He winked, waiting for me to play along.
Every muscle in my body locked. The noise of the rink still throbbed in my ears, and for a beat I thought maybe I’d misheard him. But his grin didn’t falter, the pen already poised to catch whatever sound I made next.
There it was again—that familiar script waiting to cage me. Nate’s ex. Nate’s helper. The supporting role I’d already spent too long perfecting. I could say something polite, brush it off. Give him a headline about shared goals or mutual respect, the kind of quote that would make me sound grateful to once orbit his spotlight.
My throat tightened. I pictured Nate leaning on a post-game podium somewhere, all clean charm and easy humility, talking about adversity and growth. Maybe they’d cut to footage of him scoring, the crowd roaring his name. Then maybe, if the reporter was clever, a flash of me would follow—face blurred, captioned:the college ex.
The thought made my hands curl into fists inside my pockets.
I met the reporter’s eyes. “I’m not a footnote in anyone’s story,” I said.
He blinked, still smiling but suddenly less sure it was the right look. “Come on, it’s just a piece?—”
“Find another angle.” A beat. "Maybe you should ask him why we broke up in the first place."
I turned before he could recover. The gravel crunched under my shoes. He called something after me—maybe my name, maybe Nate’s—but the wind carried it off.
The night clung to my skin, crisp and biting, but it felt honest.
My boots hit the cracked sidewalk in a steady rhythm, each step scraping off what was left of the day. Breath clouded the air, thin smoke curling behind me. I shoved my hands deep into my jacket pockets and kept moving.
A bus roared past, spraying slush onto my jeans. I didn’t flinch. The city hummed low, indifferent, and for the first time that didn’t bother me. I passed the darkened windows of a diner, caught my reflection in the glass, and didn’t look away. The girl staring back looked tired, sure—but solid. Scratched up, still skating.
My phone buzzed once in my pocket. Probably Hannah, maybe Kira, but I left it there. I didn’t owe anyone a reply tonight.
The arena lights burned faint in the distance behind me, a warning or a promise—I couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. The cold stole my breath clean, and I kept walking, shoulders square,pulse steady. I had work to do. And I was done waiting for permission to matter.
Chapter 18
Calder
The TV droned behind me, the anchor’s voice cutting through the silence of my living room. Paper cluttered the coffee table—skating drills, breakout patterns, passing flow diagrams. I worked by habit, pen scratching half-legible notes across a clipboard already worn down from years of bad decisions.
“Up next—Nate Ransom’s breakout season,” the announcer said, that practiced enthusiasm bleeding through every word.
Of course.
I leaned back, chewed the edge of the pen. “Kid always did have timing,” I muttered, flipping to another page. Neutral zone pressure, offensive collapse variations. Anything to keep my hands busy.
They rolled highlights—his celebration after a hat trick, teammates mobbing him like he’d cured cancer. The fans screamed; sponsors loved him; the league loved him. Golden boy. The name Ransom flashed across his jersey in clean silver thread.
He never used Shaw. Not once. Not even when I still had cameras pointed at me.
I scrawled a note so hard the pen tore the paper. Changed drills. Didn’t bother looking up.
“…and sources tell us,” the journalist continued, tone dipping to that rumor-scented hush TV people loved, “…that off the ice, Ransom has moved past the heartbreak of his college relationship. His ex-girlfriend, I’m told, is making headlines of her own—playing center for Crestwood under Coach Calder Shaw.”
The pen slipped from my fingers. The sound hit like a gunshot.
The reporter kept talking. I didn’t hear him. The room tilted just a little. Something inside me went weightless and heavy all at once.
Billie.
Billie Donovan.
Nate’s ex.
I stared at the screen. A photo flashed—blurry, probably stolen from some old team event. Her smile. His arm around her shoulders. The caption read:The One That Got Away.
