behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

MILLIE

TWO MONTHS LATER.
June 23rd.

Playoffs are happening right now—and it was never a question of whether we'd make it. It was when. What does surprise me, though, is the six-game winning streak we're riding like a wave that refuses to break. We're untouchable. Unstoppable. It's not just something we believe in the locker room—it's a headline now. A mantra. The world says it. The media screams it. Even the ones who spent months tearing me apart are finally shutting up long enough to write about my game instead of my personal life.

I don't know what cosmic shift flipped that switch—what moment made them care more about my slapshot than my relationship—but Harper had something to do with it. Of course she did. Jaz says it all the time, laughing like she knew it would happen from the beginning. "You're welcome, baby Bennett. Can't believe I arranged this,"

I don't play for them, though. I never have. I play for my team. For my family. For myself. And now—for her.

Every practice these last two months has been a war zone. Every game, more brutal than the last. The ice is colder, harder, sharper this time of year. You feel every hit in your bones, carry every mistake on your back like a second jersey. But we're built for this. We've handled it. The pressure. The cameras. The nonstop buzz of expectations. And when I look across the rink and meet the eyes of the girls who've bled with me all season, I know we're ready. We've trained for this. Breathed for this. Lived for this.

The finals are this weekend. One more game. That's all that stands between us and the Cup. The locker room is wired with tension and adrenaline, like something electric is simmering just beneath the surface. Every skate lace, every stretch, every whispered pre-game ritual feels heavier, more sacred. The stakes couldn't be higher. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't feeling it in my chest like a second heartbeat.

The city's watching. Hell, the world's watching. And I know the cameras will be on me. They always are. They'll want the post-game interview, the slow-mo highlights, the narrative. And for the first time, I don't care about any of it. Not the spotlight. Not the pressure. Not even the title.

All I can think about is Harper.

It's been three months since Marianne passed. Three months since I held Harper as she broke open in my arms. Her grief was something private, sacred, something she didn't want to make other people carry.

And yet, she let me carry it with her.

That's love, isn't it?

We don't talk about it every day. She doesn't need to. I can tell by the way her fingers will sometimes pause on her camera when she's photographing at the rink, or how she'll stare out the window with that soft, far-off look like she's trying to remember the sound of her mother's voice. Some nights, the grief crashes into her like a wave she didn't see coming. She'll curl into herself on our bed, silent tears soaking my T-shirt as I hold her against me, whispering words that don't fix anything but maybe soften the sharpest edge of it.

But some days... she's the sun.

Bright, warm, breathtaking. She hums when she cooks now. Laughs when I chase her down the hallway. Falls asleep with her head on my chest like I'm home. I think that's the most unexpected thing about grief—it doesn't erase the joy. It just teaches you to hold it more gently.

We've flown to Florida twice in the last couple months. Not for a vacation—though the locals probably thought we were tourists with our sunglasses and iced lattes and tangled fingers. No. We went for her. For her mom. For the memories Harper was brave enough to revisit.