“I’m going to die,” she swoons. “You guys are so cute; I literally cannot.”
I bury my face in my hands.
“I can’t believe I just did that in public,” I groan.
Wren grins. “Oh, it’ll get worse. Wait until you’re married.”
“Wren.”
She laughs, then sobers a little, eyes cutting toward the tunnel on the far end.
“Okay,” she says, quieter. “Now comes the part where we breathe.”
My stomach drops because I know what she means.
The opposing team takes the ice. Different jerseys. Different energy. Their warm-up looks more aggressive. More showy. More like they want to be seen. My body recognizes the threat before my brain even fully catches up.
Then I see him.
Tyler Rushton.
He glides out like the ice belongs to him. Like the world belongs to him. He laughs at something one of his teammates says, head tipped back, smile easy—golden boy charade perfected. And my chest constricts so fast it feels like someone wrapped a wire around my ribs and yanked.
My palms go cold at the same time my mouth goes dry.
I stare at him, and suddenly I’m fifteen again, standing in a hallway, stomach hollow, trying to make myself smaller because I learned that being seen meant being judged.
My vision sharpens weirdly at the edges. My brain does inventory like it’s trying to survive.
Exits.
Bathrooms.
Wren beside me.
The aisle behind us.
My fingers curl in the hem of Grayson’s jersey, like fabric can hold me together.
Wren’s voice comes soft. “Hey.”
I blink hard, forced back into my body.
Wren’s eyes are on my face, steady.
“You with me?” she asks.
I swallow. “Yeah.”
“You’re not alone,” she says. “He doesn’t get to do that to you again.”
My throat tightens.
“He’s just…a person,” I whisper, like saying it will make it true.
Wren’s mouth twists. “He’s a person with an incredibly punchable vibe, and we know I love a good follow-the-vibe moment.”
I snort—a broken laugh that still counts.
