behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Thirteen

HARPER

The bartender slides a gin and tonic across the polished bar toward me, and I catch it just before it slips past my fingers.
I wrap my hand around the cool glass, breathing in the crisp bite of the alcohol before taking a small sip. My eyes sweep across the crowded ballroom, scanning for Millie, or Lucas, or Cooper—hell, for anyone I know.

It's not that I'm having a bad time. Not really. But there's a certain hum beneath my skin that I can't shake off tonight.

An uncomfortable awareness. I'm used to these kinds of events — the glittering dresses, the expensive suits, the careful orchestration of smiles and small talk. I've spent the last few years ducking around rooms just like this, camera slung around my neck, invisible and moving, always with a purpose. Always with something to do.

Tonight, though... tonight I'm standing on the other side of the lens.

Exposed. Vulnerable. Visible. Not as the girl behind the camera, but as Harper, the person everyone's whispering about.
Who's she?
Why is she here with Millie Bennett?
Is it serious?

Their stares are like tiny, invisible pricks along my skin.
Some curious. Some malicious.
I swirl the gin in my glass, letting the ice clink against the sides to distract myself. I'm not used to being the story. I'm much more comfortable telling someone else's.

And maybe that's why I excused myself to the bathroom earlier.
Not because I needed anything — just a few breaths where I didn't have to be watched, assessed, calculated like I was another one of Millie's stats.

I spot her a moment later across the room — and my heart does this ridiculous little flip at the sight of her.
She's standing near a cluster of people, a champagne flute gripped too tightly in her hand, a strained smile frozen on her mouth. Even from here, I can see the tension coiled in her body, the way her shoulders are set just a little too straight, the sharpness behind her eyes that doesn't quite match the polite laugh she's giving.

She's talking to some older man — grey hair, neatly trimmed beard, expensive watch flashing at his wrist — and something about the way he leans in toward her, the way his gaze lingers just a second too long, twists my stomach into an uncomfortable knot.

I'm learning things tonight. Things I hate. Like how in Millie's world — this world of fame and money and politics — there are men who look at her and see only the parts they want to own. A pretty face. A headline. A means to their end.

They don't see her. Not really. She's the best player in the world — better than half the NHL combined — and still, some people only want to shrink her down, clip her wings, make her easier to manage.

It makes me want to do something reckless. Like walk across the room and shove that man's drink into his smug face.

"There you are," a voice says, stopping me just a few feet short.
Lucas. He steps into my path, grinning like he's caught me sneaking somewhere I shouldn't be.
I force a smile, even though my eyes flick over his shoulder, searching instinctively for her.

Two ocean-blue eyes break away from the small crowd gathered around her and find me instantly, like she's been looking for me too.
It punches the air out of my lungs. God. She's beautiful.

Her black suit cuts sharp lines across her figure, the fabric hugging her just right, severe and soft all at once.
Her auburn hair falls down her back in soft, wild waves, and even from here I can tell she's uncomfortable — stiff shoulders, guarded posture, champagne glass dangling forgotten between two fingers.