I don’t move. I won’t flee.
The anger hits me first, aimed inward, then I force it outward—at the echo that tries to own me. I count my exhale to four, unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. Push my shoulder blades down, down, until my spine stops rattling.Stay.I make the command mine. I hang on to the idea that if I can survive this moment without bolting, maybe I can survive the next one too.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Maya flinch as well—a small, sharp jerk before her expression goes carefully blank. A tiny flicker of recognition passes between us.What’s your damage?A silent question. The kind of acknowledgment shared only when people know too much of the wrong things.
“You good, T?” Clara’s voice cuts through the static, stripped of her game-day fizz. Her hand hovers near my arm, not touching. She knows better.
I drag a breath in. Then out.
“Yeah. Fine. Too… loud.” The lie comes out clipped, edged with anger at myself, not her.
She nods, but her eyes linger, full of quiet understanding I both appreciate and hate. I look away first, desperate for an anchor, anything to pull me back from the edge.
My gaze sweeps past the chaos of players and benches and lands on Genny. Her camera isn’t on the ice. It’s on my father—focused, intent. I file that away. Genny doesn’t film people unless there’s a pattern she wants to study. Which means my father is—once again—giving her something to analyze.
Maya isn't watching the game either. Her eyes are fixed on the Titans bench, on Dante Voss and Cole, her expression tight with something old and dark and unreadable. Another secret in the stands. There are always more secrets than people here.
My father stands with his arms folded, jaw set. Genny’s zoom tightens on him. A muscle feathers in his cheek. He taps his play card once, twice. Same tells every game, like the ice has rhythms only the two of them can hear. He’s the rock this team breaks themselves against. He loves them, in his own gruff way. He loves me too—enough to worry, which is why I’m hiding how hard this is. I can’t let him see me shake. He needs me to be okay, so I will be.
My gaze moves on, past his sturdy, protective stance behind the bench… and lands on the goalie.
The second period is brutal, a grinder of a game, but Declan is playing like a man possessed. He moves differently tonight. Sharper. Reckless. A puck ricochets off a skate, spinning wildly toward the upper corner. It’s a dead play—impossible to stop—but Declan throws himself across the crease, body fully extended, snatching the rubber out of the air with a violence that snaps his glove hand back.
He crashes to the ice, pads sprawling, but the puck is caught. The whistle blows. He doesn't stand up immediately. He stays on one knee, chest heaving, mask tilted down. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lifts his head.
He doesn’t look at his defensemen. He doesn’t look at the ref.
He looks up. Section 104.
The air leaves my lungs. He’s checking. Even in the middle of the war, with sweat dripping down his neck and adrenaline flooding his veins, he’s checking to see if I’m still here. If I’m still watching.
I am. I can’t stop.
The final horn blares—a sound of victory. Titans win, 4–2.
The arena erupts. The team floods the ice, piling onto their anchor: Declan Reid. Clara is a blur of motion, rushing down to the glass. Adrian skates by, helmet off, hair dark and damp with sweat. He sees her, and the hard, brutal lines of his face soften into something I’ve never seen on him. He taps his stick twice against the glass where her hands are pressed—a private gesture made public, a claim.
I hang back, a ghost at the victory party. My father gives me a quick wave from the bench—a warm, proud smile that doesn’t quite reach his worried eyes. I return it and feel the whispers ripple around me.That’s the coach’s daughter.A label and a cage. It’s been only us since Mom left, but “us” always felt safe. Tonight, though, I feel exposed.
“Hey, we’re all heading to Elm House,” Clara says, jogging back up the stairs, eyes bright with a joy so pure it aches to look at. “You have to come. The guys will be there.”
I almost say yes. The word is right there, the act of rebellion, of reclamation—go out, be normal, keep the momentum. But the thought of the crush of bodies, the noise, the expectation to smile… I’ve spent every ounce of energy sitting here. The reclamation act is over. I tell myself it’s strategy—pick your battles, pace the fight—but it tastes like failure.
“I can’t,” I say, the lie familiar and dull-edged. “I have a paper to work on.” My standard avoidance, my shield.
Her smile falters, but she nods, too good a friend to push. “Okay. Next time.”
“Next time,” I echo. The word feels small, hollow, but necessary.
I hate how it sounds in my mouth. I say my goodbyes and wait a few minutes for the majority of the crowd to thin out and the ice to clear. I escape, pulling my jacket tighter, craving the sterile silence of my dorm.
My path takes me past the tunnel leading to the locker rooms, a wide concrete mouth still spitting out staff and media. I keep my head down, watching my feet.
And then I feel it.
A change in the air. A sudden gravity that pulls at my skin.
I look up.
