Billie saw him. Her body tensed, her fingers tightening around her stick. She tried to sidestep, but he was faster, cutting her off with that easy, practiced stride. The kind of move that made scouts drool and fans lose their minds.
The kind of move I’d taught him.
My stomach turned.
"Hey, babe." His voice was too loud. Toosmooth.Like he was performing.
Billie didn’t smile. Didn’t lean in. Just stood there, her jaw set, her eyes flicking toward the stands—towardme—for half a second before she looked away.
Nate didn’t care.
He grabbed her.
One hand on her waist, the other cupping her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone like he had every right to touch her.
And then he kissed her.
Hard.
Right there on the ice, in front of the team, in front of the staff, in front ofme.
The sound that tore out of me wasn’t human.
My stick snapped in half before I realized I’d done it, the crack echoing through the rink like a gunshot. The girls flinched. Billie’s eyes flew open, her body going rigid under Nate’s hands.
He pulled back slow, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass.
"Missed you," he murmured—loud enough for everyone to hear.
Billie didn’t answer. Just stepped back, her cheeks flushed, her breath coming too fast. She wouldn’t look at me. Wouldn’tdare.
Nate laughed, low and satisfied, like he’d just won something.
Then he skated off, whistling, like he hadn’t just set the whole goddamn rink on fire.
The girls scattered.
The ice was empty.
And Billie?
She finally looked at me.
Just once.
Her eyes were wet.
Not with tears.
Withrage.
Like she was daring me to say something. Todosomething.
But all I could do was stand there, my hands shaking, my broken stick still clutched in my fist, and watch her skate away.
Because she was doing it forme.
And that was the part that ruined me.
