Colby raises an eyebrow. “You alright, Annabelle? Your face is… glowing.”
Dex leans forward, wide-eyed. “It’s not even cold enough outside for your cheeks to be that red.”
Eli smacks him in the back of the head. “Shut up.”
I give them all a stare so lethal that three of them straighten like I just announced surprise fitness testing.
Then Bryce strolls back in.
Smug. Relaxed. Sinful.
His eyes meet mine across the room. A jolt shoots straight through my bloodstream. My entire soul short-circuits.
I immediately swivel away, pretending to be deeply invested in the silent auction sheet for a signed guitar I absolutely do not want.
Behind me, the boys explode into quiet laughter.
From across the table, Coach Ryder's wife, Harper, catches my eye and gives me a soft, knowing smile.
Wonderful. Even the adults know.
I decide the night is over. I need my bed. My comfy sweatpants. A brain transplant.
***
The next morning, I arrive at the arena early. Very early. Before-most-humans-are-conscious early. It’s a survival tactic.
When I was little, Dad used to bring me here before school. He’d drop me in the stands with a hot chocolate and let me watch the ice crew finish resurfacing. I loved the quiet back then, the kind that filled the whole space. The chilled air would hit my face the moment we walked in, and it always felt like the world hadn’t started yet. Like the rink and I shared a secret.
It still hits me the same way now. It's cold, sharp, and familiar. And for a minute, I let myself breathe.
An hour later, the guys are on the ice for practice.
The rink is echoing with pucks hitting boards and it’s still a little slice of home. I pick a spot in the stands and clamp my clipboard to my chest like an emotional shield.
One by one, the players notice me. And then they start whispering and looking between me and Bryce like this is an episode of a trashy dating show.
Dex skates by, leaning on the boards. “If you hurt Bryce’s feelings, we can’t win. He’s emotionally delicate.”
I stare at him. “Bryce doesn’t have feelings.”
Dex grins. “He does now.”
I consider throwing my clipboard at him.
Below, the team circles Bryce like vultures. Mason pats him on the helmet with dramatic pity. Gregory points at me. Bryce shoves him playfully, but also not.
“Look, he’s skating smoother,” Mason calls. “Must be love.”
“Blackhorn’s glowing, boys,” Gregory adds.
“Did someone get a kiss last night?” Dex sings.
Bryce snaps, throws elbows, and clearly loses focus.
I try not to smile.
I fail.
