Pink hair piled on her head in a messy twist, her skates cutting smooth, deliberate curves into the track. She’s in the zone, eyes narrowed, body fluid with focus and strength—and even surrounded by her teammates, she somehow looks completely alone.
I’ve done everything I can to help her and her team be amazing today. And after today, it’s over…I no longer have an excuse to see her daily. My stomach twists. Sure, they will still practice, maybe not as often in the off-season, but they won’t need me.
She comes around the curve, her eyes meeting mine briefly, and I feel it everywhere. I am so in love with her it hurts. It’s just a second.
Barely enough time to breathe. Her expression is unreadable—maybe a flicker of surprise, maybe something softer—but she doesn’t smile. And then she’s gone again, pulled back into movement and motion and the chaos of the start of Nationals.
I exhale slowly, fingers curling tighter around the lanyard at my neck. I’ve got my staff pass. My VIP access. I’ve got the seat my sister demanded I accept so I could "finally stop sulking and go support the girl I’m in love with."
But I don’t have her.
And after this morning, I’m not sure I ever will.
The image flashes again behind my eyes—Willow stepping out of that hotel room, Graham leading her, with Hunter on her other side and Carson and her stalker bringing up the rear. The beta stalker, the same one who threatened me with that smug little smile. Standing close enough to her that there was no mistaking it. She let him in. It was obvious by how relaxed they all were. She might have washed off their scents in the shower that left her hair damp, but I could still smell everything from where I was standing.
I don’t know what happened after I left her at the hot tub. I don’t need details to know it was everything I used to have with her—and more.
And still, I can’t shake the hope. Pathetic, but there. Because last night, when we almost kissed, she looked at me as if I wasn’t a mistake. Like she still felt something real. Like I mattered.
That has to count for something. Doesn’t it?
My chest tightens as she rounds the curve again, laughing now as Twinkle shoves her playfully. Her body is fluid, gorgeous, effortless. And even though it’s not my place anymore, I can’t help wondering what kind of night she had. How she ended up in that bed. What it meant.
If she regrets it.
If she regrets me.
The announcer’s voice booms over the intercom, calling the teams into position.
I sink into my seat just behind their bench, close enough to hear their chatter, to catch the edge of Daisy’s encouragement and Knox’s trash talk. I’m not coaching tonight—that job’s not mine today—but I’m still with them. My spot might be unofficial, but it’s with them. Not apart. Not on the sidelines.
Because I said I’d see this through.
Even if every second near Willow feels exactly like a slow bleed I can’t stop.
She’s got work to do.
And I’ve got answers to find. Not right this second, but soon. Because some part of me still believes there’s a version of the story where I don’t lose her twice.
Daisy glances back, catching my eye. Her expression is unreadable for half a beat, and then she gives a small nod. It’s enough.
Because she’s Willow’s best friend. If she’s not icing me out, then maybe there’s still a thread worth holding onto.
The whistle blows. The teams roll forward, the crowd roaring around us, and Nationals begin.
It’s brutal from the start. Fast, aggressive. Their opponents are relentless, blocking hard, skating dirty. Willow takes a hit early that sends her staggering, and I half-rise from my seat before I catch myself. She’s up again in a blink, shaking it off as though it didn’t even register—but I saw her wince. It felt like a sucker punch to my gut.
She weaves, ducks, pushes harder.
Another round. Another hit.
She goes down again.
And this time, she stays down just a second too long.
My body moves on instinct, standing fully now, fists clenched at my sides. I hear Daisy shout her name, Knoxclosing in, offering a hand. Willow waves them off, getting to her feet, jaw set, shoulders squared.
She’s not quitting.
