“Billie, don’t?—”
“No one even knew I played, Hannah,” I cut her off. My voice cracked. “He’d nod when people talked about my stats, but he never shared them. I sat in interview stands, smiling, clapping, pretending that was enough.” I let out a harsh laugh. “Guess all I was good for was filling a seat.”
She tightened her jaw but didn’t interrupt.
I stared at the tea cooling in my hands. The reflection of the ceiling lights quivered on the surface. “He told me he liked how calm I was,” I whispered. “Not fiery. Not competitive.” I swallowed hard. “He loved that I didn’t chase the spotlight. And I believed him. I thought that meant he saw me. Turns out he just wanted someone smaller than him.”
Hannah’s hand closed over mine. Her nails pressed firm into my skin, anchoring me. “Listen to me,” she said, voice low but steady. “You areBillie fucking Donovan.”
I looked up.
“You are not an accessory. You are a weapon on the ice, and he was holding you back.”
Something in her tone cracked open the shell I’d built around myself. My throat tightened all over again.
She didn’t stop. “You used to come over talking stats—your shot accuracy, your penalty kills, every stupid detail. You went on about the league draft board, about making the national team.” Her eyes locked on mine. “That girl—the one who lived and breathed the game—she’s still here.”
I shook my head. “I haven’t been focused on the team. I should have done more off-ice prep, especially with a new coach coming tomorrow?—"
“Don't worry about that now,” she shot back. “You think Nate’s the reason you mattered? You were outscoring half your line before he even noticed you.”
Her words hit like cold air after a long dive. My chest hurt, but not from crying anymore.
The hum of the kettle stopped. Steam drifted between us. I wiped at my face again, breath uneven. Hannah leaned back, watching me, waiting for something to shift.
I couldn’t find words big enough. Only the truth that still stung in my ribs.
“I forgot what it felt like,” I murmured. “Playing for me.”
Hannah smiled, small but fierce. “Then it’s time to remember.” She tossed the damp tea towel over her shoulder like a warning flag. “You’re not staying in here all night smelling like heartbreak and mint leaves,” she said. “We’re going out. Fresh air, new makeup, no exes in sight.”
I slumped deeper into her couch cushion. “I’ve got my first meeting with the new Crestwood coach tomorrow,” I muttered. “I can’t show up looking like I spent the night drowning in cheap vodka.”
“It’s one drink,” she said, already halfway to her closet. “Then you can go home and agonise over power plays and practice drills.”
“I am not getting blackout in a dive bar the night before I meet Calder-freaking-Shaw. And anyway, you know I don't drink. I'm not even of-age yet."
She laughed, a sound too bright for how wrecked I felt. “Who said anything about blackout? I saidout. I’ll drink. You can keep your halo shiny.”
“I should rest,” I tried again. “Be sharp. Make a good impression.”
“You’ll make a better one if you don’t look like your ex vacuumed the soul out of you.” She yanked open her wardrobedoors, hangers clattering. “And you’re going to wear something that makes your ex cry from wherever he’s hiding.”
I stared at her. “You’re evil.”
“Helpful,” she corrected, flipping through her hanging clothes like a woman possessed. “You need armor.”
“I need to not die of embarrassment tomorrow.”
She pulled out a black dress, tight through the shoulders, the neckline low enough to invite trouble. “This?”
I gave her a look. “For what? The red carpet?”
Her grin sharpened. “For closure.”
“Too dramatic.”
She tossed it onto the bed. Next came ripped jeans and a cropped blazer. “This?”
