I watch her glide away, the rhythm of her movementseasy, practiced. Like nothing in the world could touch her here. And maybe nothing should.
But I want to.
I want to earn the right to.
I draw in a breath that feels too big for my lungs and force my skates forward, slow at first. Careful not to crowd her. Matching her pace, the way I used to match her laugh, her stubbornness, her fire.
She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t pull away either.
We skate in silence for a few more laps. Just the two of us and the hum of the world trying to catch up.
And then, so quietly I almost miss it, she says, “It’s not black and white, you know.”
I glance over. “What’s not?”
Her eyes stay ahead. “How I feel.”
My throat tightens, but I nod. “I get that.”
Another beat of silence. Another lap.
“But sometimes…” she trails off, dragging her teeth across her bottom lip before continuing. “Sometimes I wonder if being messy is the only way I know how to love.”
I don’t have the right to touch her—not yet—but I wish I could. I wish I could take her hand, stop us both, and tell her the truth I’ve been holding back.
“That week with you wrecked me,” I say instead. “In the best and worst ways.”
That earns me a glance. She presses her lips together, her eyes shining with an emotion I can’t put a name to, but I’ll take it.
I skate one more lap with her, heart raw, hope blooming in the bruised parts of me that thought she was lost for good.
Because maybe she’s not.
Not entirely.
Not yet.
The side door slams open behind us, breaking the quiet hum of the rink.
“Did someone turn the lights on early for us or—oh,” Daisy says, stepping inside with her usual swagger, bubblegum-pink helmet in hand.
Cheese follows with a tray of iced coffees, her hoodie glittering with a rhinestone skull. Knox trails in behind them, yawning as she shrugs on her elbow pads.
Willow doesn’t stop. Doesn’t drift toward them the way she usually does.
She keeps skating. Strides fluid. Focused. Each push of her wheels anchors her to the floor, as if the motion itself is the only thing holding her together. Still working through whatever the hell this is between us.
Just before the far curve, her head tilts. A glance. Barely a second.
But it sparks under my skin, live wire and heat, impossible to ignore.
And when she looks away, it doesn’t feel final.
She just keeps going, gliding back toward her team, back into the life she’s built without me, but not with the same walls she had before.
I stay there a moment longer, chest tight and lungs full of something I haven’t let myself feel in too long.
Because maybe I’m not completely shut out.
