Talia
Thefinalhornisa blast of pure, screaming victory.
The arena erupts. The sound is a solid wall, slamming into me—stomping feet, shrieking fans, the pounding bass of the goal song rattling through metal bleachers. It vibrates in my teeth, thrums under my skin like a second heartbeat.
We won. We beat Blackwood.
For two hours, the scandal didn’t matter. The news trucks parked outside, the reporters camped on the quad, the endless scroll of comments about Alistair Reid’s suspension—it all vanished under the roar of the game.
Clara, Zoë, Genny, and Maya all shoot up around me, a wall of navy and silver. Arms in the air. Fists pumping.
I’m the only one not moving.
I’m on my feet in Section 104, but my hands are fisted at my sides. My heart isn’t celebrating. It’s ricocheting around my ribs, wild and panicked. It missed the “victory” memo and went straight to “emergency.”
It should be just another game. It should be just another win.
But it’s not. Not with him out there.
On the ice, the team floods toward Declan. He’s a fortress in pads—calm, collected, controlled amidst the chaos.
My eyes slide past #13, even though they never really leave him. My gaze is pulled like a magnet to the other side of the ice.
Blackwood’s #19.
Mark Jensen is laughing. He rips his helmet off, shaking dark, sweaty hair out of his eyes. He taps a teammate’s glove with his stick, shrugging off the loss like it’s mildly inconvenient, not devastating. He looks… casual. Loose.
Alive.
He has no idea his entire life is about to tilt.
My stomach roils. Skin goes tight. I feel the edges of the world sharpening, the way it does right before a panic attack—only this time it’s different. The buzzing in my veins isn’t fear.
It’s rage.
“Talia?”
Clara’s voice is close, soft. I feel her hand hover just off my arm. “You don’t have to do this. We can go out the side exit.”
I swallow. Throat dry. Tongue like sand.
“No,” I say. Voice steady. It doesn’t sound like me. “I’m done with the side exits.”
For more than a year, my life has been one endless game of defense. Avoid the rink. Avoid the quad. Avoid the world. Survive.
This isn’t survival. This is choosing the fight.
I’m already moving, body acting before my brain can catch up. Down the steps, one steady foot at a time. Not running. Walking.
I’m vaguely aware of my friends following—Clara, Zoë, Genny, Maya. A small army.
I told them. Last week, after the Alistair story broke, when I saw Blackwood on the schedule. I sat them down and told them exactly why I transferred. Why I flinch at slamming doors. Why Mark Jensen isn't just an opponent.
They didn't just listen. They sharpened their claws.
We hit the concourse. People are flooding toward the exits, laughing, high-fiving. No one sees me. I’m a current moving against the river.
Ahead, a knot of navy jerseys is already peeling away from the main crowd, cutting toward the restricted tunnel area where the teams exit.
