I look down at her, surprised. "What?"
Harper’s eyes are gentle and sharp at the same time. "She looks strong tonight. But she is holding herself together with thread. Don’t pull at it."
My throat feels tight for reasons I do not like.
"I am not going to break her," I say.
"Good," Harper replies. "Then go make sure no one else does either."
I don’t know when I became the guy people trust with someone else’s feelings. I punch things for a living. I spend most of my off-ice time making bad decisions with decent intentions.
But I follow Annabelle anyway.
The balcony behind the venue is quieter. The muffled sound of music filters through the wall, turned soft by brick and distance. String lights run along the railing, making everything glow faint gold.
Annabelle stands at the edge, hands braced on the rail, shoulders drawn tight. Her heels wobble slightly on the uneven planks.
For a second, I just watch her.
She looks smaller out here. Not in a fragile way. In the way of someone who is letting themselves sag for the first time all day.
"Annabelle," I say, keeping my voice low.
She does not look back. "I am fine."
"You are lying," I say. "And you’re a terrible liar."
She huffs out a humorless breath. "That is rude. And accurate."
I move closer, leaving enough space that she does not feel trapped. The night air is sharp and cold, the kind that sneaks under clothing and bites at exposed skin. She did not bring a jacket, and the breeze lifts goosebumps along her arms. From here, the parking lot looks far away. The noise of the event is just a hum.
"Songs like that hit harder than they should," she says, staring out at nothing. "It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. I just didn’t want to fall apart in the middle of the room."
"It’s not stupid." The words come out before I can stop them. "You don’t get to schedule when something hurts."
She turns her head slowly, eyes finding mine. For once, there is no scowl. No sarcasm. Just tired, raw honesty.
"Have you ever been humiliated in public, Blackhorn?" she asks.
I think of losing a fight on the ice in front of twenty thousand people. I think of a video of me shoving a reporter’s camera making the rounds online with slo-mo captions and angry think pieces.
"More times than I can count," I say. "Not like you, probably. But yeah."
Her mouth twists. "My ex wrote a song about me. Thought that was romantic. Then he wrote another about me. And that one was definitely not for me." She looks back at the lights. "I found him behind the stage with someone else while that second one was climbing the charts. So now every time someone strums a guitar and cries about betrayal, my nervous system files a complaint."
I want to put my fist through a wall on her behalf.
"He sounds like a coward," I say.
She shrugs, but the movement is stiff. "He sounded like a star. For a while."
Silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things we are not saying.
"For the record," I say, "anyone who cheats on you is an idiot."
Her lips twitch. "You don’t know anything about me."
"I know you read me my disciplinary file from memory," I say. "Which means you care enough to do your homework. I know you walked into a locker room full of half-naked players anddidn’t flinch. And I know you left a whole life behind to be here. That’s enough data to conclude he is an idiot."
