***
The drive takes ten minutes. I rehearse what I'll say. Discard options. Start over. By the time I pull into the rink parking lot, my palms are damp on the wheel.
His truck is here. Black and pristine. My pulse kicks.
The rink is quiet. I push through the double doors. Ice and old wood and the chemical tang of zamboni exhaust.
The overhead lights are on. I hear skate scrape before I see him.
Ryder's alone on the ice, moving through drills with mechanical precision. Stop. Turn. Sprint. Stop. His movements are fluid despite the injury. Beautiful the way only athletes can be.
I make my way to the stands. Sit in the front row and watch. He hasn't noticed me yet. Lost in the rhythm. There's something meditative about it, the way he moves.
Or maybe he's just avoiding thinking.
He completes another lap and finally looks up. Sees me. His body goes still. For a long moment we just stare at each other across the ice.
Then he skates over. Stops at the boards in front of me, breathing hard. His hair is damp with sweat. His gray eyes cautious, guarded. The way they were when we first met, before he let me in.
"Lucy." My name comes out rough. "What are you doing here?"
"We need to talk." My voice doesn't shake. "Can you take a break?"
He hesitates. Then nods and skates to the bench. I meet him there. He sits to unlace his skates while I stand, because sitting feels too casual for what I'm about to say.
"I've been thinking," I start. My hands twist together. I force them still. "About us. About what happened on Christmas."
"Lucy, I'm sorry—"
"Let me finish." The words come out sharper than I intended. I soften them. "Please."
He nods. Leans back against the boards, hands braced on the bench. Waiting.
I take a breath. This is it. The moment where I either shrink back into the version of myself that's safe and agreeable, or I step forward into who I'm becoming.
"I love you." The words land between us. Clean and true. "I'm not taking that back. I'm not apologizing for it. I know it's complicated and messy and probably terrible timing. But it's the truth."
His eyes are dark. Storm-cloud gray. He doesn't speak.
I push on. "I spent my whole life trying to be good enough, useful enough, pleasant enough for people to choose me. I'm done."
"Lucy—"
"I know my worth now." The words come out strong. Final. "And I'm worth fighting for. I won't beg you to love me back. I won't shrink myself to make you comfortable. I won't wait around hoping you'll decide I'm enough."
His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists against the bench.
"Either you see my value or you don't. Either you're brave enough to try or you're not." I take a step back. "But I'm done letting other people—even you—decide whether I'm worthy of love."
"That's not fair." His voice is strained. "You know that's not what this is about."
"Then what is it about? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're choosing fear over me."
He drops his head. Runs his hands through his hair, that gesture he makes when he's overwhelmed. "I can't give you what you need. I don't know how to do this. How to be what you deserve."
The words hurt. But they also make everything clear.
I've said what I came to say. Laid myself bare. Demanded my worth.
