Adrian. Gio. Dante. Cole.The Line.
They’re not celebrating. They’re moving with a single purpose, eyes locked ahead, shoulders squared. They’re waiting for us. For him. For me.
“T, breathe,” Zoë murmurs behind me. “In. Out. You stop breathing, I’m slapping you back to life.”
Genny passes me my access badge without a word. It’s already in her hand like she knew I’d come to this decision before I did.
I badge us in.
The tunnel is colder. Quieter. The roar of the arena drops to a dull, distant thunder. The air smells like old ice, rubber, metal, and sweat.
This is where the noise always used to follow me. Into my dreams. Into the dark.
Not today.
We spread out, almost instinctively. Clara at my right shoulder. Zoë just off my left. The guys forming a loose line ahead.
Declan is the last one off the ice.
He glides toward us, mask still on, movements precise. Pads squeak on the rubber mat. He reaches the gate, steps up, steel on metal. He pulls his mask off with one hand, shaking his hair back, eyes already locked on me.
He doesn’t ask if I’m sure. He doesn’t question why I’m here.
He just gives me one short nod.
I’m in your shadow. Say the word.
Behind him, the Blackwood team is filing toward the visitor locker room. They’re loud, cursing about the refs, taking up the whole hallway, blocking the path.
And then I see him.
Mark Jensen turns the corner, helmet tucked under his arm, laughing at something a teammate said. He looks exactly the same.
The smell hits first. Sweat, stale beer, cheap cologne. I taste it in the back of my throat.
He looks up. He sees the wall of Titans jerseys first—Adrian, Gio, Dante. He falters, stepping to the side to go around them.
Then his eyes catch mine.
He freezes.
For a split second, the whole world compresses into the narrow strip of tunnel between us.
“Talia?” he says.
His voice has the same fake warmth, that buttery layer of concern he’s always used like a prop. It slides over my skin and brings everything back.The lock clicking. His weight against the door.
My body reacts before my brain catches up. I flinch. My back hits the concrete wall with a soft thud. Hands fly up between us, palms out.
“Hey,” Jensen says, smile faltering but still plastered on. He takes a step toward me, confused, one hand lifting. “Whoa. You okay? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
He reaches for me.
“Don’t.”
The word isn’t mine.
It’s Declan’s.
