behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Twenty

MILLIE

Being the youngest in a family like mine is... weird.
Not hard, not lonely, not painful—just weird. Because I had the best childhood. I mean that. The kind of childhood people make movies about. I had two moms who never missed a game, two sisters who treated me like I hung the moon, people who protected me with all their lives, and a house full of music and ice dates and glitter and bruises and laughter. I was loved so much it was almost overwhelming sometimes. But still—being the youngest in a family like mine means growing up watching everyone else already be something before you even know what you want.

Aurora is twelve years older than me. Summer's nine. By the time I was figuring out how to do long division, they were winning championships and standing under spotlights and falling in love. While I was still sneaking into my moms' bed after nightmares, they had their own apartments. Their own lives. Their own rules. We were never on the same page. Not really.

But I never felt left out. Not once. I just... knew I was always going to be a few steps behind. I watched them like someone watches the stars—not because I wanted to be them, but because I couldn't believe I got to live in the same universe. I looked up to them, always. Still do.
I've never once wanted to surpass them. I think even as a kid I knew we weren't built for the same roads.

My moms taught me that early. That it's not about comparison. That my path wasn't supposed to look like Summer's or Aurora's. That I could be different and still be enough. So I found hockey. Or maybe hockey found me. And it was messy and fast and loud and brutal and everything I didn't know I needed.
While Summer danced across a stage and Aurora carved perfect figures into the ice, I slammed into walls and skated like I had something to prove.

And I did. Not to them but to the world. To the cameras. To the interviews. To the coaches who looked at me like I was just Luna Bennett's youngest. To the ones who said I was too reckless, too emotional, too loud, not enough. I wanted to prove that I belonged. That I didn't have to be the most graceful or the most poised or the most beloved.

Sometimes, I forget that I'm still that little girl who used to fall asleep in the hallway outside my moms' room, because I didn't want to wake them but I didn't want to be alone either.

Maybe sometimes, I still feel a little behind.

I don't have a girlfriend. I don't have a ring or a kid who runs up to the glass after a game. I don't have someone waiting for me in the stands or someone who makes me want to leave the arena early.

I have hockey. I have an apartment that'll feel quiet again if Harper leaves. And I have this... ache in my chest I can't name most days.

But right now?

Right now, there's music playing low in the background. The kind of playlist only my Mama would make—classic rock mixed with soft indie, like she's both stuck in her glory days and trying to stay relevant.
There's the sound of water boiling on the stove and the clink of mugs being set down. And there's laughter. Harper's laugh. My mom's too. The soft kind that fills a space up without overwhelming it.

It feels warm in here. I turn around just in time to see Mama open an old, massive photo album on the kitchen table, sliding it toward Harper like it's a national treasure.

"Mom, seriously?" I groan, flopping dramatically onto the couch like that might make her stop.

"Oh, come on," she says, grinning. "Let her see Baby Millie. She deserves the full experience."

Harper's eyes go wide with delight as she leans in. "Oh my god. Look at this one. Look at those cheeks. That red hair! You were adorable."
I groan louder. She turns the page. "Why are you in blue and green in literally every photo? No wonder you wear nothing but black now,"