Carter: I miss you.
Carter must’ve sensed my mood shifting because he prodded me again.
Carter: Pixie is something else wrong besides your dad and Antony?
I hesitate, not wanting to answer, to confess I’m upset that Blake and Chase haven’t answered me yet.
But finally admit I’m feeling a little off.
Me: It’s stupid really.
Carter: Your feelings are never stupid. Talk to me.
I huff before typing out what's wrong.
Me: I messaged Chase and Blake and they didn’t answer me.
That’s when he told me.
Carter: Pixie it has nothing to do with you. It’s also why I’m out of the house tonight.
Carter: Blake and Chase are together right now. They’re taking the next step.
My heartsoars. This is huge. Not just for them, but forus. It means things are real, it means they are solidifying their relationship even more. Any lingering doubts I have melt away.
Me: They are? That’s amazing.
The rest of the night passes in a dreamlike haze, and I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
The blaring sound of my alarm shatters the peace, and I groan, blindly reaching to silence it. My body feels like lead as I force myself to sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
Saturday morning practice. Why the hell does my dad insist on this? You’d think that after a big game, he’d cancel this god-awful early morning training session and opt for some much needed sleep. Then casually wake up around eleven and have brunch or read the paper while he drinks his coffee and eats some fattening desert. But nope—not Matt Lein.
I sigh heavily, ready to drag myself out of bed when a thought hits me. I don’t want to be here tonight. I want to be with them. Chase. Carter. Blake. I want to cuddle up with the three of them while we watch some corny television show.
My pulse kicks up as I shoot out of bed, crossing the room in hurried steps. I take out a bag from my closet and stuff it with clothes. One night. I should be able to have that. I’m twenty years old, for fuck’s sake.
Moving to the door, I turn the knob carefully, wincing when it creaks. I freeze, listening. Praying no one heard.
Nothing. The house is silent.
And I say a little prayer of thanks.
I tiptoe down the hall, heart pounding, hoping to avoid my dad or—worse—Antony. When I finally make it out the front door, I let out a shaky breath.
Freedom.
The drive to the rink is peaceful, my favorite music blasting through the speakers. No traffic, no distractions. Just me and the open road. Before I know it, I’m pulling into the parking lot, finding it completely empty.
Perfect.
I grab my bag with my skates and head inside, my footsteps echoing in the quietness. I make my way down to the chairs at the edge of the ice and take a seat. I don’t waste any time putting on my skates, lacing them up, then stepping onto the ice.
A sigh of contentment leaves my lips as I glide forward. This is what I love. The feeling of weightlessness, the sound of my blades cutting through the ice, the freedom that comes with every turn and jump. Here, I wasn’t Matt Lein’s daughter. I wasn’t Antony’s partner. I was just Ginny. And I loved it. I didn’t have to meet anyone’s expectations of who I'm supposed to be.
For a while, I just skate. Not practicing. Not focusing on technique. Just moving freely about the ice.
Eventually, I come to a stop near the edge of the rink, and step off onto the floor, picking up my bag, and taking out my water bottle. The second I lift it to my lips, a voice cuts through the silence, sending a shiver of unease down my spine.
