I should have said something cutting. Something that would put him in his place.
Instead, I just stood there, watching him go, with that stupid nickname ringing in my ears.
Nobody had ever given me a nickname that wasn't meant to hurt.
I stayed on the bench longer than I should have, listening to the silence, trying to figure out how everything had gone so wrong so fast.
Or maybe not wrong. Maybe that was the problem.
I stared at the ceiling and tried not to look at the clock. Outside, the sky was brightening toward dawn, which meant I was running out of time to decide if I was going back today or not.
My hip ached from the race yesterday. My eyes burned from not enough sleep and too much thinking. The sheets were tangled around my legs because I couldn't stop shifting, trying to find a position that didn't make my brain loop back to the same stupid thing.
I kept thinking about the way I'd looked at Joel and how I’d eyed him shoulders to thighs like I had some kind of right.
I rolled onto my side and punched the pillow into a different shape. It didn't help.
Joel Coffey knew people. He had sponsors, a manager, probably connections in the sports world that overlapped with mine in ways I couldn't even trace. He could mention it to someone who'd mention it to someone else, and eventually it would get back to my team, to Coach, to Santos, who'd probably be cool about it, and Martinez, who definitely wouldn't be.
Or he could just tell his manager, and she could tell someone at the rink, and that person could know someone who knew Sarah, and Sarah would tell Derek, and Derek would give me that look. The one he got sometimes when he thought I wasn't paying attention. The one that said he already knew and was just waiting for me to say it.
I pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes until I saw stars.
He wouldn't tell. Probably. He'd asked me not to tell anyone about him being here, and I'd said our secret like we were in some kind of pact. Maybe he'd return the favor.
Or maybe he'd show up this morning and pretend the whole thing never happened. Go cold. Make it clear that whatever I thought was happening, I should stop thinking it.
The rejection part, I could handle. I'd been rejected plenty. The not knowing was what was making me want to put my fist through the drywall.
My phone was on the nightstand. I grabbed it and checked the time. 4:23.
Ice time started at five. The rink was twenty minutes away. I had time to get up, shower, and be there when Joel arrived. Show him I wasn't the flaky mess he thought I was.
I put the phone down and stared at the ceiling some more.
At 4:45, I was still in bed.
At 5:15, I finally admitted to myself that I wasn't going. That I was going to lie here like a coward and let Joel think he'd been right about me all along.
At 5:47, I threw the covers off and got up, because apparently I was going after all, and if I was going to show up almost an hour late, I might as well bring a peace offering so he'd have a harder time murdering me.
I stopped by the coffee shop on San Alto and ordered two large black coffees and a vanilla latte with oat milk because the barista recommended it. Then I paid and tried not to wince at the total,because twelve bucks for three drinks was grocery money. I was being an idiot because I wanted to impress a figure skater who probably spent twelve bucks on coffee every morning without thinking about it.
When I arrived at the rink, his car was still there, so I grabbed the coffees and headed for the entrance, already rehearsing what I was going to say. Sorry I'm late, couldn't sleep, brought you something. Keep it casual, keep it easy, don't mention that I'd spent two hours convinced he was going to ruin my life.
The lobby was empty. The lights were on, but nobody was at the front desk, which meant I didn't have to explain why I was walking in with three cups of coffee at six in the morning. I pushed through toward the rink, expecting to hear the scrape of blades, maybe Joel's voice calling out something sharp about punctuality.
Instead, I heard music.
Not the tinny speaker system they used for public sessions. This was louder, coming from somewhere near the ice, and it wasn't the classical stuff I associated with figure skating. It was darker, orchestral, but with something raw underneath, cellos building toward something that sounded like it hurt.
I stopped at the entrance to the rink.
Joel was on the ice, but he wasn't practicing edges or running drills. He was performing.
He was wearing something black and skin-tight with a neckline that plunged halfway down his chest. The gap was filled with some kind of silver mesh that caught the light every time he moved. His hair was slicked back from his face, and there was a camera on a tripod at the far end of the rink, red light blinking.
He hadn't seen me. He was facing the other direction, one arm extended toward the empty ice like he was reaching for someone who wasn't there. His fingers curled around nothing, pulling at air, and the music swelled around him.
