But I look anyway.
Lexi: Friday?
I stare at the message, then type back.
Me: I’ll see you then.
Lexi: Good. Because I’ll be watching.
I pocket the phone and head to my car, ribs aching, knuckles bleeding, and that stone in my chest heavier than ever.
Friday can’t come fast enough.
52
Lexi
The arena is packed wall-to-wall with bodies—students in school colors, alumni with too much school spirit, families with kids eating overpriced nachos. The energy is buzzing through the crowd. Every seat is filled, standing room only at the back, and the noise level is already deafening even though the game hasn’t started.
I’m wearing Koa’s hoodie—the one that smells like him, like ice and sweat and that cedar body wash he uses. It’s too big on me, sleeves hanging past my hands, and I’ve pulled the hood up to hide in plain sight. Nobody knows who I am. Nobody knows what these boys mean to me or what we’ve survived together.
I’m just another face in the crowd.
Except I can feel the weight of what’s about to happen settling in my chest like a stone.
I feel bad for not reaching out to Thea. She’s given up on texting me. I know she’ll understand when I come around. I’drather be here alone than to be with her right now, and that’s how I know I’m no longer the person that I was before. But the guilt is eating at me when I see all the female relationships around me. I shouldn’t have shut down and pushed her away. I hope she knows I love her no matter how weird I’m being.
The teams skate out for warm-ups and the crowd erupts. Pointe University in their home jerseys—deep blue with silver accents. Blackridge in red and black, looking sharp and dangerous under the bright arena lights.
I spot Koa immediately. Number 19. He’s easy to find even among twenty other players because I know the way he moves—that controlled aggression, the economy of motion that makes every stride purposeful. His helmet hides most of his face, but I can see the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.
He’s already in game mode. Already hunting.
Then I see them. Numbers 7 and 12. Revan and Atticus.
Revan moves like a general surveying a battlefield—smooth, calculated, reading the ice even during warm-ups. Atticus is all power and speed, taking practice shots that make the goalie work even though it doesn’t count yet.
They look good. Like they’ve been playing on the same line for years, which they have. Like they can read each other’s minds.
And watching all three of them on the ice at the same time does something to my pulse that has nothing to do with the cold air pumping through the arena vents.
The warm-up ends. Teams retreat to their benches. The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, introducing starting lineups, and the crowd’s energy ratchets up another level.
I stare at the guys getting into position, wondering what’s running through their heads. I can’t believe they’re all on the ice right now.
Then the puck drops.
And immediately, I know this isn’t going to be a normal game.
Koa wins the face-off, sending the puck back to his defense, but Revan is already on him. Not going for the puck—going for Koa. He slams into him with a check that echoes through the arena, and Koa barely keeps his feet.
The whistle doesn’t blow. It was clean, if aggressive.
Koa doesn’t care—I can see it from here—and the next shift he returns the favor. Catches Revan along the boards and drives him into the glass hard enough that I hear the impact over the crowd noise.
“Jesus,” the woman above me mutters. “They’re trying to kill each other.”
She’s not wrong.
