I opened my mouth. Closed it.
He smiled. Not kind. Not angry.
Victorious.
The car rolled forward. Smooth. Controlled. Like he had all the time in the world to wait me out.
I gripped the edge of the seat, nails digging into fabric. My throat was tight. Too tight.
"There's nothing going on," I said.
He laughed. Short and sharp.
"Right. Because my dad always stares at his players like he's trying to memorize them." He glanced over, eyes cold. "Or maybe it's just you."
The streetlights blurred past. Campus buildings gave way to storefronts, empty parking lots, the familiar route to the rink.
I forced my voice steady. "He coaches me. That's it."
"You're lying."
"He pushes me harder than anyone else on the team."
"Yeah?" Nate's jaw tightened. "Why do you think that is?"
I turned toward him, heat rising in my chest. "Because he actually thinks I'm good."
His smile twisted. Mean and deliberate. "Yeah. He sees what you can do on your knees."
The slap happened before I could think. Palm against cheek. The sound cracked through the car like a whip.
His head snapped sideways. The car swerved—just slightly—before he corrected.
Then his hand was on my face. Fingers dug into my jaw, hard enough to bruise, forcing my head back against the window. His grip was iron. Controlling. The kind of touch that saidI own you.
"You think I'm an idiot?" His voice was low. Dangerous. "I'm not. I see it. You think you're better than me now?"
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
But I couldspeak.
"Touch me again and I'll ruin you."
The words came out quiet. Steady. A promise, not a threat.
His eyes flickered—surprise, maybe. Or calculation.
He let go.
I yanked the door handle before the car even stopped moving. Stumbled out onto the curb outside the rink, cold air slapping my face.
The door slammed behind me.
Nate's car idled for a moment. I felt his eyes on my back, heavy and expectant.
Then the engine revved.
Tires peeled out.
