Another chk. Another. The hair on the back of my neck stands. Two rows up, a buddy of a buddy of a rookie has his phone at chest level, pointed down the bench like he’s texting, not filming. He grins when my eyes find him. It isn’t friendly.
“Back to reps!” Coach yells, saving me from getting fined. Skates bite ice. The drill machine starts up again, merciful noise to drown the chewing sound in my skull.
Riley keeps her clipboard between us like a shield. “Five more, then test,” she says for anyone listening. For me, under it, softer: “Don’t give them anything.”
“Trying,” I say, and it’s not a joke.
I stand, shoulder brushing hers because the bench is stingy. Heat arcs, quick, then it’s gone as I step away and the rink swallows me again. The wrap holds. The wrist behaves. The part of me that wants to skate back to the moment with her waits obediently at the boards like a dog that finally learned sit.
At center ice, I pick up a puck and let muscle memory take the wheel. Behind me, another shutter clicks. I keep my head down and my edges clean and pretend I don’t feel a camera drawing a box around the thing I want guarded most.
The ice swallows me for a handful of blessed seconds—edge, glide, release—until the drill spits me back at the bench like a coin from a rigged machine. I coast in, plant a stop that sprays crystals over the dasher, and the world snaps into noise again: chirps, whistles, the razor laugh aimed to cut.
“Cute moment, Maddox,” someone sings. I set my jaw and let it pass. I’ve already given the cameras too much.
Riley steps into my peripheral, clipboard a shield, mouth a firm line. The air between us is all business and everything else. I take my water, don’t touch her hand, keep my eyes on the tape at my wrist like it’s the only thing holding me together.
Then her phone buzzes. Once. Again. A third time in a flat, urgent rhythm that makes my stomach cold.
She has to look. The lock screen flares: a preview thumbnail of me and Riley on the bench, too close, my hand half-lifted near her face, her eyes on mine. Framed like a confession. Under it, a text banner from the owner: Photo’s trending. Fix this. My office—10 minutes.
The ice tilts even though I’m on rubber. Instinct says knock the phone out of her hand, put my body between her and every lens, bury it, bury it. I ignore all three.
She meets my gaze for a sliver. The message paints a flush high on her cheeks—anger and fear. She smooths both away with a blink that turns her back into the calmest person in the room.
“Owner,” she says under her breath, like I didn’t read it too. “Ten minutes.”
I nod once. The nod means a dozen things we don’t have time to say: I’m not leaving you to this. I will. I won’t make it worse. I might. Tell me how not to.
Coach’s whistle nails the air. “Line up!” He doesn’t see the phone. He sees my feet not moving and hates it on principle.
Riley steps in, professional volume, neutral tone. “Maddox needs a retest after five,” she calls, handing me back to the machine like we rehearsed. Then, quieter: “We go together. Back tunnel.”
A rookie leans over the boards, grinning like a raccoon that found sugar. “What’s the caption say? Trainer tames the beast?” He winks at her phone. I stare him down until his mouth forgets its shape.
The phone buzzes again. Another preview stacks on the first—same moment, different angle, a telephoto crop that makes the almost-touch look like worship. A fan account’s caption swims up from the notification bar: #MaddLane?
I take a breath that wants to turn into a threat and make it a plan instead. “Back tunnel,” I echo. “Two minutes.”
She nods and moves, already texting, already laying track in front of a train. I toe the ice one last time, then swing over the boards. My phone buzzes in my pocket—owner again, then Julia in caps: DO NOT REACT ON ICE. I don’t. I do the opposite. I step back from Riley like there’s a line on the floor and I just remembered it’s electrified. The space tastes like metal. Message received.
Riley’s screen lights one more time as we hit the tunnel mouth. The owner again, clipped and cold: My office. 10 minutes. Fix this. The words burn through the glass and into my bones.
The tunnel swallows sound and replaces it with the thud of my blades on rubber and the industrial breath of the building. Fluorescents buzz overhead like gnats with a grudge. Riley walks half a step ahead, phone in her fist, shoulders squared like armor.
“Julia’s rerouting security,” she says without looking back. “No lobby. Straight to the owner’s office, side entrance.”
“Good,” I answer, and hear the lie inside the word. There’s nothing good about this, except that she isn’t walking into it alone.
We pass the stick rack. Resin and sweat cling like a memory I can’t shake. A kid from equipment peeks out, clocks our faces, and decides now is a great time to look very busy with a Sharpie.
“Your temp?” she asks, clinical out of nowhere. Her hand lifts like she might touch my wrist; she doesn’t.
“Down,” I say. “Head’s clear.” Both true. The unclear part is already calculating how much of my contract I can set on fire if that’s the cost of getting her out clean.
Two interns round the corner, laughter dying when they see us. One’s phone is already in his hand. He fumbles it into a pocket so fast he nearly drops it. I give him a look that promises nothing pleasant. He studies the ceiling tiles with sudden reverence.
We reach the service door to the executive corridor. A guard I know from night shift nods and opens onto a wedge of carpet and quiet. Quieter, anyway. The kind of quiet money buys to make problems feel polite.
