A grin tugged at the edge of my mouth—barely there but real. I hit the light, stepped into the hallway, and let the door close behind me with a hard, final click.
The bag thumped against my hip as I walked. Each step echoed off the cinderblock walls, sharp, rhythmic, steady. The air in the corridor smelled of waxed floors and chlorine from the pool down the hall. My skates knocked together inside the bag like restless bones.
For once, the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt like an inhale before a drop.
I pushed through the exit and into the morning. The cold tore across my cheeks, snapping the last bits of doubt from my skin. The rink sat across the campus green, roof catching the weak light. My breath came out white, rising fast, dissolving.
I tightened my grip on the gear strap and started toward it, every muscle humming with the kind of readiness I hadn’t felt in too long.
Chapter 6
Calder
Steam drifted from the bathroom, curling around the mirror like smoke that didn’t want to leave. I dragged the towel off the rack and wrapped it around my waist. My skin still burned from the too-hot water, from trying to scrub away a sleepless night.
The room sat quiet beyond the cracked door. Too quiet.
I stepped out, hair dripping, feet cold against the warped wood floor. The sheets were tangled, half on the bed, half hanging over the side. No note. No trace. Just that faint smell of her—something clean under cigarette smoke, winter air maybe, as if she carried frost in her lungs.
“Didn’t even catch her name.” The words landed heavy in the air. Truth was, she hadn’t asked for mine either.
I rubbed a hand over my jaw. “Probably for the best.”
It came out easy, automatic. But it stung like a bad hit.
I dropped onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under me, still faintly warm from where she’d been. My towel clung damp against my legs. The room smelled like her shampoo and whiskey, and something inside me tightened before I could shove it down.
It wasn’t attraction—at least not the kind that used to drive me. It had been something cleaner, quieter. She’d looked at me like she recognized the wreckage, not like she wanted to fix it. That was new.
I pulled open the nightstand, half expecting her to have left something stupid—lip balm, a receipt, a hair tie. Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. My reflection in the dark TV screen looked tired beyond reason.
“Jesus, what the hell is wrong with you?” I muttered.
Usually, I could clear my head after a night like that. Smoke a cigarette, pour coffee, move on. But the image of her kept cutting in—hair brushed across her cheek, the small pause before she spoke, the way her laugh cracked through the low music like light through ice.
Stupid to think I’d like to hear it again.
Maybe buy her a coffee, push a mug across a counter, see what silence between us sounded like without the dark wrapped around it. Maybe that laugh again, softer this time. Maybe nothing.
I stood, towel slipping, caught it just before it hit the floor. “You’re losing it, old man.”
The mirror across the room reflected a scarred body that had taken too many hits and still couldn’t learn. I pulled on a pair of jeans, not bothering with underwear. The day waited—orientation, redemption, or whatever Gideon wanted to call it.
Still, as I shoved my wallet into my pocket, I pictured her walking away in the early light. No name. No goodbye. Only the print of her shoulder against the pillow, already fading.
And yeah—differentdidn’t even start to cover it.
The phone buzzed across the nightstand like it had something to prove. I stared at the caller ID—Gideon Strong—and almost laughed. Of course. The universe had a mean sense of timing.
I let it ring twice before hitting speaker.
“Morning to you too,” I muttered.
Gideon’s voice came through tinny and clipped, same as always, all edges and caffeine. “Tell me you’re not still in a bar.”
I glanced around at the mess of my room. “Not anymore.”
He ignored that. “You start at Crestwood in an hour. Locker room’s yours. Media’s already sniffing around, so keep your head down.”
