She flinches so hard she nearly drops the phone again.
Fuck.
My chest goes cold.
Because she’s not just scared of the phone.
She’s scared of being touched.
By me.
By anyone.
What the hell is happening to her?
I pull my hand back immediately, fingers curling into a fist so tight my knuckles creak.
“Okay,” I say softly.“Okay.I won’t touch you.”
The words feel foreign in my mouth — gentleness isn’t a language I speak fluently — but I force them out.
She swallows.Nods.
“It’s fine,” she says.“Really.”
Bullshit.
I push back onto the ice before I do something stupid, like grab her phone and break it or pull her into me and demand answers.
I skate hard.
Fast.
Reckless.
Coach yells.I don’t hear him.
My lungs burn but not enough.My legs ache but not enough.My anger spikes but doesn’t crest.
I need out.
I need distance.
I need—
A crash pulls my attention sharply.
Kael and a rookie collide at the blue line.Not a hard hit.An ordinary mistake.But Kael loses it — not visibly, not loudly, but I can see the edge in his eyes even from across the rink.
We’re all off.
When practice ends, I don’t shower.I don’t tape my sticks.I don’t do anything I usually do.
I watch her.
From the shadows of the hallway.
She’s in the med room again, head bent over her phone.Shoulders trembling.She’s not crying, but she’s close.
