behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Six

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.