behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

Chapter Eighteen

MILLIE

"Auntie Millie!" Fizzy shouts from the other side of the arcade, her voice cutting through the chaotic mix of digital bleeps, high-pitched game effects, and the low hum of a soda machine. I turn just in time to see her flinging herself toward me, arms spread like a bird mid-flight, the hem of her sparkly hoodie bouncing as she runs.

Her eyes catch the light—one green, one hazel—Fizzy is a walking beam of sunshine with glitter dusted on top, dramatic as hell and always a little loud, and God, I love her so much it physically aches. She's ten going on eighteen, with a voice made for Broadway and a need for attention she comes by honestly—her mom is literally Willow James, international pop icon and the queen of stage presence.

I crouch down, arms open wide. Fizzy slams into me with all the force a kid who's had three gummy worms and a sip of soda can muster. "I got the jackpot!" she breathes into my neck, triumphant and wild-eyed. "I hit the button right as it blinked red, like boom!" She makes an explosion noise into my shoulder and I laugh, clutching her close.

"You're a legend," I say, brushing her hair back. "All of Vancouver is shaking in fear."

She grins up at me. "Obviously."

Somewhere behind her, Nico appears—quieter, like he always is. Where Fizzy is a burst of fireworks, Nico is all soft rain and silk ribbon. He's holding a small stuffed axolotl, won from a claw machine after three rounds and two lectures from me about budgeting our tokens.

"Do you think he'll like the ballet?" he asks, stepping close, holding the toy up by its fuzzy tail. "Or is he more into tap?"

"Ballet, for sure," I say without hesitation. "He has the feet for it."

Nico beams and tucks the axolotl into the front of his hoodie like he's swaddling it. "Same," he whispers. "He's going to be my understudy in case I sprain my ankle."

He says it like it's the most natural thing in the world and my heart swells. I remember the first day Summer and Willow brought them home. They were one and a half, still learning how to speak in full sentences, and I fell in love instantly. I went from being just Millie to being Aunt Millie and I fucking loved it.

We spend the next hour running around the arcade like sugar-fueled gremlins. Fizzy finds every game that plays music, dancing her way through half of them while dramatically singing whatever song is playing overhead—she gets a few stares, but she doesn't care. She has the audacity of a girl raised by a literal pop star. It's both terrifying and impressive.

Nico sticks to rhythm games and this weird virtual ballet simulation where he has to mimic movements with a sensor pad. He nails every move, posture perfect, wrists graceful, neck elongated like he's already on stage. His moms are raising him right. Summer used to tell me ballet was her first language. I think Nico speaks it too.

I sit on a neon bench near the air hockey table, just watching them for a while. Fizzy's dancing in circles. Nico's adjusting his imaginary barre. They're both completely in their worlds, safe and open and joyful in ways that make me believe I haven't totally screwed everything up.

I take them out like this whenever I can—after school, after a bad day, after I need something to remind me what unconditional love feels like. They don't ask questions when I'm quiet. They just pull me into whatever adventure they've crafted for the day and let me live there with them.

Today, Fizzy chose the arcade. Last week, Nico made me take him to the ballet supply store to look at shoes, and we ended up in a café drinking hot chocolate and arguing about the best Tchaikovsky score. I lost. He's passionate.