behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Forty-Five

MILLIE

The Bennett Center glows golden under the string lights laced through the ceiling beams, warm and familiar in a way that tugs at my chest. It smells like ice and popcorn, faint traces of cinnamon from the hot cider station near the entrance, and something sharper too—maybe nerves, maybe pride. Probably both.

I tighten the laces on my skates one last time and stand, scanning the rink with a quiet kind of reverence. This place is home. Not just the building—though I could navigate it blindfolded—but the people inside it. The laughter echoing off the walls, the hum of excited chatter as kids dart between tables decorated with candy cane-striped runners and donation jars. The buzz of something good happening. Something right.

The annual event is one of my favorite days of the year. My moms started years ago, when they were young and wide-eyed and so full of fight they couldn't see straight. It's grown since then—into something solid, something bright. A community staple. Every year, we raise money for kids who don't have safe places to go home to. For families rebuilding. For the chance at something better. And every year, we show up. All of us.

Grace is manning the raffle table, shouting numbers and handing out mugs of cocoa with a sharp grin and red lipstick that never smudges, even after hours of talking. Aurora and Summer are standing near the rink, watching their kids on the ice.

Willow is snapping pictures with the disposable film camera she insists on bringing every year—"for the memories," she says—and Camille's somewhere in the crowd, probably organizing the silent auction with her usual grace-under-pressure. My uncles Julian and Theo are stationed by the food truck outside, offering chili dogs and eggnog like it's the most sacred duty in the world. And my moms, are front and center near the podium, dressed in identical cream coats and glittering snowflake pins, radiating pride so intense it practically fogs the glass walls.

And of course, my girl is also here.

She's in the middle of the rink, moving like a baby deer on a frozen pond—wobbly, uncertain, and absolutely delighted. Her legs splay out in different directions every few seconds, arms flailing as she tries to stay upright, but she's got this wild grin on her face, the kind that makes her cheeks round and her eyes crinkle. And despite the complete lack of balance, she's laughing. Hard. Loud. Like she hasn't laughed like that in a while.

Lia's latched onto her left hand, shrieking with delight as she practically drags Harper across the ice. That kid has been skating since before she could stand; she's tiny but confident, bundled up in pink fleece and sparkly earmuffs, shouting, "You're doing it, Harps! You're doing it!"

Harper, breathless and swaying, shouts back, "No I'm not! I'm dying!"

"You're fine," Nico announces sternly, gripping Harper's right hand like he's the coach of a world-class team. "You just have to be a penguin. See?" He demonstrates by angling his skates outward and waddling in a semi-circle. "Penguin feet. Low center of gravity."

"Center of what?" Harper wheezes, trying and failing to mimic him. Her knees knock, her arms helicopter. "This feels like a conspiracy."

Fizzy flies by them, skating backwards with obnoxious ease. Her black braid whips behind her, and she grins like a shark. "You're gonna fall on your butt again," she says, sing-song, just before Harper's arms flail once more and she collapses—gently—onto her knees with a dramatic groan.

"I'm suing all of you," she gasps, sprawled on the ice while the kids cackle around her.

But she's laughing, too, and it's the kind of laugh that settles deep in my chest. The kind that makes something ache in a way I don't hate.