I kept my hands at my sides, knuckles tight in my gloves. His fingers twitched once. Just once. Like he fought the same pull.
There, in that small pocket of the frozen world, every bad decision waited with its arms open.
His voice broke through it. “We can’t do this.”
“Then don’t start.”
Neither of us moved. The words hung between us, crystallized breath fading into steam. His throat worked. He took in a slow breath through his nose, like he needed it to stay standing.
The lights above hummed. The sound of some machine clicking off echoed across the bleachers. My pulse felt louder than both.
He stepped back first—one solid move, clearing space like he didn’t trust himself. The mask slid back into place, that coach’s face I was supposed to respect. It didn’t fool either of us.
I turned before he could say another word. My skates clacked over the rubber mat toward the exit, steady, deliberate. Every step felt heavier than the last, like he’d packed weight into the air. I didn’t have to look over my shoulder to know he was watching.
I felt his eyes track the line of my spine, the swing of my braid, the way my shoulders squared as I hit the door. It burned, that attention—half warning, half want. I didn’t let myself look back, because if I did, I wasn’t sure which side I’d answer.
The hall was colder, sharper, lit by buzzing fluorescents. My reflection followed me in the scratched glass of the trophy case—helmet in hand, face pale, eyes too bright. I didn’t look like a girl who could ruin a career. I looked like a player trying to breathe around a mistake that still pulsed under her skin.
Behind me, the door clanged softly back into its frame. The sound chased down the hallway after me, a reminder.
He’d saidwe can’t do this. The problem was how badly I already had.
I shoved through the locker room doors; the air hitting me—hot, wet, heavy with soap and effort. The hum of showers drowned out every thought I didn’t want to have, but not enough. My legs ached from drills, my neck burned from humiliation, and under all that, something else throbbed—anger wrapped around a pulse that had nothing to do with skating.
I yanked at my gear, shoulder pads clattering to the bench. Sweat soaked through the compression fabric. Every buckle felt like it was welded shut. My fingers shook, part exhaustion, part fury. I hated this—hated that one mistake, one night, followed me into daylight like it owned me.
Helmets, pads, sticks lined the walls like soldiers. The others had already cleared out, leaving damp footprints and echoes. I peeled off my jersey, caught a glimpse of myself in the metal of the locker door—red-cheeked, wild-eyed, still catching my breath.
It was supposed to be one night. Forgettable.
Except I hadn’t forgotten a damn thing.
Turns out memory didn’t care about rules. It clung to stupid detailed—the scrape of his stubble on my throat, the way he’d looked at me like I was something solid in a collapsing world. Now that same man held a whistle and barked orders like we were strangers. Maybe that was mercy. Maybe that was worse.
I dropped the last piece of gear on the floor; the thud echoing too loud. The smell of sweat and rubber burned in my throat. I pulled a towel from my bag and headed for the showers, steam leaking out the doorway like the room was alive.
Hot water hit my shoulders, punishing, scalding. It needled into every bruise until I almost welcomed the pain. I pressed my palms against the tile, forehead resting against the cool space between, and let the heat strip the rink off me.
I wanted to hate him clean out of my system. Wanted to burn off the pull that twisted my stomach into knots every time he looked at me like he didn’t remember and like he absolutely did.
But hating him didn’t empty the space he’d carved out. And that made me furious with myself.
I’d been careful before him. Controlled. Always knowing what I wanted: puck, net, win. Simple. Then he showed up in a bar, and I mistook silence for safety.
That mistake had a face now, a voice shouting my name across the ice.
The heat blurred my vision; water streamed down my back, over the bruises blooming along my ribs. I turned the dial higher until my skin hummed.
Enough.
Tomorrow, it would be about the game—skates, drills, tape, breath. Nothing else. I wouldn’t let him live rent-free under my skin. I’d already spent too long as some man’s shadow. Never again.
I had this opportunity, and I wasn't going to waste it. I had already done that when I was with Nate. I wasn't going to do it again.
I killed the water, dragged the towel around my shoulders, and picked up the pace getting dressed.
The mirror above the sinks caught me on the way out—hair dripping, eyes steadier. Fine. He could coach, he could scowl, hecould try to forget. I’d do the same. The ice didn’t care who I’d slept with. It only cared if I could play.
