She came around the corner nearest me, helmet tipped down, number scuffed on her shoulder. I followed her stride without meaning to—tight turns, strong edges, balanced. She looked like she’d fought for every ounce of control.
Then she lifted her head.
My stomach dropped clean out.
Even under the cage mask, I knew the shape of her mouth. The freckle near her jawline, the small scar near her eyebrow.
Her.
The girl from last night.
I froze, half-step into the neutral zone, stick hanging loose in my grip.
What the actual fuck?
Chapter 7
Billie
Ipushed the laces through eyelets until my fingers hurt. Tight, tighter, as if I could bind everything I’d dragged in with me—the breakup, the headlines, the shaky sense that everyone still saw me asNate Ransom’s girlfriend who used to play a little. The skate hissed against the waxed lace, a clean sound that cut through the locker-room chatter.
Auri angled toward me from the next bench, gum snapping, eyes bright. “Word is he’s some NHL relic with rage issues. The kind who still signs autographs for himself.”
Kira laughed from across the aisle. “Bet he’s bald and screams at girls for fun.”
I yanked one last knot and stood; the blades nicking the floor tile in tiny clicks. “If he gets us noticed, he can scream all he wants.”
That shut them up for a breath. I hadn’t meant it like a threat, but it landed that way. A couple grins twitched. I was already walking toward the tunnel, stick over my shoulder, helmet dangling from my wrist.
The noise shifted the moment I stepped out—air colder, sound sharper. Rink smell hit me: damp rubber, paint, ice shaving dust. I felt it fill my lungs the way it used to when Iwas a kid, before I tangled myself in someone else’s shadow. The boards gleamed under the lights. My heart beat steady, hard, alive.
I dropped my stick onto the dasher, crouched to stretch. Counted breaths. Everything slowed except what mattered—edge pressure, blade angle, the controlled give of my thighs against the ice.
Then I pushed off. First glide, then stride. No cameras, no Nate, no baggage. Just me carving lines until the world narrowed to motion. The cut of my blades sang back in rhythm: forward, cross, drive, pivot.
More players drifted out. Chatter followed—someone complaining about midterms, another asking if the coach really played for the Serpents. I tuned them out.
When I practiced, the noise always dulled to a hum, like being underwater. My stick met puck, and muscle memory took over. Wrist flick, rebound, pick-up. One, two, three—clean passes against the boards until sweat gathered at my temples.
I could almost taste metal in the air. I liked that. It felt pure. Honest.
I skated a full circuit, pressed into the turns until my edges hummed. A couple of the girls clapped sticks on the ice, a soft rhythm of approval. Someone muttered, “Guess the Ransom ex can actually play.”
I didn’t react. They could doubt, they could gossip. None of it mattered if I earned minutes and scored.
My shoulders dropped, muscles loosening into something close to peace. I chased a puck through the neutral zone, faked a pass to no one, ripped a shot at an empty net. It hit the post, ringing through the empty rink like a promise.
This was the only place where everything quieted—the rink didn’t care who I’d dated or what I’d lost. It wanted sweat, precision, and speed.
So I gave it everything.
The whistle tore through the rink, sharp as a cracked rib. Every head turned. I froze mid-stride, breath fogging the air. A man stepped out from the tunnel.
I looked up, and my world folded in half.
No.
It wasn’t possible.
