He didn't look at me. Didn't acknowledge me. Just strolled toward the glass, all swagger and spotlight, and leaned against the boards like he was scouting talent.
The girls noticed. Reese elbowed Kira, whispered something that made her laugh. Billie kept her head down, skating harder, pushing through a give-and-go like she could outrun what was coming.
She couldn't.
Nate waited until she circled back, until she had no choice but to skate past him. Then he called her name—loud enough for the mics to catch.
She slowed. Stopped. Her shoulders went rigid.
He said something I couldn't hear. Smiled that same smile he used to flash at draft scouts and disappointed fathers. Then he opened the gate, stepped onto the ice in his street shoes, and grabbed her by the waist.
Pulled her in.
Kissed her.
Right there. In front of the cameras. In front of the team. In front ofme.
The world went white.
Billie went stiff—I saw it, saw her hands freeze at her sides, saw the way she didn't lean in, didn't kiss him back. But she didn't shove him away either. Didn't scream. Didn't make a scene.
Just stood there and let him claim her like property while the cameras ate it alive.
My vision tunneled. Blood roared in my ears.
Someone skated past me—Kira, maybe, or one of the freshmen—and I snapped.
"Get your head up!" I barked, voice raw and vicious. "You skate like that in a game and you're getting buried. Again.Now."
The girl flinched. Stumbled. Her stick clattered to the ice.
The whole team went quiet.
I didn't care. Couldn't stop. My chest was a furnace, my hands shaking, every muscle coiled tight enough to snap.
Nate finally pulled back, still holding Billie's waist, still grinning at the cameras. She stepped away from him, slow and deliberate, and skated toward the bench without looking at anyone.
Without looking at me.
I blew the whistle so hard it cracked my teeth.
"Line drills. Full speed. No breaks."
The girls moved like spooked horses. I felt their fear, their confusion, the way they kept glancing at each other, at Billie,at the man in the stands who'd just kissed their center like she belonged to him.
She didn't.
She wasn't his.
But she wasn't mine either.
And that was the part that was going to destroy me.
The bottle didn't judge. That was what I'd always liked about it.
I poured the first glass standing at the counter, knocked it back before the burn could warn me off. Poured the second before I'd swallowed the first. By the third, I'd stopped using a glass altogether.
The apartment was dark. I didn't bother with the lights. Sunset bled through the blinds in thin orange slashes that painted the walls like old bruises. I sprawled on the couch, bottle dangling from one hand, and stared at the ceiling until the texture started to move.
