People say I’ve got it all ,the career, the fans, the million-dollar contract. But they don’t know that the best thing I’ve got is the one thing I can’t talk about.

She’s behind the lens every game night, right there at the edge of the ice, catching the plays, the fights, the goals and sometimes, when she thinks no one notices, she catches me. And yeah, I notice too. Every damn time.

She's our team photographer, which means she’s technically off-limits. “No fraternizing with players” some bullshit clause in her contract. The kind of rule meant to keep things “professional” but all it’s done is force us underground. Sneaking around like we’re in high school, dodging glances, slipping past hotel lobbies, acting like we don’t even know each other when the lights come on and the cameras flash.

But in the quiet, after practice, before the road games, in my apartment when it's just us, that’s when it’s real. That’s when I feel like I’ve got two hands and neither of them are tied. I can hold her face, run my fingers through her hair, tell her how fucking proud I am of her and not just for the photos she takes, but for the strength it takes to pretend we’re nothing more than “acquaintances” when the world’s watching.

Sometimes I catch her looking at the WAGs. All perfect hair and front-row smiles and I know she wonders what it’d be like to be one of them. To get the postgame kiss. The tagged photos. The easy version of this.

But she’s scared. And honestly? So am I. If she gets caught, she’s done. They’ll call it “unethical” like love has a fucking rulebook. And I’d never forgive myself if she lost the thing she’s worked so hard for just because she chose me.

So we keep quiet. We keep careful. And we hope one day, the truth won’t be something we have to hide.

But until then? I’ll love her in the shadows if I have to because I’d rather have her halfway than not at all.

And right now? She's sitting on the couch of our apartment, looking at Insta stories of my teammates partners with a frown on her face.