behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Nine

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.