behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Eleven

HARPER

Roomie: Do you have a dress for tonight? These things are kinda fancy.

Clearly Amelia doesn't know me very well yet because I have an outfit for every possible life event.
Wedding guest? Check.
Funeral? Depressingly enough, check.
Formal gala where I have to play girlfriend to a hot hockey player? Double check.

God, I would love to buy something new just to feel a little more alive. But we all know my bank account is currently gasping for air.

Me: i'm sure i have something in my closet

The three dots pop up almost immediately, Millie typing back so fast it makes me smile.

Roomie: And here I was about to offer my girlfriend the opportunity to take my credit card out for a spin.

I nearly snort-laugh, shoving my phone closer to my chest like I'm hiding some scandalous secret.
Girlfriend.
Jesus.

I shake my head, thumbs flying again.

Me: now that you say it, i'm pretty sure my entire wardrobe got lost in the move.

A second passes. Then another.

Roomie: Are you sure? Because I'm pretty sure there's a huge box by the hallway full of clothes.

I grin, tapping back without missing a beat.

Me: those are for donation.

"Why are you smiling so much?"

The voice comes out of nowhere, slicing through the steady background noise of pucks hitting boards and skates cutting across ice.
I practically jump a foot in the air, clutching my phone against my chest like it's some kind of national security secret.

I spin around, heart hammering, and find a small, wild-haired figure staring up at me — all tangled dark curls, pink cheeks, and mischievous green eyes that miss absolutely nothing.

"I—" I start, fumbling for words, but she barrels forward without even giving me the chance.

"Do you have another boyfriend?" she demands, planting her hands firmly on her hips, standing there like a tiny detective ready to crack the case wide open. Her voice rings out across the practice rink, a little too loud, making a couple of players glance over and smirk.

I feel my face heat, glancing down at the camera slung around my neck like I just remembered I have a job to do. The guys from the Vancouver Wolves are still finishing up drills, the scrape of their skates and the slap of sticks echoing through the massive arena. I can smell the sharp metallic tang of the ice, the faint hint of sweat and old coffee lingering in the air.

Right. Work. I'm supposed to be photographing, not getting interrogated about my fake love life by an eight-year-old.

"Because Daddy says," Harriet continues, oblivious to my full-body meltdown, "that if someone smiles at their phone that much, it's because they have a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. Do you?" She tilts her head, her expression pure innocent curiosity — but there's not a single ounce of chill in her tiny body.

I blink at her, my mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Am I even allowed to talk about this?
I mean, technically, it's not real —
The world's about to think it's real after tonight — but what about the people who actually matter?
Harriet's basically family to Millie. Does she know what's happening? Do we want her to know?