I grit my teeth. “We’re at a charity event.”
“And you’re distracted.”
“I’m not distracted.”
Blake’s grin widens. “Sure.”
It’s infuriating when someone says sure like they know you’re full of it.
The announcer calls the players back into position for a quick demo segment, something about shooting pucks at targets for donations. I skate to my spot automatically, muscle memory doing the work while my brain stays stubbornly on Gwen.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Curiosity. Basic human empathy. She fell. I helped. The end.
The segment starts. Pucks fly. Targets clang. The crowd cheers, money gets raised, and everyone wins. I move through it like I’m watching myself from a few feet away, performing the role I’ve performed a thousand times.
Smile at the right moments.
Wave to the kids.
Stop for a picture.
Sign something tossed over the boards.
Don’t look too serious.
Don’t look too tired.
Don’t look like you’d rather be anywhere else.
When it ends, we skate off.
The tunnel into the back areas of the rink is warmer, quieter, and instantly smells like sweat, rubber, and that sharp tang of disinfectant that lives in every arena on earth. The sound changes too, from echoing crowd noise to the clack of skates on concrete and the hum of machinery.
We hit the locker room, and the usual chaos greets us: guys half undressed, someone blasting music from a phone, trainers moving through with clipboards and ice packs, equipment managers wearing the weary expressions of people who have seen things.
It’s loud. Familiar. Safe.
And it’s exactly the kind of place where I should not be thinking about a woman named Gwen who fell on the ice in front of a crowd and then joked about it like she was trying to outrun the sting.
I drop onto the bench in front of my stall and start untying my skates.
Blake plops down beside me.
“Zane,” Blake says, voice dropping just enough so it doesn’t carry across the room. “Leo is your buddy. Leo is dating Tess. Tess is Gwen’s person.”
I pause. He’s right. It’s simple. It’s social math, not rocket science. And the fact that the thought sparks something like relief in my chest is… uncomfortable.
“Even if I were to reach out,” I say, too carefully, “it doesn’t matter.”
Blake’s eyes narrow, the teasing fading. “Why not?”
Because it’s complicated. Because everything is complicated. Because the second I get anywhere near a woman I actually like, the outside world shows up with cameras, opinions, and cruelty disguised as commentary.
Because I’ve watched it happen, I’ve watched girlfriends get ripped apart online. I’ve watched women cry over things strangers said about their bodies, their faces, their clothes, their alleged motives. I’ve watched people decide a woman is a gold-digger even if she’s richer than I am. I’ve watched them decide she’s a distraction, a mistake, a PR stunt, a slut, a saint, a villain, anything except a person.
And Gwen…
She already looks like someone who’s had to be tough.
