His eyes hardened. “Watch it.”
“You can’t look me in the eye because I make you feel something, and you hate it. So you punish me.”
He narrowed his stance, every muscle turning to stone. “You’re projecting.”
“No, Coach.” My voice came out raw, scraped clean. “You are.”
The silence stretched, hot and fragile. His jaw clenched; his hands curled into fists at his sides.
I turned before the tremor in my knees gave me away, skated for the tunnel. My breath rasped like static against plastic.
When I reached the doors, I looked back once. He still stood there, motionless in the low light—jaw tight, eyes dark, like the words had landed somewhere he didn’t want them to.
Then I left him with them.
Once I got to the locker room, again, I dropped my gloves onto the bench, the smack louder than I meant it to be. My hands shook from fatigue, not anger this time. The ache in my legs pulsed steady and deep, a metronome reminding me I was still standing. Still here.
I unlatched my pads one by one, the sound of Velcro ripping through the empty space. The door creaked open and a gust of cooler air swept in. Reese appeared, her hair slicked back, cheeks red from the shower. She hesitated in the doorway, towel slung over her shoulder.
“You good?”
Her voice carried that mix of sympathy and warning—she’d seen the whole thing. Probably everyone had.
I reached for my hoodie, tugged it over my head. “Fine.”
She didn’t push, just nodded once and disappeared down the hallway. The door clicked behind her and the silence that followed felt earned.
My ribs ached each time I bent to gather my gear. Sweat ran down my spine, cold now, but my mind felt sharp. The noise, the humiliation, the eyes from the bench—all of it had drained out of me. What was left wasn’t rage. It was something cleaner.
The mirror across the room showed a girl I almost recognized. Hair plastered to her temples, eyes rimmed red, shoulders straight. No trembling, no pleading for a look of approval from a man who couldn’t decide if he wanted to destroy me or protect me.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor again—Kira this time. She stopped at the threshold, a bag on her arm, her expression cautious.
“What’d he do now?”
“Nothing.” I forced a smile that tasted like salt. “I’m good.”
She studied me a second longer, then shrugged. “Text me when you’re home.”
“Yeah.”
When she left, I sat on the bench and unlaced my skates slow, the fibers cutting faint lines into my fingertips. My hands were rougher than I remembered. Stronger, maybe.
The air outside the rink hummed faint through the exit door—a car starting, girls laughing. Life going on.
I slung my bag over one shoulder. The words settled in the cold like a promise, still echoing when I pushed open the door and stepped into the night.
The night air slapped heat off my cheeks, sharp with exhaust and old rain. The lot lights buzzed overhead, flickering halos reflected in the patches of melted ice. My skates clacked against the concrete as I crossed toward my car, each step heavier than it should’ve been. The world outside the rink felt too bright after so many hours under fluorescent hum and frozen air.
I just wanted the quiet—just a moment to let my lungs find a rhythm that didn’t taste like anger.
“Hey, you’re Billie Donovan, right?” a voice cut through it. “Nate Ransom’s ex?”
The guy looked out of place in the near-empty lot. Puffy jacket zipped to his chin, camera strap slung across his shoulder, press badge swaying from a lanyard that reflected in the yellow streetlight. He smiled like we’d already met.
I froze halfway between the curb and the driver’s side door. “No,” I said. “I’m Crestwood’s center.”
He chuckled softly, flipping open a little notebook like this was a favor he was doing me. “Right, right. I’m doing a piece on Nate’s breakout NHL season. Wanted a quote—what was it like dating him in college? Did you help with his training habits? Off-ice stuff?”
