I want to ask him if I’m just a puck bunny to him, another girl orbiting around his bright, brutal world of hockey and adrenaline. I want to ask if he sees me, really sees me, or if I’m just another pretty distraction. But I bite my tongue because the words feel silly. And the truth is probably close to something that might hurt.
“It’s boring,” I say instead, forcing a smile. “And you’re late.”
He smirks, but his eyes are soft. “You sure?”
“Positive,” I say, trying to sound lighter than I feel.
Before he can argue, I rise on my toes and kiss him. Just a small peck—quick, almost chaste—but it steadies me. The world slows down for a second, his hand slipping to the back of my neck, the press of his mouth warm and sure. He tastes like mint and adrenaline. When we pull apart, I can still feel his breath ghosting over my lips.
“There she is,” he murmurs, his voice a mix of amusement and relief.
“I’m right here,” I whisper back, even though I’m saying it as much for myself as for him.
His hand comes up to cup my jaw, thumb tracing just beneath my ear, slow and absent. The kind of touch that feels like a promise. “You make it really hard to leave, you know that?”
“Then don’t,” I say before I can stop myself.
He laughs softly, forehead resting against mine. “If Coach benches me for missing warm-up, it’ll be your fault.”
“Go,” I tell him, smiling despite everything.
“Bye, baby,” he says, voice curling around the word like it means something he’s not ready to say yet. Then he jogs off toward the rink, pads clinking, stick slung over his shoulder. I watch him until he disappears through the doors, the sound of his skates echoing faintly inside.
And then I’m alone again.
The field feels too big without him in it. The message from the lawyer still sits open on my phone, the words stark and clinical, like they belong to someone else’s life.He will reach out to you at 7 p.m. this evening.I check the time. 5:42. The numbers blur for a second, my heart doing a weird stutter-step in my chest.
I start walking again, slower this time, the noise of the world fading around me. The smell of cut grass. The faint laughter of the cheer squad still packing up at the far end. A bird calling somewhere overhead. Everything ordinary, simple, grounding.
But nothing feels simple inside me.
I think about Jamie—about how he looked at me, how he called mebabywith that soft rasp that makes everything inside me go still. And I think about my father, how his voice used to sound before everything went wrong. How I’ve spent months trying to forget it. How, somehow, a single text managed to drag all of it back to the surface.
By the time I reach the parking lot, the sky has shifted to that soft violet-blue that happens just before sunset. My phone buzzes again—probably a reminder from the sorority group chat—but Iignore it. I lean against the hood of my car, let the wind brush against my skin, and close my eyes.
When I open them, the first star is out. I don’t make a wish. I don’t trust them anymore.
Instead, I think about Jamie. That’s the kind of guy I could definitely fall for.
And then I try not to feel disappointed when I notice that Miles moved his car.
15
Jamie
Theairinsidetherink is sharp and cold and burns my lungs. My skates carve hard lines into the ice as I circle the net again, trying to outskate the thoughts that have been gnawing at me since yesterday.
Chloe. That kiss.
I push harder, letting the sting in my legs replace everything else. I’m not avoiding Miles––I just don’t trust myself not to swing first. Miles has this way of poking, of pressing exactly where it hurts, and after last night, I know he’s going to open his mouth eventually.
Coach blows the whistle. “Bring it in!”
We gather near the bench, breathing heavy. Miles skates up beside me, sticks his mouthguard between his teeth, and smirks like he already knows I’m one second away from losing it.
“Nice hustle,” he says. “You finally learned how to skate and not trip over your ego?”
I don’t bite. Not yet.
