I take the stairs two at a time into the stands. I stop short, momentum cutting off so abruptly it almost makes me laugh.
Her seat is empty. The section has cleared out, nothing left but rows of gray seats and an arena that somehow feels emptier without her there.
I stand there for a couple minutes, hands shoved into my pockets, staring at the spot where she’d been sitting, like it might offer some kind of explanation if I give it enough time.
I exhale slowly and turn toward the exit, telling myself it doesn’t mean anything.
But as I step outside into the gloomy, rainy morning, one thought refuses to let go.
Whatever she came here looking for, I don’t think it had anything to do with hockey—and I certainly don’t think it has anything to do with me.
Chapter Four
Brinley
I leave the arena with my heart still lodged in my throat.
I’d gone again. Sat in the stands and watched my father.
Cooper was there too, of course. I didn’t miss the heat from his gaze every time he glanced up at me, as if I didn’t notice him watching. Wondering what I was doing there.
At this point, it’s starting to feel like a habit I don’t know how I’ll break.
I tell myself I’m just observing, trying to warm myself up to the idea of approaching my father. Waiting for the right moment.
But the truth is, I don’t know what the right moment even looks like.
The sound of skates scraping the ice and pucks hitting the boards echoes in my ears as I hurry down the stairs and nearly stumble as I push through the doors. My thoughts become more tangled with every step.
How much does he know about me?
Does he even know my name?
Has anyone ever bothered to tell him I existed?
What would I even say to him if I stood in front of him and told him who I was?
The possibilities cycle through my head, playing out the scene like a movie. His confusion at first, followed by disbelief. Maybe anger. Or, worst of all, indifference.
By the time I reach my car, my chest aches from holding everything in. I collapse into the driver’s seat and sit there for a minute, hands clenched around the steering wheel, forehead tipped forward as I breathe through the tightness.
I check the time and swear under my breath.
If I have any hope of making it to class, I need to get my butt in gear.
By the time I slide into the lecture hall, my body already feels a step behind my brain. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Either way, I take a seat near the back, pull out my notebook, and try to look like someone who slept more than a handful of hours the night before.
The professor’s voice fades to background noise almost immediately.
I write notes out of habit. Mostly half sentences, arrows pointing at nothing, and words that make sense in the moment and probably won’t later. Every few minutes, my attention drifts—back to the arena, to the ice, to the thoughts that have been chasing me all morning.
Heck, longer than that actually. Back before I ever got to Rixton. Back to when I finally learned the truth.
I rub my eyes and swallow a yawn.
I should’ve slept in. Should’ve stayed in bed to catch up on some Z’s. Instead, I’m blinking at a whiteboard, eyes burning, head heavy, already paying for it.
Today will be a long day.
