What I can’t manage is the knot forming low in my stomach, the awareness that at some point tonight, paths might cross.
That I might run into Colby in a hallway or near the tunnel or somewhere there’s nowhere to hide.
I don’t know if he’ll look at me.
I don’t know if he’ll walk past like I’m just another face in the building.
All I know is that by the end of the night, I won’t be able to keep pretending I don’t care what happens next.
Chapter twenty-two
Colby
“Keep your feet moving.”
Coach’s voice cuts through the bench noise, sharp and steady, the kind that doesn’t need to be loud to carry weight.
I nod once, visor fogged, lungs burning, adrenaline still crawling under my skin as I get onto the ice.
Third period.
Tie game.
Everything tight.
The crowd is on its feet, and it feels like the whole building is breathing with us. I take my place at center ice, flex my gloves once, and lock in.
This is the part I understand.
The ice doesn’t lie.
The puck doesn’t care who’s mad at who or what’s going on off it.
It just wants speed.
Focus.
Execution.
The ref drops the puck.
We explode forward.
Bryce drives wide. Mason crashes the slot. I angle back, read the breakout, adjust on instinct.
Anger is easy to skate with.
It gives you edge.
It gives you bite.
It’s the other stuff that messes you up. The questions. The second-guessing. The part of me that keeps circling the same damn thought no matter how hard I try to outrun it.
Did she plan it?
I shove the thought away as I chase the puck into the corner, shoulders slamming into glass, crowd cheering with approval. The boards rattle. My legs hum.
We cycle.
