. Like a—a good, clean-cut, nice-boy image. 'Cause apparently that's what the public likes. Some housewife fantasy or whatever."

The bitterness leaks out before I can catch it.

Harper's jaw tightens slightly, but she stays quiet, letting me unravel it the way I need to.

"And when I said no," I whisper, blinking hard against the burn in my eyes, "when I said I wasn't gonna lie about who I am.

.. Jaz—my PR manager—she said..." I have to stop and breathe because the anger knots up in my chest again.

"Well, she didn't said anything. I did. I told them I had someone in mind for this.

" Harper frowns, confusion flickering across her face.

"And I panicked," I admit, my voice cracking wide open now, "because I didn't wanna be forced to fake date some random stranger.

Some clean little PR plant. I don't even trust people.

I don't even like people enough to let them that close. "

I laugh, sharp and broken, and wipe at my eyes with the sleeve of my hoodie even though nothing's falling yet. Harper shifts closer, almost instinctively, like she wants to reach out but doesn't want to push too hard— like she doesn't know how because we don't know each other. We're not friends.

"And I... I just... I panicked, okay? I just said your name."

It spills out in a rush now. "I said it was you." The words hang there, suspended between us like a wrecking ball about to swing. "I told them I was going to do this with you."