One of the freshmen—Lily, maybe—waved at him like he was some kind of celebrity. Nate ate it up, flashing that NHL smile, the one that made fans weak in the knees and reporters trip over their own feet. He leaned against the boards, arms crossed, all easy confidence, like he hadn’t just strolled into a minefield.
Billie’s skate hit a rough patch of ice. She stumbled—just for a second—but recovered fast; her face carefully blank. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t look atme.
But I saw the way her shoulders tensed.
I saw the way her grip tightened on her stick. And Isawthe way Nate’s eyes tracked her across the rink, slow and possessive, like he was counting the seconds until he could get her alone.
My molars ground together.
"Donovan! Again!"
My voice cracked like a gunshot. She flinched but didn’t hesitate, peeling off for another lap. Faster this time. Sharper. Like she was trying to outskate the weight of his stare.
Nate chuckled. Low. Amused. "She’s looking good, Dad."
The wordDadtasted like ash in my mouth.
I finally turned, slow and deliberate, meeting his gaze. His smirk faltered for half a second—just long enough for me to see the kid I used to know beneath the polished veneer. The one who’d looked up to me once. Before I’d failed him. Before he’d decided I wasn’t worth a damn.
"What the hell are you doing here?" My voice was quiet. Dangerous.
Nate shrugged, all false ease. "Can’t a guy visit his girlfriend's practice?"
"Cut the shit."
His grin widened. "Touchy. Must be the coaching stress."
I wanted to put my fist through his teeth.
But Billie was watching.
The girls were watching.
And Nateknewit.
He leaned in, just close enough that no one else would hear. "Or is it the stress of fucking my ex?"
My vision went white.
For one heartbeat, Isawit—the way my hands would feel around his throat, the way his smug little face would purge when he realized I wasn’t bluffing.
But then Billie’s skate blades hissed against the ice as she cut too sharp on a turn, her balance wavering?—
And just like that, the moment shattered.
I forced my lungs to work. Forced my voice steady. "You’ve got five minutes. Then you’re gone."
Nate’s laugh was a knife twist. "Or what, Coach? You’ll bench me?"
I didn’t answer.
The whistle blew.
Practice was over.
The girls peeled off the ice, chattering, laughing, their voices too loud in the sudden silence. Billie skated toward the bench, her head down, her ponytail damp with sweat. She didn’t look at me. Didn’t look athim.
Nate didn’t give her the choice. He waited until Billie stepped off the ice before moving towards her. The girls went quiet. Even the ones who didn’t know the history couldfeelthe shift in the air—something dark, something coming.
