And I hate—hate—that part of me, a small, stupid, broken part, feels safer knowing he’s near.
Because it’s a betrayal. Because it’s a lie.
That feeling—that flicker of “safe”—is the most dangerous thing of all. It’s what lets the monster in. It’s what kept me from leaving that room the first time he put his hand on the door.
Chapter 7
Declan
Myhandsache.
I sit in my truck, cloaked in darkness, the engine dead. The rink looms in my rearview—a cold slab of concrete and metal that should feel like sanctuary but doesn’t. Not tonight. Not after the day I’ve had.
Sweat clings to me, a damp shroud from my self-inflicted hell of extra practice. The team didn’t skate today, but my ritual doesn’t bend to schedules. The moisture cools against my skin, turning sticky and cold as salt dries to grit along my hairline. The chill seeps in, a slow shudder rolling through me, sinking deep.
My knuckles throb, split open from the last moment of rage. I slammed my fist into the post an hour ago—a final, frustratedcrack after drills where every movement felt wrong. As if my own body had turned traitor.
My ritual feels splintered. I flex my fingers, sharp pain shooting up my arm. It’s good—pain is a clean language. Cause and effect. No confusion. No ghosts.
Except the ones already entangled in my head.
I can still feel the phantom heat of her thigh pressed against mine in that booth—a contamination, an invasion. Someone has carved a mark into my existence, and no matter how many times I skate over it, I can’t scrub it out. It’s under my skin, woven into everything. The more I try to shove it down, the louder it screams.
I should be running my after-practice ritual back at my apartment: wiping down my gear, checking straps, re-taping my stick. But those motions feel tainted now, stripped of their meaning. The rhythm is shattered.
Every time I close my eyes to visualize pad buckles and tape, I see her against the booth wall, fighting the urge to touch me—and failing. And the uglier truth: I didn’t move an inch. I made her fail.
My phone buzzes on the passenger seat, a violent rattle in the stifling silence. The screen lights up—a harsh glow slicing through the dark.
It’s my father.
My gut coils tight. It’s not instinct—it’s conditioning. The name on the screen acts like a command, something old and small coiling inside my ribs, braced for the blow.
I let it ring twice, a pathetic rebellion, but it’s all I’ve got tonight. On the third ring, I answer, my aching hand stiff. The tape residue on my palm squeaks against the glass.
“Yeah.”
“Do you have any idea how pathetic you look?” His voice is cold, each word a knife sliding under my ribs. “A common brawler. Not a Reid. Not my son.”
So he knows. Of course he knows. Boosters, board members, alumni—Briarcliff is just another puppet he controls.
“It’s handled,” I say, my voice flat, a wall of ice.
“It wasn’thandled, Declan. It was a spectacle. You dented university property. You embarrassed me. You embarrassed the name. The name guarantees your spot on that roster, pays for your gear, the roof over your head. Is this the discipline I’ve invested in? You acted like an animal, risking everything for nothing.”
I stare through the windshield at the empty lot. My breath fogs the glass, blurring the view, trapping me behind the haze.
My father doesn't ask why. He doesn't care if Rylan crossed a line.
Coach Addison asked. Even while stripping my starting spot, he locked eyes with me and demanded the reason. He cared about the man inside the gear.
My father only cares about the asset. The investment.
“I’m listening,” I say, because that’s the line in the script.
“…and if Coach Addison decides to pull you, I won’t stop him. You want to be benched your senior year? You want a review with the athletic administration? Think they won’t look at that temper? You’re one outburst away from losing everything.”
My jaw grinds.I know.Coach made it clear yesterday. One more strike, and I’m done.
