His gaze lingers, heavy in that way it always does now, like he’s studying me for cracks he can tape back together. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he grunts and sips his coffee, eyes returning to the headlines.
The silence stretches. I pour my cereal while my mind replays last night. Not practice. Not my dad yelling at drills. Not even the team’s laughter echoing through the rink.
Him.
Triston Knight.
The way his gaze cut through the glass like a blade. The way his voice had slid low and quiet, meant only for me.You should stop pretending you don’t want me.
I grip my spoon too tight, milk sloshing against the rim. My skin prickles just remembering it. The way my breath hitched, the way my knees almost buckled. It wasn’t fair, the power he had with just a few words.
“You’re quiet this morning.” Dad says. His tone sharpens, suspicious. “Something on your mind?”
I glance up too fast. “No. Just… tired.”
He studies me again. He doesn’t buy it. “You were at the rink too long last night. You’ve been distracted lately.”
I force a laugh that sounds brittle even to me. “I always spend too much time at the rink, Dad. It’s our second home,remember?”
His frown deepens. “You know what I mean.”
Heat creeps up my neck. He doesn’t know. Hecan’tknow. Still, I drop my gaze to my cereal, pushing soggy flakes around with the spoon.
He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Those boys…” His voice drops, edged with something sharp. “They’re not for you, Sammie. They’re older, rough around the edges. You stay out of their way.”
My chest squeezes. He doesn’t say Triston’s name, but I hear it anyway.
“I know.” I whisper.
And I do. I know exactly what Dad wants. I know what Andrew would’ve wanted too. Stay away from the team. Be the good daughter. Don’t play with fire.
But fire is all I can think about. And crave.
The rest of the day slips into motion. After breakfast, Dad leaves for the rink to prep drills, and I’m left with a list of party errands scribbled in his handwriting. Candy. Chips. Soda.
It feels surreal. Planning a Halloween party in a house still stained with grief. But Dad insists. Says Andrew wouldn’t want the night to die with him. Says celebrating is honoring.
So I pull on a jacket, stuff the list in my pocket, and head into town.
Main Street is buzzing. Storefronts are painted with witches and pumpkins, cobwebs draped from lampposts. Kids in costumes dart between parents’ legs, their laughter piercing through the cool air.
I duck into the grocery store, basket in hand. The fluorescent lights hum above me as I wander the aisles, checking items off the list. Chips. Soda. Plastic cups.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, startling me. I yank it out, half-expecting Dad’s name on the screen. But it isn’t.
It’s blank. No number. Just a message.
Did you dream about me?
My throat goes dry. My fingers tremble as I glance around the aisle, scanning faces. No one’s looking at me. No one seems out of place. But the words burn against my skin.
I type fast:
Who is this?
No answer.
I lock the screen and shove my phone back into my pocket as my pulse races. I try to shake it off, finish the shopping. But the words cling to me, whispering at the edge of my mind.
