Heat floods my chest—anger, guilt, something uglier I don’t want to name.
Because he’s right.
She was always part of the plan. Isabelle singled her out, dared me to make her fall, promised me the one thing I’d been chasing for months. And I took the bet because I was bored, because my ego couldn’t handle being told no, because breaking someone’s heart felt like a fair trade for validation I didn’t even want.
Mason’s glove lands between us before I move. “Coach’ll bench both of you. Save it for the ice.”
Reed backs off, hands raised, satisfaction written all over his face. “Fine. We’ll settle it where it counts.”
The whistle from the tunnel cuts through the tension. Warm-up in one.
Reed shoulders past me. “See you out there, lover boy. Try not to trip over your conscience.”
I finish lacing my skates, fingers shaking.
Dax gives me a long look—steady, assessing. Mason claps my shoulder pad. “He’s baiting you. Don’t take it.”
“I know what he’s doing.”
“Do you?” Mason’s voice drops. “Whatever this started as, she didn’t sign up for it.”
The words land like a hit.
I grab my helmet and head for the tunnel without answering.
Agganis Arena is pure chaos—studentspounding glass, the Dog Pound chanting, air thick with adrenaline and metal. We burst through the tunnel and the crowd roars, thousands of voices blending into white noise.
I don’t look for her.
Can’t. Need to focus. Need to see the ice in clean lines and angles, not get distracted by?—
But my eyes find her anyway.
Second row, friends-and-family section. My jersey hanging on her, hood up, hands tight on the railing. She looks too small for this crowd, but she’s holding her ground.
I force my attention back to the ice. Faceoff positions. Defensive gaps. The way Maine’s center favors his right side. Motion turns to geometry, rhythm to math.
This is how I survive. By reducing chaos to something solvable.
Reed lines up at center, smirk hidden behind his mouthguard. I take my spot at right wing.
“Don’t trip over your girlfriend,” he mutters.
The puck drops.
For one heartbeat, the rink slows. Reed’s weight shifts. The angle of the D-man’s skates. The winger cheating high. Cause and effect unfolding before it happens.
Wren would call it standing still long enough to see what’s actually there.
Reed wins the draw clean, chips it to Dax. I’m already moving, cutting across the blue line before Maine’s defense can collapse. The lanes open exactly where I expect them to.
I chip it deep. Chase. Feel the bounce before it hits the boards.
Riley’s open. I send it across without looking.
Shot. Save. Rebound.
The crowd erupts.
