Billie shifted her stance. “You should go,” she said, tone even but precise, the edge of a blade held steady.
For a second, pride burned through everything else. That she could face him like that. That she didn’t need saving.
Still, when his hand brushed the sleeve of her jacket like a dare, my body moved a fraction forward—enough that the metal bleacher creaked under my boot.
His head turned, eyes cutting toward the shadows. I stepped back before he saw me fully.
“Fine,” he said to her, grin back in place. “I need to talk to you about something, though. Expect my call.”
He walked off like the whole thing amused him.
I stayed in the dark, jaw aching from the clench, fists throbbing, breath caught halfway between a snarl and something worse.
By the time Nate’s footsteps faded down the tunnel, the rink had emptied. The air still held the sting of ice and sweat, the faint echo of blades cutting through practice an hour past. I stood until I couldn’t hear him anymore—until the door shut behind him and I could breathe again.
The locker room lights hummed when I pushed the door open. One row of stalls. Equipment bags slouched against the walls. Everyone gone.
Except Billie.
She sat on the bench, tying the last knot of her bootlaces with careful precision, jaw tight, like she could lace herself into calm.
I shut the door behind me.
“You dated Nate.” My voice came out lower than I meant, almost steady if not for the gravel underneath.
She looked up. Didn’t flinch. “Yes.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I didn’t know you were his father.”
The air snapped, sharp and cold. I stepped back like she’d swung something hard and true at me.
“You expect me to believe that?”
Her eyes lifted, burned. “I didn’t know until right now.”
That hurt in a new way—cleaner, quieter. I wanted to believe her. I really did. But the thought of Nate’s name tangled with mine in her mouth made me feel sick.
“You let me touch you,” I said. “You let me?—”
“I letCalder, the man from the bar, touch me,” she cut in, steady. “Not Nate’s dad. You didn’t introduce yourself either.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. I opened my mouth, nothing came.
She stood then, same height damn near, chin lifted. No fear. No shame. Just that unflinching thing that had drawn me to her in the first place.
“If I’d known,” she said quietly, “I never would’ve let it happen.”
That should’ve felt like relief. It didn’t. It felt like loss.
She breathed once, looked straight at me. “But I did. And I don’t regret it.”
Something in me staggered.
Silence pressed in again—thick, electric. I could hear the drip from the ceiling into a rusted drain, her breathing tight between us. The smell of leather and cold metal filled the space, familiar as blood.
I wanted to ask herhowshe didn’t know—how my name hadn’t surfaced, how she never connected the dots—but the answer was already there. I hadn’t wanted to be known. Not then. Not ever. I was just the stranger at the bar, all rough edges and whiskey breath. She owed that man nothing.
