And then I see them.
The rink is a sheet of gleaming white, carved with lines from skates, mist curling at the edges. The team is spread out across it, moving in patterns that look chaotic but are too sharp, too precise to be random. Their blades cut into the ice with each stride, the sound slicing through the air like knives.
One player glides backward, stick low, eyes locked on a puck as he pivots and accelerates again, every muscle firing with purpose. Another crouches to stretch, long arms braced against the barrier, the fabric of his jersey stretched taut across broad shoulders. Helmets clink, laughter rises, sharp and quick before it dissolves into the scrape of skates.
Bella leans against the glass, her reflection shimmering beside the players. “This is our pride and joy. Pointe’s finest. Number one in the league a few years ago. And that—” she points toward the center of the ice, “—is Miles Thatcher.”
My eyes follow her finger.
He’s moving with a kind of quiet authority, calling out something I can’t hear, and the others shift instantly, like planets caught in his gravity. He’s tall, lean muscle built for speed, his jersey clinging to the cut of his body as he skates effortlessly across the rink. When he stops, ice sprays up around him, glittering like shards of glass in the light.
Bella sighs, dramatic, almost rehearsed. “Captain. Star forward. Future NHL. He’s basically a god around here. And he knows it.”
I can’t look away. The sheer physicality of him—the controlled power in each stride, the way his body seems built to dominate the ice—has me caught.
Bella keeps talking, listing stats, victories, the record they’re chasing this season. Her voice is a hum in the background as I watch the team bend and move, their bodies syncing together like gears in a machine.
Something tugs inside me. This is my fresh start where no one knows me. I feel free like I can be whoever I want to be. I picture myself here, cheering on the hockey players instead of football, and it all sounds good to me. The way people would look at me—belonging, part of something, not invisible, not whispered about in disgust.
The thought startles me, warming me from the inside out.
For a moment, the shame and heaviness I woke up with this morning fade. The nightmare, the courtroom, the whispers—they’re still there, coiled in the corners of my mind, but quieter.
The rink echoes with the sound of blades and sticks, the sharp slap of the puck as it ricochets off the boards. My eyes keep finding Miles, the way he commands without raising his voice, the way he skates like the ice belongs to him.
Maybe this school isn’t so bad after all.
5
Jamie
Mythighsareburning.My shoulders ache like someone beat me with a steel pipe. I peel my hoodie off, muscles pulling, sweat drying sticky on my skin. Hockey leaves you high like nothing else, but afterward, it grinds you down to dust. The rink feels like it’s still in my veins, my lungs still pumping against that cold air, the thrum of skates, the slap of the puck ringing in my ears.
Miles ditched me. We’d made loose plans—grab a drink after class, bullshit about practice, maybe talk about that new play Coach wants us to run—but then his uncle called, and Miles never ignores his uncle. He packed up, slung his bag over his shoulder, muttered an apology that didn’t sound sorry, and was gone.
So here I am. Alone. Tired. And stuck in class.
I lean back in the uncomfortable wooden seat, my ass already numb. The lecture hall smells like coffee and paper, that faint tang of chalk that never quite leaves the air. The professor’s voice drones at the front, words spilling like marbles bouncing across a table. Economics. Supply curves. Marginal returns. Shit I should probably understand, but it swims right past me, bouncing off my brain like I’m made of Teflon.
I drag my phone out under the desk, thumb swiping the screen.
A string of texts from the group chat. The boys are already laughing about practice, ripping into one another. A meme from Jack. A photo of Miles at the gas station, flipping off the camera. I grin, shake my head.
Then the one that makes me groan out loud.
Dad: Shift at The Crest after school. Don’t be late.
The Crest. Our family’s bar. The place smells like stale beer and fry oil no matter how many times I scrub the counters. Dad loves it. Lives for it. Thinks it’ll be my legacy one day, like pulling pints and mopping floors is the dream. I’m not in the mood tonight. Not after practice. Not after dragging my body across the ice for two hours. But saying no isn’t an option.
I drag a hand down my face, glance back up at the front. The professor is sketching lines on the whiteboard now, arrows and curves and symbols that look like a foreign language. My brain taps out after three seconds.
That’s when I catch her.
Second row. Dark hair falling over her shoulders, lips painted red today. She’s in band—clarinet or flute, I can’t remember which—but I know her mouth. We’ve hooked up a few times. Nothing serious. Just bodies meeting in the dark when neither of us wants to be alone.
Her eyes flick up and meet mine.
I grin slow, leaning back, and let my mouth curve. Then I wink.
