He’s already here. Already moving effortlessly across the rink, demonstrating something to Twinkle and Knox. His skates barely make a sound against the floor, his balance so perfect it makes my stomach twist.
It sucks that seeing him still brightens part of my day.
Because it shouldn’t.
Not after what he did. Not after he took my heart, shoved it into a blender, and watched as it shredded into a thousand tiny, unrecognizable pieces.
Nothing about Landon should make me feel anything but regret. Loss. I shove it away, burying it deep where it belongs.But not before Hunter catches whatever the hell must be on my face.
“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, pushing forward.
His response is almost instant. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”
I grit my teeth, stepping further into the rink, eyes locked on the back of Landon’s head. “Well, it is.”
Hunter doesn’t buy it.
I can feel his eyes on me, and he’s peeling back every defensive layer I’ve ever built and getting a good, solid look at what’s underneath.
It makes my skin prickle, my shoulders tighten.
Because I don’t want to talk about it.
I don’t want to admit the way my chest clenched the second I saw Landon glide across the rink. The way his presence still stirs something raw and aching inside me.
I don’t want to remember the Landon who made me laugh. The one who kissed me as though I was the only person in the world that mattered.
And I sure as hell don’t want to acknowledge the fact that, despite everything, despite Finn, despite Carson, Graham, and Hunter, despite all the chaos surrounding me right now?—
I still feel the pull.
To him.
Hunter knows it. He’s not saying anything, but I can feel him watching, his steps slowing as I move toward the benches, waiting for me to do something stupid.
Waiting for me to run to Landon instead of skating as far away as possible.
I shake it off, force my focus back on practice.
Crusher steps onto the floor, clapping her hands, snapping my attention away from the way Landon turns his head—sensing me, too.
“All right, ladies,” Crusher calls. “Let’s get to work.”
I take a breath, forcing my shoulders to relax.
I’m here to practice.
I’m here for Nationals.
Not Landon.
Not any man.
And definitely not the way my stupid, traitorous heart still skips a beat when Landon looks at me.
Practice starts.
I fall into rhythm—skating, weaving, jamming through blockers, calling out plays. But I feel eyes on me. Not just my usual shadows. Landon’s. Watching me with an intensity that burns right through me.
