â§ rl ivy â§
Ivy existed in that strange, almost invisible space between being known and not being seen at all. Everyone recognized her workâthe 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, theyâd 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 didnât 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 shouldâve moved on by now, grown out of it, settled somewhere proper. But Ivy never felt behind. She had her independence in ways that didnât need to be proven through rent or empty apartments. Still, she had lookedâmore out of curiosity than urgencyâwalking 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 wasâfluid, slightly unfinished, open.
Her days, when they werenât 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 feelingâvibes, lighting, the way the music blended into the space, how the barista smiled, how the first sip tasted after a long walk. Sheâd 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 constantlyâcorners of buildings, reflections in windows, her coffee cup against the table, the way sunlight hit her shoesâand later sheâd sit cross-legged somewhere comfortable, editing everything into something soft and aesthetic before posting it. Her followers werenât 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 favoritesâsheâd 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 didnât mind walking for hours without speaking, didnât mind sitting in a cafĂ© with nothing but her thoughts and a half-finished drink. It wasnât loneliness. It was balance. She existed comfortably in both spaces, never fully one thing or the other.
Nights were slower. Warmer. Familiar. Sheâd be sprawled on the couch in her dadâs 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. Sheâd 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, sheâd find herself texting him. Sometimes it was something random, something she saw that reminded her of him, sometimes it was nothing at allâjust a âyou up?â sent into the quiet. On nights when the apartment felt too still, sheâd 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 didnât wait. Sheâd 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 memoryâa woman who had left before Ivy could understand what leaving meant. It wasnât 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 couldnât see, things she carried without knowing, things that might make people leave once they noticed them.
She never stayed in that thought for too long. She didnât let it settle, didnât let it root itself deep enough to change how she moved through the world. But it lingered sometimes, in the background of her mind, soft and persistent. And maybe that was part of what made her hold onto everything else the way she didâthe little routines, the connections, the moments she captured and kept. Proof, in her own quiet way, that she was here, that she was seen, that she was worth staying for.













