behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Forty

MILLIE

Eventually, I had to show up.

There was no escaping it anymore. The calls, the texts, the calendar reminders my agent kept rescheduling like I wouldn't notice—practice was waiting, the media was screaming, and I was out of excuses. I showed up to the arena just after sunrise, bleary-eyed, body aching from a week of holding Harper through grief and sleep and stillness. I didn't even get a chance to lace my skates before Julian blew the whistle like I was a rookie. I deserved it. Maybe.
Ten games off mid-season. Half the league whispering. A quarter of the fans pissed. And still, not even a sliver of regret in me. Just exhaustion. A thick, bone-deep exhaustion that no stretch, no sprint, no suicide run could ever sweat out.

Julian's pacing the rink like he's trying to erase it with every stomp of his skates. "You think the team waits for you, Amelia?" His voice echoes off the walls. "You think because you had a good first half, you get to disappear?"

I don't answer. I skate harder. Legs burning. Chest heaving. My stick is slippery in my hands and I can feel the bruises blooming under my gear like old ghosts.

"You gonna tell us where the hell you've been?"

I don't. I don't give him anything. Not the real story, not the fake one either. I just push until my lungs burn, because if I stop moving, I'll think about her. About how she looked when I left her curled in my bed this morning, wrapped in my hoodie, hair mussed, eyes half-open and still red from crying. About how her voice cracked when she said, "Good luck," and how I kissed her forehead before I could talk myself out of it.

The whistle blows again. More drills. More punishment. I bite my tongue until I taste blood.

By the time practice is over, I'm drenched in sweat and every joint in my body is humming with fatigue. I want to collapse. I want to go home. Not to my apartment—to Harper. Because that's what home is now. Her. Always her.

But Jaz is waiting outside the locker room. Leaning against the wall in a trench coat too perfect for the mess I've left behind. Her brows shoot up when she sees me.

"You look like shit," she says.

"Thanks," I mutter. "Missed you too."

She falls into step beside me. "We need to talk. Like, yesterday."

I already know what's coming. I've seen the notifications pile up. Jaz has been calling me nonstop—first once a day, then every hour, and now, apparently, every five minutes. I've ignored her texts, ignored the bullet-pointed crisis plan I know she's drafted, probably titled "What To Do When a Bennett Implodes Her Entire Career For A Girl."

I don't even make it past the locker room doors before she finds me. Her heels echo down the corridor, her coat cinched tight, her eyes furious and glittering like she's been holding this in too long.

"The media is having a fucking field day," she snaps, falling into step beside me. "And I'm not saying that as an exaggeration—this is DEFCON ONE, Bennett. Do you know what you've done?"

I stay quiet, just keep walking, my body still sore from the skate drills, my shoulders heavy with everything I haven't said.

"Some fans think this whole thing is love," she says, voice sharp. "But more think it's a PR stunt. That you used a girl for fame. That you played the sapphic angle for attention and then vanished. They think you're lying, Millie. Lying to everyone."

I suck in a breath.

"Your social media manager is begging me for a statement. Any statement. Your agent wants an exclusive interview with someone, anyone who'll spin this into a comeback story. Julian wants your head on a stick. And I—"