His eyes followed my hand. Found the small black domes mounted near the ceiling—security feeds that recorded everything. Every practice. Every late-night skate. Every moment some entitled NHL golden boy thought he could put his hands on someone and walk away clean.
The color drained from his face.
"You—"
"Yeah. Me." I stepped forward, closing the distance he'd just created. "You never took me seriously. You never really loved me. You cheated me who knows how many times. So honestly?Fuck you. And I'm so glad I never have to anymore. Do you know how exhausting it was to fake it with you?"
His mouth opened. Closed. No words came out.
I leaned in again, voice dropping to something quiet and deadly. "You wanted to ruin me, Nate. You tried. But all you did was hand me the match."
He stepped back, shoulders hitting the glass. For the first time since I'd known him, Nate Ransom lookedsmall.
"They'll bury you," I continued, each word deliberate. "Your PR team. Your sponsors. The league. They'll cut you loose so fast you won't even have time to pack your locker. And you know what the best part is?" I smiled, blood still staining my teeth. "I didn't even have to lift a finger. You did it yourself. Because you're such a sensitive bitch."
His hands trembled. Rage or fear—I didn't care which.
"You're insane," he muttered.
"Maybe. But I'm free."
I turned, skates clicking against the floor as I walked toward the locker room.
"Billie—"
I didn't look back.
"Don't," I said, voice echoing off the concrete. "Don't say my name. Don't call. Don't text. Don't even think about me."
I paused at the door, glancing over my shoulder just long enough to catch his eyes one last time.
"Enjoy explaining that footage to the league. I hear they'rerealunderstanding about guys who hit women."
His fingers locked around my arm, hard enough to bite. The back of my shoulder hit the wall with a dull thud that echoed down the empty rink corridor. His face was inches from mine, breath sour, eyes wild. Somewhere, his perfect PR mask cracked right through the center.
“You think this is a game?” he hissed. “You think you can humiliate me?”
My pulse hammered, but not from fear. I met his stare until his grip tightened. The urge to hit back clawed through me, but I stayed still. I wanted him to see it, the calm. The part of me he couldn’t reach anymore.
“Let go,” I said. My voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
He didn’t. His jaw twitched. The boy who used to score goals with a grin looked like a cornered child now, all fury and panic.
“You ruined my career,” he spat.
I twisted my wrist, slow, deliberate, breaking his hold finger by finger. “No, Nate. You did that yourself.”
He blinked like he couldn’t process the words. I stepped closer, daring him to make another move. He didn’t. He just stood there, chest heaving, trying to turn himself back into the man everyone cheered for.
“You hit the wrong person,” I whispered. “Now the cameras have proof.”
Color flushed up his neck.
“I’ll fix it,” he said—more to himself than to me. “They’ll believe me. They always do.”
I smiled, small and deadly. “Not this time.”
He froze again, shoulders rigid, and I saw it—a flicker of something new. Fear.
