behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Twenty-Five

MILLIE

Julian's 'punishment' for skipping practice was benching me for the first period of our next game. He probably thought it would teach me a lesson.

What he didn't anticipate was the entire arena chanting my name two minutes into the first period after Toronto scored their opening goal.

Toronto plays dirty.
I play dirtier.
That's why every mouth in the crowd demanded my return, and Julian had no choice but to put me back in.
What I didn't expect was that Toronto had been saving all their anger for me.
Our game's tied 2-2. Toronto-especially Jenna-always plays rough, but tonight it feels personal.

They've been targeting me all night. Even when I don't have the puck, they're skating toward me like I'm the sole target, as if I've got a neon sign flashing above my helmet: HIT HER.

I take another check hard into the boards, the plexiglass rattling against my back as my shoulder absorbs the worst of it. It's the same side that's been sore since the last time we faced them. Jenna's team. Of course. I push off the boards with a grunt, my breath sharp in my throat, and keep going.

There's blood in my mouth-bit the inside of my cheek when I took that last fall. My legs are burning. But I skate hard. Harder. Because this is who I am. This is the game.

My stick finds the puck off a rebound. I weave through the neutral zone, one hand tight on my stick, the other flexing against my ribs. My skates cut through the ice clean, slicing past two defenders. One of them tries to shove me off balance-I twist my body low, control tight, shift my weight to keep possession. My mind is sharper than my body right now. That's the danger.

I hear the crowd yelling, thundering down. One voice cuts through.

"Julian, pull her out!"

I don't even have to look to know it's my Mom. I can feel her panic through the glass. I know where she's sitting. Front row, left of the bench. Right next to Harper.

I push harder, ignoring the screaming protests of my muscles.
The puck is back on my stick, and I make a break for the goal. A defender comes at me, but I sidestep, sending her sprawling into the boards. I shoot.

The puck hits the post and ricochets off. So close. I circle back, ready for the rebound, but Jenna's there. She slams into me, her elbow catching my already bruised shoulder. Pain explodes down my arm, but I don't let it show. I can't.

Julian doesn't pull me out. Even with Mama's voice cracking against the boards. Even with blood sliding from my temple into the corner of my eye, seeping beneath my visor. Even with every breath like a punch to the ribs.

I stay on the ice. Julian doesn't call me off. He can't. Because I'm the one they count on when it's all on the line. And tonight, it is.

Toronto's strategy is clear now: take me out, and the game falls with me. They don't care if I've got the puck. They come at me like I do-like I'm a magnet for violence.

Every check rattles more than my bones. It shakes something deeper. But I don't stop.

I drag my skates along the edge of exhaustion and spit the taste of blood onto the ice. My stick feels heavier with each shift, and my legs burn like hellfire. Still-when the puck skitters loose in the corner, I'm there. First. Always first.

I snag it, pivot fast. Jenna's on me before I can blink. I don't flinch. I press into her hit, shoulder to shoulder, teeth clenched so hard I feel them shift in my jaw.

The crowd is a roar behind the glass, but I can't hear it anymore-just the sound of my own breath, ragged and thin, trapped beneath the cage of my helmet. My chest is heaving, legs barely holding me up between shifts, but I don't let it show. I grip my stick tighter, knuckles white beneath my gloves, and push forward. One more play. One more shift. One more second I don't have to give.