Chapter 1

Amelia

I zip up my jacket, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear as I step out of the Chicago Blades' locker room to head home. As I make my way down the hallway, I hurry through the banter of hockey players who act like overgrown puppies looking for attention.

"Hey, Amelia, you’re not done for the evening. Where do you think you’re going? I still need my balls washed… With your tongue," one of the manchild hockey players teases, his voice laced with a chuckle that's supposed to pass for friendly. They think they're hilarious. You’d think working at the professional level, the players would be more grown up than these guys are.

"Thanks, but I am all done and leaving. Wash your own balls," I shoot back, a practiced smile plastered on my face. Yoga and jogging keep me nimble - good for dodging unwanted conversations and juvenile jabs.

School was the training ground for this kind of thing. Words hurled like dodgeballs; you learn to duck or get smacked in the face. Fifteen years of schoolyard politics taught me well.

My phone vibrates against my thigh, a welcome intrusion. Mom's picture flashes on the screen.

"Hey, Mom," I say, stepping around a puddle from the afternoon’s slushy snowmelt.

"Amelia!" she chirps, then yells, "Hank, come over here! I’ve got Amelia on speaker phone!"

"Hey, kiddo," Dad's deep voice joins in, crackling through the speaker. I imagine him sitting at the kitchen table, glasses perched on his nose.

"Hi, Dad." My voice softens instinctively. "How's everything?"

"Are you okay? You sound tired," Mom asks, her worry cutting through the street noise.

"Never better," I insist. Like always, I'm an open book with pages they never bother to read. "Just headed home."

"Those boys at the rink giving you trouble again?" Dad's protective tone filters through, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. He doesn't know the half of it, and I don't plan on giving him a full read. There was a reason the lady who interviewed me asked if I could handle pressure in the job place and if I could ignore unsavory comments. She said she had to ask because they’ve hired five people this season, and all of them have left within one week of working for the Blades.

"Nothing I can't handle," I assure them. "You know me."

I do my best to tune into the concern in my parents' voices while blocking out the rest of the world. Sometimes I wish someone would actually see beyond the facade. But hey, life's a game, right? And I'm all about keeping score my own way.

I quicken my pace, clutching the phone a little tighter. I breathe a sigh of relief from being on my way home and focus on the conversation at hand.

"Really, Amelia, how's the job going?" Mom's voice is laced with genuine curiosity, tinged with her ever-present hint of concern.

"Ah, the glamorous life of a locker room attendant," I reply with a chuckle. "It's... interesting. Definitely keeps me on my toes."

"Must be something, being around all those athletes," Dad muses, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice.

"Interesting" doesn't begin to cover it. It’s the not so glamorous life of towels, egos, and navigating through the testosterone- infused air of the Chicago Blades' sanctum. Each day is a new lesson in patience and diplomacy—skills that have nothing to do with picking up sweaty uniforms but everything with managing fragile pride.

"At least you know about hockey, so you should fit in nicely," Mom states.

"Mom, it’s more about shin guards and jockstraps than the actual game," I admit, and we share a laugh. It's easier this way, not diving into details. They don't need to know about the occasional sneer from a player who thinks of me as the nerdy girl from college. One of the best things I’ve done in my life was dropping out of college. It was too expensive, and it was just like high school where jocks and nerds never fit together in the same classroom.

"Sounds like you're making the best of it," Dad says, his voice warm and encouraging.

"Definitely trying," I say as I turn the corner.

I continue walking along the cracked sidewalk, phone wedged between my shoulder and ear, juggling my gym bag.

"Amelia, are you really okay with the money?" Dad asks, concern threading through his words. "A two-bedroom apartment seems excessive for one person."

I can almost see Mom nodding in agreement on the other end of the line. I dodge a puddle, carefully stepping around it as if it's the question I don't want to wade into. "I'm fine," I insist, my voice more steadfast than I feel. "It gives me space to... spread out."

"But dear, wouldn't downsizing be more practical? It would certainly be cheaper," Mom chimes in, the 'be sensible' undertone loud and clear.

"Can you handle that rent on what the Blades are paying you?" Dad's not one to dance around the subject.

"Really, I've got it covered." The lie tastes bitter, even to my own ears, but it's necessary.

I quicken my pace, passing under a streetlight that flickers as if it's questioning my financial planning too. Silently, I admit I'm barely making it with my budget. Rent will get paid; that's non-negotiable. But the electric bill? That's the wild card. I've become an expert in the art of utility company diplomacy, stretching grace periods like yoga poses—flexible but sometimes painfully so.

"Amelia?" Dad's voice brings me back, and I realize they're waiting for me to say more.

"Hey, I've got some savings tucked away," I throw in, which isn't entirely false. But it's not the whole truth either. There's a stash, yes. A small one, meant for emergencies. Or a month when the rink paycheck and online tips don't quite meet the demands of Chicago living.

"Okay, honey. Just let us know if you need anything," Mom says, and I can visualize her worried look to Dad.

"Thanks, guys. I'll keep that in mind," I reply, rounding the corner to my building. I know their intentions are pure, but explaining why I have an extra room I never sleep in is a conversation I’m not ready to have. Not ever, if I can help it.

I need tonight's performance to go well. If not for the electric bill, then for my peace of mind. Because Amelia Brooks might be barely keeping her head above water, but her alter ego? She's ready to dive in deep, dazzle, and save the day.

I jiggle my keys into the lock, nudging the door open with a hip check worthy of the pros I mop up after. "Made it safe and sound, you guys. I'm gonna let you go so I can grab something to eat," I say, cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder as I flick on the lights.

"Before you hang up, Amelia," Dad's voice booms in from somewhere off speakerphone, "have you reconsidered letting us help with getting a car? It's no trouble, pumpkin."

I wince at the nickname, a relic from my pigtailed days. "Really, I'm good with the bus. It gives me time to think." Or scroll endlessly through my feed, imagining lives less complicated than mine.

"Alright, but let us know if you change your mind," he says.

"Thanks, Dad. Night, love you both." I end the call.

They just don't get it. The Amelia they know wouldn't dare juggle locker room towels by day and seduce screens by night. But Miss Independent has bills to pay, and pride isn't accepted as currency.

I peel off my jacket, revealing a worn-out tee that clings to me and trudge to the kitchen. The first frozen dinner that touches my fingertips is the chosen one of the night. Six minutes on high, stir, then two more. Microwave cuisine isn't glamorous, but it’s a hell of a lot easier than explaining bank statements to my folks.

As I wait for the ding, I flop onto the couch and thumb open my socials. My feed is a mix of Blade highlights and wellness influencers posing in serenity that feels worlds away. Likes and comments flit across the screen, little hearts floating up like embers. I tap and scroll, tap and scroll, the hypnotic rhythm a temporary break from the reality of the electric bill-shaped knot in my stomach.

I munch mechanically through the meal that tastes vaguely of cardboard promises and artificial cheese. By the time I scrape the last bits from the corners of the tray, my likes have climbed, but my bank balance hasn’t budged.

Okay, it’s time to get into costume and gear up for the performance of my life—or at least, the performance that'll keep the lights on for another month.

I slide the last bite of faux lasagna into oblivion, push back from the table, and rise with purpose. The dishes can wait. My alter ego cannot. I weave through the maze of my two-bedroom apartment, each step taking me further from Amelia Brooks, locker room attendant, and closer to... her .

The room that houses my secret is a sanctuary to discretion and daring dreams. It's here where I trade my ponytail and freckles for anonymity and allure. My fingers find the fabric of the long, dark green wig to throw it on top of my head, its strands tumbling down like a waterfall of emerald secrets. I secure it over my hair, adjusting the fit until the woman in the mirror looks back at me with hazel eyes, but she's not quite me—not the me the world knows.

The mask comes next, a delicate thing of black lace that veils just enough to keep them guessing. It clings to my skin as though it’s a part of me, a second face that tells its own story—a cover of fantasy and the necessity of privacy.

Tonight's costume hangs on the door, a tantalizing promise of risqué escapades. I step into the role of a sultry nurse, the white fabric hugging every curve with sinful precision. The outfit is a fine line between cliché and class, a uniform transformed into something far more provocative than unitary. I check my reflection again, tilting my head to admire the way the costume suggests rather than screams its intentions.

It's showtime.

With a practiced click, the phone’s camera shines the red recording light, capturing this otherworldly version of myself. I position myself just so, the backdrop of my studio room—a tasteful blend of shadow and light—setting the stage for tonight's performance.

Extra show, extra nerves, extra everything. It’s not only for the cold, hard cash that will flow into my bank account, it’s for the thrill.

Let's make some magic.

I click 'Go Live.' My heart flutters, but the show must go on. It always does.

As virtual spectators begin to trickle into the chat, their screen names flicker rapidly as my subscribers join. Tonight, I am no longer the bullied girl or the worried daughter. I'm the enchantress behind the mask, the healer in the naughty nurse outfit, the master of my own fate.

"Welcome to Ms. Puck’s clinic," I purr into the camera.