Even if she’s wrong, I’ll keep fighting for Rina until she stops running.
And maybe by the time she does, I’ll have learned how to stand still.
47
Rina
It takes a full twenty-four hours for the storm inside me to calm.
I’m not fine, but at least I can breathe again without my chest seizing from the ache.
Mom and I make dinner together, falling into an easy routine we haven’t had in years. She makes lasagna—the kind she used to bake when I was a kid, back when everything felt simpler.
It doesn’t take long for the scent of simmering sauce and melted cheese to fill the kitchen. Each time I open the oven door, a wave of heat spills out, wrapping around me until the kitchen smells like Sunday night dinners from my childhood. The overhead light illuminates the counters and catches the faint swirl of steam rising from the pot on the stove.
For a little while, our conversation and the gentle clatter of utensils are enough to quiet the thoughts spinning in my head.
When there’s about twenty minutes left on the lasagna, I open the oven and peel back the tinfoil so the cheese can brown. That’s when my phone buzzes on the counter, the sound startling in the otherwise calm space.
Lilah: Where are you? You’re missing the game. Is everything okay?
A pang of guilt hits me. I probably should’ve texted to let her know I wouldn’t make it. In the four years I’ve worked for the team, I’ve never missed a home game. Normally, by the time the Railers take the ice, I’m perched in the suite, tracking social media, keeping an eye on the players and their stories, making sure nothing slips past me.
But tonight…
There was no way I could show up and pretend it was business as usual.
I set my phone down and try not to picture Oliver, but it’s useless. An image forms of him dragging a hand through his hair before tugging his helmet into place. The way he skates through warm-ups, his jaw tight and eyes razor-sharp with focus.
I’ve spent years watching him from behind glass, always pretending the heat between us didn’t exist. Denying what bubbled beneath the surface until it was impossible to ignore.
Until it exploded.
And nothing about my life has been the same since then.
Mom sets her wineglass on the counter and studies me before nodding toward the family room. “If you’re going to worry about him, you might as well see how he’s doing.”
“That’s not necessary.”
Ignoring me, she reaches for the remote and turns on the TV.
The broadcast slices through the quiet like a crack of thunder as the announcers’ voices drift down the hall, followed by the rumble of the crowd. I linger in the doorway, telling myself I’ll only peek.
Just one look.
It only takes a single play before I’m moving closer, drawn to the screen like gravity. The Railers are midgame, tied at two. The camera pans across the ice, there’s a blur of jerseys and skates streaking past the boards, until it lands on Oliver.
From his first season on the team, he’s been a fan favorite.
He’s all strength and precision, every motion efficient and deliberate. Power radiates through him, driving each stride like he’s trying to outrun something. He’s playing with more intensity than I’m used to seeing from him.
He’s faster.
Meaner.
Heat stirs at the bottom of my belly.
Even through the screen, I feel a visceral pull toward him.
