Chapter Text
Love's POV:
I really didn’t want to be at Madison Square Garden tonight.
It was cold, loud, and the seats, even in the sponsor suite, weren’t as comfortable as people made them sound. But Film had begged, then blackmailed me with our friendship, and I eventually gave in. Now here we were, sitting in decent seats overlooking the ice, surrounded by corporate guests and a few other celebrities who looked just as out of place as I felt. Film, of course, was in her element.
“Oh my god, Love, look at the size of these players,” she said, leaning halfway over the railing as the teams warmed up. “Do they all just live at the gym? Oh sorry, they areplayers after all."
I smiled a little and nodded, letting her talk. Film has always been like this, talkative, bratty, zero filter. She could carry a conversation for hours without needing much input. I’ve always been more of a listener anyway, so it worked for us.
She took a sip of her vodka cranberry and kept going. “Okay but seriously, I did some research before we came. The New York Sirens have this player everyone talks about. Milk Pansa Vosbein. Number 17. She’s been in the PWHL for years. Used to be, like, insanely good. People called her the next big legend. Then last season happened and everything went downhill. Injuries, some messy breakup, tabloids eating her alive.”
“You’ve mentioned her like four times already,” I said calmly, adjusting my scarf.
“Because she’s interesting!” Film exclaimed, waving her hand. “Namtan actually knew her growing up or something. She mentioned it once and then immediately shut down when I asked for details. You know how my wife gets, all mysterious and ‘client confidentiality’ even when it’s not work. So annoying.”
I chuckled softly. Film and Namtan’s secret marriage was still something I was getting used to. They kept it completely under wraps for their careers, which meant I had to pretend I didn’t know half the time.
The arena lights brightened as the game was about to start. The crowd noise swelled, that deep, rumbling New York energy that feels like it could lift the roof off. I leaned forward a bit, resting my arms on the cold metal railing.
Film suddenly grabbed my arm. “There she is. Number 17. Black helmet.”
My eyes landed on Milk Pansa Vosbein.
She was skating slowly along the boards during warm-ups, stick in hand, doing tight turns and shooting pucks with sharp, controlled movements. Tall, strong build. Her dark hair was pulled into a tight ponytail that stuck out from under her helmet. She wasn’t smiling or chatting with teammates. She looked focused. Almost angry.
“She skates like she’s pissed at the ice,” I muttered.
Film laughed. “Right? That’s her brand. Ice Queen. Cold on the ice, colder off it apparently.”
The game started a few minutes later. New York Sirens versus New Jersey Pride. From the very first puck drop, it was physical. Both teams were fast and aggressive, but the tension between ertain players was obvious. Milk was on defense and she was everywhere. She cut off passing lanes, threw her body into checks that made the glass shake, and blocked shots like it was personal. Every time she laid a hit, the crowd reacted, some cheering, some groaning.
“Damn,” Film said after one particularly hard check. “She does not play nice.”
The first period stayed close. New Jersey scored first on a quick breakaway, but New York answered a few minutes later. Score 1-1. I found myself watching Milk more than the puck sometimes. The way she read the game was impressive, but I also noticed small things. The way she favored her left leg after big hits. How she’d flex her wrist between plays like it hurt. How her expression never really changed, just this tight, controlled mask.
Film was still yapping beside me. “View Benyapa is such a cocky bitch. Look at her, number 9 for New Jersey. She’s been smirking the whole game. She and Milk have history. They’ve been rivals for years. Every time they play each other it gets nasty.”
I could see it. View Benyapa was fast, flashy, and loved showing off. Every good play, she’d tap her stick on the ice or glance toward the crowd with this arrogant little smile. She was clearly enjoying herself.
Midway through the second period, things escalated.
View got the puck in the neutral zone and came flying down the ice. Milk met her hard near the boards, right in front of our section. The hit was loud. Both players crashed into the glass. The whistle blew immediately.
View got up first and shoved Milk’s shoulder.
“Still slow as fuck, Vosbein,” View said, loud enough for the arena mics to pick up. “That knee still fucked from last season? Or are you just done?”
Milk stood up slowly, breathing hard, staring View down. But View wasn’t finished. She stepped closer, grinning. “Heard your off-ice shit is even worse. Daddy still got you crying at night? Or is it that ex who keeps selling stories about how fucked up you are? Pathetic how far you’ve fallen.”
The entire section around us went quiet for a second. I saw Milk’s entire body language change. Her shoulders tensed, jaw locked. "At least, I don't use father's fortune to get selected in team", she spat.
They went at each other fast., arguing and shoving shoulders. It was messy and real, not the choreographed stuff you sometimes see. Teammates from both sides rushed in, pulling them apart, yelling. The refs finally separated them and sent both to the penalty box. The crowd was loud now, half booing, half cheering the fight.
“Wow,” Film breathed. “That was intense.”
Milk skated to the box with her head slightly down, but her shoulders were still rigid. She looked like she was barely holding it together. When she sat down, she stared straight ahead, jaw tight, breathing through her mouth.
The game continued without the two stars for a while. New Jersey scored during the power play, going up 2-1. When Milk returned, she played even harder. Almost too hard. She blocked three big shots in the next ten minutes, throwing herself in front of the puck. On the third block, the puck hit her pad hard. She stayed down on the ice longer than usual, one hand pressing against her side. The trainer skated over but she waved him away quickly and got back up, limping just a little.
“She’s going to destroy her body,” I said quietly.
Film nodded. “Yeah… she plays like she has nothing to lose anymore.”
The third period was exhausting. The score went back and forth, 2-2, then 3-2 New Jersey, then New York tied it again. Every time Milk and View were on the ice together, the tension was thick. They avoided each other after the fight, but you could feel the bad blood.
With four minutes left, Milk made a really good defensive play, stealing the puck and sending it up ice. The crowd cheered. But a minute later she took another hard hit into the boards and stayed down for a few seconds again. When she got up, her movement was slower. She looked exhausted. Not just tired from the game, something deeper.
The final minute was tense. New York almost scored, but the goalie made a big save. The buzzer went off.
Final score: 3-3. A draw.
The crowd clapped politely, but most people were already talking about the fight between Milk and View. Film stretched beside me. “Well, that was way more entertaining than I thought it would be. My adrenaline is up. Want to go get food now? I’m craving that Thai place in Hell’s Kitchen.”
I nodded but didn’t move right away. My eyes were still on the ice.
Milk was standing near her bench, helmet off. Her hair was messy, face flushed and sweaty. She looked completely drained. A coach was saying something to her and she just nodded once, expression blank. There was something heavy in her eyes, like she already knew what the headlines tomorrow would say. “Milk Vosbein Loses Control Again.” “Former Star Continues Downward Spiral.”
For some reason, it bothered me. I didn’t know her. I’d never spoken to her. But watching her stand there, trying so hard to look unbothered while clearly hurting, felt… sad.
“Love?” Film nudged me. “You okay? You’ve been staring at her for a while.”
“Yeah,” I said, finally looking away. “I’m fine. She just seems like she’s carrying a lot.”
Film shrugged. “Most athletes are. Especially the ones the media loves to hate. Come on, let’s go before the crowd gets crazy.”
As we stood up and started walking out of the suite, I glanced back one last time. Milk was still there, talking to someone, but her posture looked defeated. Like the draw wasn’t just a tie on the scoreboard, it was another reminder that things weren’t what they used to be.
I told Film I’d meet her at the main exit in ten minutes. My manager showed me the way to VIP restroom. I thanked him as he left me there., pushed open the door to the restroom and stepped inside. It was surprisingly empty except for one person. Milk Pansa Vosbein.
She was standing in front of the sink, hands gripping the edge of the counter, breathing hard like she’d just finished running sprints instead of playing a full hockey game. Her jersey was still on, damp with sweat, number 17 sticking to her back. Her helmet was gone, and her dark hair was messy, falling across her forehead. She looked up when she heard the door, and her eyes locked on me immediately.
Recognition hit her face, followed by something sharper. Defensive.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” she muttered under her breath.
I froze for a second. I wasn’t expecting anyone in here, let alone her. Especially not like this.
“Hi,” I said carefully, walking toward the sinks. “I just came to wash my hands. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Milk let out a short, bitter laugh and shook her head. She turned the faucet on hard, splashing water on her face. “Right. Of course you’re ‘just washing your hands.’ Bullshit.”
I paused, drying my hands slowly even though they weren’t wet yet. “Excuse me?”
She turned to face me fully now. Up close, she looked even more exhausted than she had on the ice. There were dark circles under her eyes. Her left cheek was slightly red, probably from one of the hits during the fight. She was breathing like she was trying to calm herself down and failing.
“You celebrities are all the same,” she said, voice low and rough. “Come to the game for the photo op, watch the shitshow, then conveniently show up where the mess is so you can get a good story. Or maybe you just wanted a closer look at the trainwreck?”
I blinked. The hostility was immediate and heavy. “That’s a big assumption. I really did just come here to use the bathroom.”
“Yeah? And I’m supposed to believe that?” She crossed her arms, wincing a little like her ribs hurt. “I saw you up in the sponsor box with your friend. Laughing, pointing, enjoying the show. What, you want to tell your followers how Milk Vosbein lost her shit again? How the once-great defenseman can’t keep her cool anymore?”
Her words came out fast, like she’d been holding them in since the fight. I could see her hands were still shaking slightly from adrenaline or pain or both. “I wasn’t laughing at you,” I said evenly. “I was watching the game. That’s it.”
Milk stared at me for a long second, like she was trying to read if I was lying. Her eyes were sharp, but tired. Really tired.
“Watching the game,” she repeated mockingly. “Sure. Everyone loves watching the fuck-up. Especially when View’s out there reminding the whole arena what a disappointment I am.” She laughed again, but there was no humor in it. “Daddy issues. Ex drama. Washed-up has-been. She hit all the greatest hits tonight, didn’t she?”
I stayed quiet for a moment. The air felt thick. This wasn’t just post-game anger. This was years of stuff bubbling under the surface.
“You don’t know me,” she continued, voice dropping. “But you probably read the articles. Everyone has. ‘Milk Pansa spiraling.’ ‘Former star headed for rock bottom.’ So go ahead. Ask me whatever the fuck you want. Get your exclusive. I’m right here.”
She spread her arms slightly, like she was daring me. But her shoulders stayed tense, guarded. I leaned against the counter, keeping some distance. “I’m not here for a story. I don’t even post about sports. I’m an actress, not a reporter.”
“Actress,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Even better. You people love a good tragedy."
She turned back to the mirror, gripping the sink again. Her breathing was still heavy. I could see a bruise forming on her jaw.
“Look,” I said slowly, “I’m not trying to mess with you. That fight looked brutal. You okay?”
Milk’s head snapped back toward me. “Do I look okay?” She gestured at herself. “I just spent three periods getting my body slammed around by people who want me gone. My knee feels like shit. My ribs are killing me. And instead of icing up with my team, I’m in here arguing with some actress who thinks she understands anything about my life.”
She paused, then let out a tired breath. “You know what the worst part is? View wasn’t even wrong about everything. I am slower. I do fuck up more than I used to. And yeah, my personal life is a goddamn disaster. But hearing it from her, in front of twenty thousand people? That shit stings.”
I nodded slightly. “She was being a bitch. That was low, even for sports.”
Milk scoffed. “Low is her specialty.” She looked down at her hands. “Now every mistake I make ends up on the front page. Every time I lose my temper, it’s ‘proof’ that I’m done. That I should retire before I embarrass the league.”
There was a long silence. I could hear distant crowd noise from the hallway.
“You seem like you’re still really good,” I said honestly. “The way you blocked those shots in the third… that was impressive.”
She looked at me like I’d said something ridiculous. “Impressive? I’m playing like someone who’s scared of losing her spot. That’s not impressive. That’s desperate.” She ran a hand through her messy hair. “I used to own that ice. Now I’m just… holding on. And everyone can see it. Coaches, teammates, media… even random celebrities who wander into bathrooms.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. She sounded so raw.
Milk shook her head. “Why am I even telling you this? I don’t know you. You probably think I’m crazy right now.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” I replied. “I think you’re pissed off and hurting. There’s a difference.”
She stared at me for a while, like she was deciding whether to believe me or not. Then she reached behind her neck and started pulling off her jersey. She yanked it over her head in one rough motion, revealing a tight black compression shirt underneath. She balled up the jersey and threw it hard into the trash can near the door.
“Fuck this,” she muttered.
The jersey landed with a heavy thud. She didn’t even look at it. “You should go back to your friend,” she said, voice quieter now but still edged. “Go have your fancy dinner and forget you saw any of this. I’m not some project for you to fix or some interesting story to tell at parties.”
She moved toward the door, shoulder brushing past me. Close enough that I could smell the mix of sweat, ice, and faint soap. Before she left, she stopped for a second. “And next time someone tells you Milk Vosbein is a mess?” she added without turning around. “Believe them. It’ll save you time.”
Then she pushed the door open and walked out. I stood there alone in the restroom for a long moment, staring at the trash can where her jersey now sat crumpled. The silence felt loud after all that.
Weird.
She was defensive, rude, and clearly carrying a mountain of shit on her back. But there was something about the way she spoke, honest, even when it was angry. No fake politeness. No filter. Just raw exhaustion. I washed my hands for real this time, the cold water helping clear my head a little.
As we walked out of Madison Square Garden into the cold New York night, I couldn’t stop replaying the conversation in my head. The way Milk had thrown her jersey away like it meant nothing. The exhaustion in her voice. The way she’d looked at me like she expected me to hurt her too.
What happened to make someone that talented look so completely drained? What was the full story behind all that anger?