✧ lights, camera, bitch smile ✧

Ivy existed in that strange, almost invisible space between being known and not being seen at all. Everyone recognized her work—the girl behind the camera, the one darting across the rink with a tiny microphone that looked comically small in her hand and even smaller when she held it up to players twice her size, the one asking questions mid-laugh, catching reactions, turning ordinary moments into something people replayed on their phones a hundred times. She was the one who showed up with their favorite snacks, remembering details they had mentioned once weeks ago, handing them over with a grin while filming their surprise. She planned everything, scheduled posts, organized appearances, crafted captions that made fans feel closer to the team than they really were. Online, she was a voice, a rhythm, a presence people followed daily. But Ivy herself? That part blurred at the edges. If someone really paid attention, they’d notice her in the background of photos, crouched by the bench adjusting a lens, or standing off to the side during practice, capturing moments no one else thought to look at. She was always there, just slightly out of focus.

Outside of the rink, her life didn’t look the way people expected it to. She still lived with her dad, the coach, something people occasionally commented on with that subtle tone that suggested she should’ve moved on by now, grown out of it, settled somewhere proper. But Ivy never felt behind. She had her independence in ways that didn’t need to be proven through rent or empty apartments. Still, she had looked—more out of curiosity than urgency—walking through spaces that smelled like fresh paint or old wood, imagining herself there for a second before moving on. Sometimes her dad came along, offering opinions she half-listened to, sometimes she dragged Sully with her, turning it into something lighter, something less like a decision and more like an outing. But she never rushed it. There was no timeline pressing against her chest. She liked her life as it was—fluid, slightly unfinished, open.

Her days, when they weren’t filled with hockey, belonged entirely to her. She had a list of coffee shops saved on her phone, each one rated with her own system that had nothing to do with professionalism and everything to do with feeling—vibes, lighting, the way the music blended into the space, how the barista smiled, how the first sip tasted after a long walk. She’d go alone most of the time, headphones on, lips moving silently as she lip-synced to whatever song had taken over her brain that day, her steps matching the beat as she wandered through streets that still felt a little new, a little temporary. She took pictures constantly—corners of buildings, reflections in windows, her coffee cup against the table, the way sunlight hit her shoes—and later she’d sit cross-legged somewhere comfortable, editing everything into something soft and aesthetic before posting it. Her followers weren’t massive, but they were steady, a mix of people who knew her from the hockey page and others who had followed her life long before Euroville. It felt like a quiet kind of connection, one she controlled.

Sometimes she leaned into being a tourist in her own city. She booked visits, wandered through places people who lived there rarely bothered to see anymore. The royal castle was one of her favorites—she’d walk through it slowly, audioguide in her ears, absorbing stories and details like she had nowhere else to be. There was something comforting about existing in spaces where no one expected anything from her, where she could just observe instead of document, just be instead of capture.

She liked silence as much as she liked noise, which confused people when they tried to pin her down. At work, she was quick, talkative, teasing, always ready with another question or idea, but when she was alone, she softened into something quieter. She didn’t mind walking for hours without speaking, didn’t mind sitting in a café with nothing but her thoughts and a half-finished drink. It wasn’t loneliness. It was balance. She existed comfortably in both spaces, never fully one thing or the other.

Nights were slower. Warmer. Familiar. She’d be sprawled on the couch in her dad’s apartment, phone in hand, scrolling endlessly through social media, saving ideas, watching edits, replying to messages she had missed during the day. Her dad would pass by, absentmindedly pressing a kiss to her hair, something so routine it barely registered anymore but still grounded her in a way nothing else did. She’d stay up too late, always, texting people she loved, conversations stretching into the early hours without her noticing time passing.

And then there was Avery.

At some point in the night, almost like habit, she’d find herself texting him. Sometimes it was something random, something she saw that reminded her of him, sometimes it was nothing at all—just a “you up?” sent into the quiet. On nights when the apartment felt too still, she’d sit by the window, legs kicked up behind her, staring out into the dark as she waited for his reply, her reflection faint against the glass. There was something about those moments that felt suspended, like the world had narrowed down to just that conversation, just that connection. Other nights, she didn’t wait. She’d end up at his place instead, wrapped in a kind of privacy that felt temporary but real enough to hold onto, enjoying it without asking too many questions about what came next.

But even in those calm, quiet nights, when everything felt soft and manageable, her thoughts had a way of drifting somewhere deeper. To someone she had never known. Her mother existed more as an idea than a memory—a woman who had left before Ivy could understand what leaving meant. It wasn’t as if Ivy had grown up without love. Her dad had filled every space, every gap, every silence with enough care to make sure she never truly lacked anything. And still… there were moments where the question slipped in, uninvited and impossible to fully ignore. Not loud, not overwhelming, just there. A quiet wondering. If there had been something about her, even then, that had made someone walk away. If there were parts of her she couldn’t see, things she carried without knowing, things that might make people leave once they noticed them.

ivy had chosen the top row on purpose, legs folded beneath her, hoodie sleeves swallowed past her knuckles, the cold already seeping through the metal bleachers even though she’d barely been sitting five minutes. the hockey stadium was empty in that particular, hollow way that made every sound feel too loud—footsteps echoing down concrete corridors, the scrape of skate guards, the dull thud of double bags hitting the floor. she figured those had to be her dad’s new players arriving, one by one, shadows moving through the tunnel below. she scrolled through instagram without really absorbing any of it, pausing every few seconds to glance down, curiosity pulling her eyes back to the rink like gravity.

it didn’t take long for them to appear. bodies in motion, easy confidence, nervous energy masked by jokes and shoulder bumps. pads went on, helmets clipped, gloves tugged tight. ivy studied them the way she always did—quietly, observantly, filing away first impressions she knew she’d need later. there was the one who walked like he owned the place before he’d even stepped on the ice. the one who lingered near the wall, adjusting his gear twice as carefully as necessary. the one already laughing too loud. the one whose eyes never left the ice, like it was a promise he intended to keep.

then her dad skated out.

adam abbot took the center of the rink like it was instinct, skates already laced, movements fluid and familiar, shoulders loose, posture relaxed in the way only someone who belonged somewhere could manage. ivy felt that familiar tug in her chest at the sight of him—pride, comfort, something steady. he planted his skates and looked around, lips curling into that half-smirk that always meant he was about to enjoy himself.

“ladies,” he called, voice cutting clean through the space, “get ready. i’m waiting.”

laughter broke out immediately, sticks tapping the ice as players pushed off, circling, stretching, shaking off nerves. ivy leaned forward now, phone forgotten in her lap, watching as the group gathered. when they were all there, her dad clapped once, sharp and commanding.

“i’m adam abbot,” he said. “sadly for you, i’ll be your coach from now on.” more laughter. “call me whatever you want—just avoid nicknames.”

he paused, then lifted his chin toward the bleachers.

“and there,” he added, pointing straight at her.

ivy’s stomach dropped.

“that’s where your new social media manager is,” adam continued easily. “iv, come say hi. they should know who they’re supposed to be scared of.”

heat rushed to her face instantly. every helmet turned. someone whistled. ivy shot her dad a glare that promised payback, but he only looked pleased. she stood anyway, heart thudding, the walk down the bleachers feeling far longer than it should have. every step echoed. every glance burned. she squared her shoulders when she reached the boards, resting one hand against the cold metal.

“hey,” she said, forcing a steady smile. “i’m ivy.”

there were waves, nods, murmurs of greeting—and then her eyes locked with someone who wasn’t looking away.

avery was leaning casually on his stick, helmet tucked under his arm, posture relaxed in a way that felt effortless. there was something open about him, something warm. when their gazes met, he smiled slowly, easy and unguarded, like he already knew her. ivy’s breath caught before she could stop it, something unfamiliar fluttering low in her stomach.

“nice to finally meet you,” he called, voice smooth with a faint country lilt. “guess we better behave now.”

ivy laughed, surprised at herself. “don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

his grin widened, unmistakably pleased.

to his side stood sully—tall, quiet, shoulders slightly hunched like he wasn’t sure where to put himself. he gave her a small, almost shy wave, then immediately looked down at his skates. there was something gentle about him, something observant. ivy clocked him instantly as someone safe, someone solid.

milo pushed forward next, confidence written into every movement, gloves resting on the boards as he smirked. “so you’re the one making us look good online,” he said bluntly. “about time.”

“only if you give me something to work with,” ivy shot back.

milo laughed, sharp and approving. “i like her.”

nico nodded at her from just behind him, expression calm, eyes focused. even standing still, he looked disciplined, purposeful. ivy filed that away too—someone who cared deeply about the place, about the team.

practice started soon after. the ice filled with motion, skates slicing clean lines, sticks clashing, bodies colliding. ivy moved along the boards, phone in hand now, filming, snapping photos, already slipping into her role. but every so often—between shots, between notes—she felt it. avery’s eyes finding hers again. brief, intentional, just long enough to make her pulse skip. subtle enough to be private.

by the time practice wrapped up, the rink buzzed with leftover energy. players peeled off gear, voices overlapping, laughter bouncing off the walls. ivy lingered until most of them had cleared out, then made her way down toward the locker room. her dad was untying his skates when he looked up and grinned.

“survived your first day?” he asked.

“barely,” she said, smiling as she sat on the bench beside him. without thinking too hard about it, she reached for a pair of skates tucked beneath the bench—her own. muscle memory kicked in as she laced them up, movements automatic, comforting. when she stood, the ice felt like home under her feet.

adam raised a brow. “oh yeah?”

she pushed off lightly, gliding out. “race you.”

he laughed, already following her. “you’re on.”

they took off together, side by side, the sound of blades cutting ice sharp and familiar. ivy leaned forward, laughing as the cold air burned her lungs, legs pumping, balance perfect. she crossed the far line first, spinning around triumphantly just as her dad slowed behind her.

“i win,” she declared, breathless.

before he could argue, cheers erupted from the tunnel. the team had lingered, watching, sticks tapping the boards in approval. ivy froze for a second, stunned—then laughed, cheeks aching as she lifted her arms in mock victory. her dad skated over and pulled her into a tight hug, laughing against her hair.

ivy abbot didn’t grow up in euroville — she arrived with boxes half-unpacked and a life already in motion, brought there by her father’s career when he was selected as head coach of the cyclones. she was old enough to understand what the move meant: a new city, a new team, a new set of expectations that would quietly shape her future. hockey wasn’t just her father’s job; it became the axis around which their lives rotated. schedules dictated dinners, seasons dictated moods, and ivy learned to adapt without complaint.

the move should have been a fresh start, but it came at the cost of her family as she knew it. her mother’s affair surfaced not long after they settled in, unraveling everything behind closed doors while the public saw only stability. ivy watched her father absorb the damage in silence, still showing up for his team every day, still leading. it taught her an early lesson about loyalty, about choosing people not because they’re perfect but because they stay. when her mother tried to justify her choices, ivy made one of her own — she cut contact. it wasn’t done out of cruelty, but out of self-preservation. some betrayals, she believes, don’t deserve endless explanations.

ivy is kind in a way that isn’t naive. she’s approachable, polite, genuinely warm with people, but there’s a backbone under the softness. she believes in doing things right, in showing up prepared, in being dependable. she’s the type who remembers names, checks in after losses, and notices when someone’s struggling before they say a word. she likes people. she likes the energy of going out, the laughter, the idea of being young and unburdened — but more often than not, she chooses work instead.

as the cyclones’ social media manager, ivy lives in a constant state of controlled chaos. her nights revolve around games, her phone never leaves her hand, and her calendar is ruled by content schedules and deadlines. she could be out with friends, could be saying yes to invitations, but hockey always comes first. it’s not because she’s forced to — it’s because she believes in the team, in her father, in the work she’s building. she knows her role matters, and she takes that responsibility seriously.

there’s a quiet tension in her life between who she is and who she could be if she let herself slow down. she’s young, sociable, and liked by almost everyone, yet rarely fully present outside the rink. people assume she’s aloof or unavailable, when in reality she’s just committed. she prioritizes work because it gives her purpose, structure, and a sense of control she lost when her family fractured.

ivy doesn’t resent her choices, but she feels them. she wonders what it would be like to say yes more often, to let herself be spontaneous, to trust that not everything will fall apart if she steps back for a night. for now, she keeps moving, steady and intentional, balancing kindness with discipline, loyalty with ambition.