behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Fourteen

MILLIE

I'm soaked in sweat, my gloves tight with frustration, and the roar of the opposing crowd is a constant pulse in the back of my skull. It's not the loudest arena we've played in, but tonight, every sound feels like it's aimed directly at me-every cheer for them, every groan against us, like little shards digging under my skin.

I skate back to center ice after a failed rush, lungs burning, jaw clenched so tight I think something might snap. We're down by one, with less than seven minutes left in regulation, and it's not just the score that has me this pissed-it's everything. The cheap shots. The chirping. The way the Toronto captain, Jenna fucking Leclair, keeps smirking every time she bumps me behind the play. Like she knows she's getting under my skin. Like she knows I'm this close to snapping.

It's not just the game-it's the noise outside it. My face was on ESPN this morning. My girlfriend's face-fake girlfriend, whatever-was on TMZ. People keep talking like they know me. Like they know Harper. The worst part is that the video of the interview we're trying to get them to forget has gone viral again. I shouldn't care. I don't- but seeing that my first public appearance with Harper was for nothing makes my blood boil.

A whistle blows, and the ref's arm shoots up. Penalty. Of course it's us.

"Bullshit," I mutter through gritted teeth, circling the bench with my stick tapping lightly against the ice. Julian doesn't say anything as I come off-he doesn't have to. The look in his eyes is enough.

I slam down on the bench and lean forward, elbows on my knees, trying to catch my breath, trying to calm down, even as the arena music pulses through my chest.

Leclair skates by, slow enough to make it obvious. "Getting a little rattled there, Bennett?" she says with that sickly sweet tone she saves just for me.

I don't look at her. Don't answer. Not because I don't have a response, but because if I say a word right now, it'll be the wrong one. And I can't afford a misconduct.
She knows it. That's why she grins wider and keeps skating. The girls are trying. God, they are. Riley's been everywhere tonight. Casey's bleeding from a lip split in the second. Zoey's skating like her feet are on fire. And still, nothing's landing. Nothing's clean. We're chasing the puck like it's always just out of reach.

The puck drops again and I'm back out-lungs burning, muscles tight, adrenaline coiled hot and sharp in my veins. There's less than a minute left on the clock. Fifty-four seconds to be exact.
I don't have time to think. Just move.

The refs are letting everything slide tonight, and Toronto's using it to their full advantage.

Thirty seconds. Just thirty seconds left on the clock.

My mom only needed ten seconds to win a world cup, I know I can do this.

I grip my stick tighter and push harder, legs burning as I lunge forward with a burst of speed. The puck ricochets off the boards and I'm there. I can hear the bench screaming-Julian's voice above them all-"Shoot, Bennett!"

I'm at the crease before I know it, a clear lane, just enough space, just enough time. The goalie drops low, bracing for the shot. My hands shift on the stick. I line it up-

And the world turns sideways.

There's no warning. No time to brace. Jenna slams into me with full force, a calculated, vicious hit that sends me flying like a ragdoll. I don't even see her coming. Just the split-second crack of impact-shoulder, ribs, boards.

Everything goes white. Pain explodes down my side like a live wire. My head snaps back, smacking off the glass. A sickening jolt courses through my spine, and for a moment, there's nothing. Just static. A void.
I hit the ice hard. The stick skitters away, out of reach. My legs don't move. Everything narrows. My ears ring. The lights above blur and spin in sickening arcs. My breath won't come. My chest heaves but nothing fills my lungs.