behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Seven

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."