behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Ten

HARPER

I blink. Once. Twice. My eyes meet ocean blue-green eyes that seem like they're drowning. "What?" I say, letting out a short incredulous laugh without thinking.

But she just stares at me, eyes huge and miserable, curled fists knotted tight in the sleeves of her hoodie.

Oh my god.
Oh my god, she's not joking.

The laughter dies sharp in my throat. I sit up straighter, blinking fast like that's gonna somehow clear the words she just said from the air. "You— I'm sorry, what?"

Millie groans, burying her face in her hands. "I panicked, okay?" she mumbles through her fingers, sounding absolutely tortured.

I stare at her, dumbfounded for another solid three seconds, before the absurdity of it bubbles up again and I can't help myself— I burst out laughing.

It's loud and bright and almost a little hysterical, and it makes her peek at me between her fingers with this wounded look, like she can't decide whether to punch me or cry.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I gasp, trying to wave it off and catch my breath. "But seriously, Millie—go un-panic it! Go be like, 'lol, my bad, wrong Harper!' or—or 'I actually have a secret Canadian girlfriend' or something."

I can't stop giggling and she looks like she might actually murder me. "I can't," she hisses, dropping her hands to her lap, glaring at me with the full force of her blue eyes.

"What do you mean you can't?" I laugh again.

"I mean— I can't exactly tell them I lie, Harper. They want me to fake date a guy! Do you know what that will say of me? There are kids looking up to me. And— God, I know this isn't your business but I... I don't know I just said the first thing that came to my mind."

"Aw," I say, tilting my head. "I'm the first thing that pops into your mind? That's kinda flattering, not gonna lie."

Millie groans, rolling her eyes so hard it's a miracle they don't fall out of her skull, but her cheeks flush a soft pink, betraying her.

"Shut up," she mumbles, scrubbing a hand over her face again "I know it's insane," she says, voice cracking. "And you don't have to do anything. I'll tell them I made a mistake. I'll figure it out. I just—"

She cuts herself off, scrubbing a hand over her face again. I don't know Millie Bennett. Not really. I know what Audrey's told me—little things.

I know the soundbites the media loves to chew up. I know the picture-perfect snapshots of her grinning with gold medals, pointing at trophies, fists raised in victory.

But none of those versions are the girl sitting in front of me now.
This girl? This girl looks so exhausted. Amelia Bennett on TV is nothing like the girl I have in front of me. This Millie is smaller, fragile in ways I don't think she knows how to show. She's breaking apart under all the pressure and pretending she isn't, and it hits me so hard I actually have to swallow down the lump rising in my throat.

She's human in a way the world never lets her be. She's good in a way the world doesn't bother to see.

The girl who breaks jaws on the ice with a smile—is sitting there looking smaller than I've ever seen her. Like the world's been chewing her up piece by piece. And I feel the need to kill that world.

She's nothing the tabloids say about her. Jesus– she's letting me stay in her apartment for free just because I lost everything. She doesn't know me and still she bought me a bed and made space for me in her home. I also noticed that she leaves fresh coffee for me at the mornings, she waters my flowers when I'm not home, she leaves leftovers for me if I'm working late. Four days. Four days and I've seen more of the real Millie Bennett than the world has ever seen.