Silence.
She wasn't there.
I called her once, twice…
Where the fuck was she?
Chapter 29
Billie
The rink was mine. Just me and the cold, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, and the crack of rubber on fiberglass echoing through empty stands. I'd been here since four—maybe earlier. Time didn't mean much when you'd stopped sleeping.
My legs burned. Shoulders ached. The bruise on my jaw throbbed with every hard turn, a reminder of Nate's thumb pressed too hard, too long. But I didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
I wound up for another shot, the puck singing off my blade and slamming into the top corner. The net shuddered. I circled back, grabbed another puck, lined it up. Again. And again.
No one was watching. No cameras. No reporters waiting to ask how it felt to ruin my life. No teammates whispering behind gloved hands. No coaches pretending they didn't see me bleed.
Just the ice.
And somehow, that made me lighter.
No hiding. No pretending. No one to lie to. And despite the cost, that feels like freedom.
I'd torched everything. My reputation. My future. Maybe even the team. The headlines were brutal—Puck Bunny,Coach'sWhore,The Girl Who Slept Her Way to the Top. My phone had been a warzone of texts and calls and DMs I'd stopped reading after the first hundred. Reese hadn't answered when I called. Kira had sent a single message:
I can't believe you did this to us.
But Hannah was still in my corner. Of course, she wanted the details, but…
And Calder...
I shoved the thought away, lined up another puck.
The social media live was my idea. But waiting meant letting them control the narrative. Letting them paint me as the victim or the villain while I sat silent.
Fuck that.
I'd stood in front of the rink, looked into my phone, and told the truth. All of it. That I'd chosen this. That I'd wanted him. That I wasn't sorry.
The fallout had been immediate. Vicious. But it wasmine.
I fired another puck, harder this time. It ricocheted off the crossbar with a satisfyingclang.
My stick stung in my hands, the tape fraying at the heel. I didn't care.
I kept skating.
The door to the rink opened.
I slowed, chest heaving, and spotted Nate stepping out from the shadows near the bench. Arms crossed. That same smug tilt to his jaw I'd memorized back when I thought it meant confidence instead of cruelty.
Fuck.
My pulse kicked, but not from fear. From rage so familiar it felt like muscle memory.
