I press my fingers gently against the edge of the bruise. “Does that hurt?”
She flinches but shakes her head.Liar.
“Willow.”
She meets my gaze. “I’m not sitting this out, Landon. Notwhen we’re this close. I can rest tomorrow. I can ache tomorrow. But tonight, I skate.”
I swallow the knot in my throat and nod slowly.
Because I know that look in her eyes. She’s not backing down. But I’m not backing off either.
“Then promise me something.”
“What?”
“You’ll play smart. If it gets worse, you come off the track. You don’t push past the pain until it becomes permanent. Don’t make me watch you fall and not be able to catch you.”
Her expression softens just enough to steal my breath.
“I promise,” she says. “Now go sit down before Coach yells at you.”
I give her a long look, memorizing the stubborn set of her jaw, the spark behind her pain, the way she always looks ready to burn the world down if it stands in her way.
She’s not mine.
But I still love her.
And if this is the only way I get to stand beside her—off the track, on the sidelines, watching her rise—I’ll take it.
“Go get ’em, Jinx,” I say, voice just loud enough for her and maybe Daisy to hear.
Her mouth curves into the smallest smile.
Then she turns, grabs her helmet, and skates toward the team, toward whatever comes next.
I don’t move right away. Just watch her go. And Coach Crusher continues to rally them.
CHAPTER 78
Willow
The whistle blows,sharp and piercing, slicing through the roar of the crowd—and I take off as if fire is raging behind me.
Second half. New energy.
My ribs ache with every breath, but I push it down. I’ve skated through worse. Maybe not physically, but emotionally? This is nothing. Pain reminds me I’m still here. Still fighting.
I duck low and weave between blockers, eyes locked on the opposing jammer. She’s fast, but I’m faster. I always have been. My body remembers what to do, even when my lungs scream and my bruised ribs throb with every pivot.
I cut inside just as two blockers collapse toward me. One clips my elbow, but I stay upright, in bounds, clean. No whistle.
Then I’m past them.
The ref’s arm shoots into the air. The crowd erupts.
Lead jammer.
My heart pounds as I come around the curve, lungs burning, legs aching—but I push harder. I slice through their wallon the scoring pass, hips swiveling as I duck and twist between shoulders and swinging arms.
