He huffs a humorless breath. “Yeah. I was right there when it went down.”
His jaw works, tension grinding through it. “Rylan opened his mouth about Clara first—again. I was two seconds from putting him through the benches myself.”
I turn slightly. “So why didn’t you?”
“Because you moved faster.” His voice is low, matter-of-fact. “And because Coach was already coming down the hall. If I’d stepped in, it would’ve been both of us getting hauled out.”
He leans back, eyes dark, dangerous.
“You didn’t lose control, Declan. You did what needed to be done. If I’d gotten there first, the dent would’ve been a hell of a lot bigger.”
A beat of quiet stretches between us—thick, heavy, honest.
“You need anything handled?” Adrian asks, his tone deceptively soft. “Rylan. Your old man. Anyone.”
I swallow hard. The offer isn’t exaggeration. It’s a promise. A warning. A vow.
“No,” I say, even though part of me wants to accept. “Not yet.”
“Then say the word when ‘not yet’ becomes ‘now.’”
He opens the door, and the cold rushes in, leaving the cab too empty. Too quiet. And all the noise comes back twice as loud.
I shove the truck into gear.
On my way out of the lot, I check the rearview mirror. My own eyes catch in the reflection, illuminated by the dashboard lights—dark, hollow, shadowed like my father’s. I hate it enough that I almost wrench the wheel back toward the rink, back to the only place I know how to be useful.
Instead, I drive home on autopilot and drop my gear bag just inside the door.
The apartment is dark, air heavy, more crypt than home. The blinds are half-closed, everything exactly where I left it because I don’t let anyone else in. No sign of life except the faint hum of the fridge and the rink stamp still ghosted on the back of my hand.
I don’t stop. I move through the shadows straight to the bathroom, driven by the need to wash the feeling off my skin. I crank the shower handle as far as it’ll go.
Steam floods the bathroom in seconds, the heat flirting with scalding. I stand under the spray for a long time, water pounding my shoulders until it bites. It’s punishment and purification rolled into one.
I let it burn, trying to scour off Rylan’s filth, my father’s expectations, Beatrice’s possessive purr.
Trying to burn off the contamination of the booth. The peppermint of her breath, the tremor in her shoulders, the tiny drag of her hoodie against my arm.
Trying to burn off the memory of thinking I wasn’t alone on the ice earlier… that hair-thin prickle at the nape of my neck that said someone was there. Someone watching. Small, quiet, and terrified. Someone who knew how to look for exits the way I do.
I let it burn until the mirror fogs completely.
I brace my hands on the tile, head bowed, and watch the water swirl down the drain—pink at first where it hits the split skin on my knuckles. Blood, ice, evidence of impact. Except this time there’s no cheering crowd, no horn—just the echo ofSay her name againin my head.
When I finally turn off the water, the sudden quiet feels too loud. Droplets run down the walls, ticking against the tub like a slow clock. A penalty box with no clock running down.
I get out, wrapping a towel around my waist. The mirror is still opaque. I wipe a section clear with my forearm and stare at my reflection.
My father’s eyes. Hard. Empty.
The same jawline. The same set of the mouth. The same anger simmering under the skin.
The only difference is the cage I built inside my head, where he bulldozed everything. His violence goes outward—mine stays leashed until something threatens what’s mine.
My knuckles are already bruising, a deep, angry purple swelling under the raw skin.
I open the medicine cabinet, pushing past the painkillers, and pull out a roll of white athletic tape.
