I take a deep breath, staring at the scuffed toe of my boot.
“I’m gay.”
The words hang in the cold air. The silence that follows isn’t awkward or shocked. It’s soft.
“Okay,” Karolina says finally, her voice gentle. “And?”
I look up at them, at their four worried faces. “And,” I swallow, the next part so much harder, so much more humiliating. “I think I have feelings for Raiden Blackwell.”
A collective, soft intake of breath. Cameron’s eyes widen. Stella just watches me, her expression unreadable.
“Artie…” Josh starts, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“But it doesn’t matter,” I rush to continue, needing to get it all out, needing to frame it as something I’ve already survived. “Because I think he was just playing with me. Using me for some kind of… game. He’s not here. He was supposed to be, but he’s not. So I guess I have my answer.”
My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. I hate the weakness, the self-pity.
I square my shoulders, forcing myself to meet their eyes, to find some shred of dignity in this wreckage.
“But I’m not going to be a coward about it,” I say, the words gaining strength as I speak them. “I’m not going to hide who I am because some asshole hockey player decided to mess with my head. So. Yeah. I’m gay. And that’s just… how it is now.”
13
Chapter 13
Ibrace myself for the awkward questions, the pity, the million different ways this conversation could go wrong.
Instead, Karolina skates forward until she’s right at the edge of the boards, reaching out to grip my arm. Her touch is firm, grounding. “Okay,” she says again, her dark eyes fierce and unwavering. “Fuck Raiden Blackwell. Seriously. If he messed with you, we’ll handle him.”
“She meansI’llhandle him,” Cameron says from behind her, trying for a joke but his jaw is tight. “No one gets to do that to my friend.”
“We’re with you, Artie,” Josh adds, his voice quiet but solid. “Always.”
A wave of gratitude so powerful it almost makes my knees buckle washes over me. I’m an idiot. I’ve been so consumed byRaiden, by this all-encompassing, confusing obsession, that I forgot I wasn’t alone. I’ve never been alone.
Only Stella remains silent, her brow furrowed. She props her arms on the boards, leaning closer. “Wait,” she says, her gaze sharp and analytical. “Why exactly are you so sure he was just playing with you?”
I flinch. How can I possibly explain the last weeks? The locker room, the utility closet, the arguments, the confessions. It’s too much, too raw, and a significant portion of it makes me look like a desperate fool. “It’s just… a feeling,” I say evasively. “He was talking to Professor Whitmore to make sure he got credit for ‘helping’. He needed me to lie for him. And now he’s ghosted me. It feels pretty clear.”
Stella looks at me with an expression of deep skepticism, like she can see every lie and half-truth I’m telling, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she sighs. “Blackwell is an asshole. That’s a known fact. But he’s also… intense. I’m not sure he does anything without a reason.” Her eyes flick over my shoulder. “Speaking of intense.”
I turn to see Chase making a beeline for our group. He’s not in skates, just boots, and he’s carrying a box of tinsel.
“Hey guys,” he says, his smile a little too wide. “Artie. Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to see if this last box of silver toys needed to go up anywhere.” His eyes are fixed on me, and there’s a strange gleam in them that I’ve never noticed before. It’s unsettling.
He steps a little too close, and the easy camaraderie he projected in the hallway after class now feels invasive.
“Uh, just anywhere there’s a blank space, I guess,” I say, taking a step back.
Before Chase can respond, another, much larger presence materializes at the edge of the rink. It’s one of Raiden’s teammates, a blond guy with a crooked nose I recognize fromthe auditorium. I think his name is Marlon. He was one of the ones snickering when Raiden was tormenting me on stage and… snickering when I talked back at Raiden in the yard. I tense up, expecting a sarcastic comment, but he just nods at the rink.
“This actually looks pretty cool, man,” he says, and I realize with a jolt he’s talking to me. “Thanks for the help bringing in the sign earlier, by the way.”
“Sign?” I echo dumbly. I hadn’t even seen him arrive.
“Yeah, the big ‘Merry P*cking Christmas from Ashford’ one for the entrance.” He shrugs. “Figured I’d swing by. You know, you just need to stash a few cases of beer in a snowdrift and put the word out on the group chats, and this place will be packed tomorrow night.” He says it so casually, like we’re friends, like he talks to me all the time. The surreal nature of the evening cranks up another notch.
The door to the common room creaks open again.
