But the voice coming back was quieter, meaner.
No. Not the first. And not the last.
I keptmy whistle between my teeth the whole morning, chewing the plastic until the taste of burnt rubber coated my tongue. The girls skated until their legs went soft. I ran them through endurance ladders, dump-and-chase drills, crossovers, suicides—then did it all again. Nobody argued. They knew better.
Especially Billie.
She hit every mark, face hard like the ice itself. Sweat streaked down the side of her neck, breath ragged, but she never broke pace. Every time her eyes lifted and brushed mine, something inside me tilted—guilt, lust, fury, all tangled in the same knot. I looked away first. Every damn time.
She didn’t know. Couldn’t know. Not who I was to him.
And still it ate at me, the way I wanted to protect her from my own blood. The way I hated my kid for touching what now felt like mine. That thought almost made me sick. Almost.
I blew the whistle again.
“Again. Last line, you’re dragging.”
Groans, but they moved. Billie took the lead, chin down, blade cutting deep. I wanted to yell at her for looking so determined, for making it impossible to separate what belonged on the ice from what lived under my skin. Instead, I barked, “Hustle, Donovan.”
She didn’t answer—just pushed harder.
The clock hit the end of practice. I let them slow, gather gear, limp toward the benches. The rink settled into that echoing quiet only empty arenas have. I set my clipboard down, flexed my hand. The skin over my knuckles had split open again; bloodlined the ridges. I didn’t remember punching anything. Maybe the boards. Maybe my thoughts.
“Jesus, this place is smaller than I imagined.”
Every muscle in me locked. That tone. That casual arrogance polished by cameras and contract bonuses. I turned.
Nate Ransom strolled in through the double doors like he still owned every sheet of ice he’d ever touched. Designer coat, beanie pulled low, grin soft enough to sell toothpaste. He looked nothing like the kid who used to follow me down morning practice halls with a gear bag half his size—nothing like the boy I’d raised, and everything like the man I’d failed to stop from turning into me.
He clapped an assistant coach on the shoulder on his way by. “Heard my old man finally got a gig again.” Smile aimed right at me. “Thought I’d check out Dad’s charity project.”
Those words hit clean and quiet, the way knives sometimes do before they turn red.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t yet. All I could do was stare while breath chilled in my throat. Around us, the few players still tying skates whisper-laughed, pretending not to watch. Billie froze halfway through unlacing her boots, confusion flickering across her face when she heardDad.
She didn’t look at me.
Nate’s eyes swept the rink, scanning like he was browsing a shelf. Then he saw her. Recognition snapped through his smile. The shift was subtle but poisonous—corners sharper, humor gone mean.
He started walking. I didn’t.
He cornered her near the exit tunnel, blocking the light with his body. The space between them pulsed tight. I moved closer, staying in the shadow behind the bleachers.
“Didn’t expect to see you here, B,” he said, voice half-laugh, half-warning.
Billie straightened, tying her jacket at the collar. “I’m at practice.”
“You always were good at keeping secrets,” he murmured.
He leaned in, that smirk carved out of habit, too close. She held still, eyes level with his. Didn’t back up. Didn’t flinch. But I saw the tiny twitch of her hand near her pocket, that instinctive edge of self-defense she’d learned while surviving men like him. Men like me.
Something behind my ribs cracked. My fists closed. Nails bit into my palms.
I wanted to step out, drag him away from her, shout that he had no right to even be here—that this team, this rink, this girl weren’t his stage. I wanted to swing the way I used to before the league pulled my number and the world decided I wasn’t safe around people anymore.
But I didn’t move. I watched.
The hum of the refrigeration unit filled the silence, cold and steady, same rhythm as the pulse hammering behind my jaw. Nate’s laugh floated out again, dripping condescension.
