behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Eight

MILLIE

The buzzing starts before the sun's even all the way up. It drills straight through my dream and into my skull, sharp and persistent like a fire alarm set to "ruin your life" mode. I groan into the pillow, face mashed against it, hair tangled and dry from too little sleep and too much tossing. My hand scrambles across the nightstand until it finds the culprit—my phone vibrating like it's having a panic attack.

The screen blinds me, white and sharp and cruel, and I squint as I drag a finger across the screen to silence it.

Notifications. So many I can't even see my lock screen.

Text messages, missed calls, a few DMs from people I haven't talked to since high school, which is never a good sign. The group chat with my sisters is blowing up. There's a flurry of blue bubbles from Harper, too—sent late, probably after I passed out on the couch.

But it's my family that hits first.

Mama: I'm going to kill him.

My lips twitch. Even half-asleep and overwhelmed, it still makes me smile. Classic Mama. Protective to a fault, fierce as hell. There are three more texts right after it:

Mama: Are you okay?
Mama: We're coming over.
Mama: Tell me what to bring.

I type back, Yes. Please. Coffee. And something I can throw against the wall.

I haven't even opened the apps yet. Haven't dared look beyond my texts. But I can feel it, this swelling pressure in my chest, like the weight of the entire internet is pressing against my ribcage, waiting for me to see what they've made of me overnight.

Another buzz.

Uncle Theo: I'm going to absolutely kill him.
Uncle Theo: And yes, I'm talking about my stupid husband.

I bark out a laugh. God, I love that man.
Julian and Theo have been married forever. At least, it feels that way. They met through my moms back when Mama and Julian still played, and somehow ended up building a life together.
There are more messages. My sisters, each of them a different flavor of furious, confused, or worried. Friends checking in. My cousins sending memes. Miles texts me a GIF of a wrecking ball smashing through a wall and captions it: You, on live TV.

And then I make the mistake of opening Twitter.

It's already trending.

MillieBennett
Ungrateful
FireHer
ProtectMillie
SheSaidWhatWeWereAllThinking

I scroll.

There's a split.

Some people—strangers, mostly—are coming out swinging for me. Standing up. Calling out the misogyny, the homophobia, the absolute bullshit that spewed out of that interviewer's mouth yesterday. They post clips of the way I stiffened, the flash of rage in my eyes, the sharpness in my voice when I said, "You don't get to talk about my moms like that." They're editing it into TikToks. Highlight reels. Turning it into a battle cry.

Others? Not so much.

"Disrespectful."
"Unprofessional."
"Spoiled brat with a chip on her shoulder."
"Should've known she wasn't raised right."

That one makes my blood turn to ice. I stare at the words for a long second, my breath caught in my throat. Not because I believe them—but because it's the one thing I knew they'd go for. It's the most obvious knife to twist.

They think because I didn't bow my head and smile sweetly while a man dragged the people I love through the mud that I must be broken. That my moms didn't raise me right. That love, in its fiercest, most radical form, isn't enough to shape a good woman. And still, somewhere in the pile, there are bright little lights—fans and strangers, women who grew up with two moms, or one, or none at all. People who say thank you. People who say me too.