Gone.
I stood there, breath fogging in the morning cold. My jaw throbbed where his fingers had pressed. My hand stung from the slap.
My legs wanted to give out. Wanted to drop me right here on the sidewalk until someone found me.
But I didn't fall.
I straightened my spine. Tugged my hoodie sleeves down over my knuckles. Tucked my hair behind my ears.
And I walked toward the entrance. Head high. Shoulders back. Hands shaking like an earthquake lived under my skin. But I walked.
Practice was brutal.
Not because of the drills—I could skate those in my sleep. But because Calder barely looked at me. Called my name twice, maybe. Didn't correct my form. Didn't yell when I missed an easy pass.
Just... nothing.
Like I'd ceased to exist.
I showered fast, head down, water scalding against my skin. Tried to wash off the bruise forming along my jaw, the phantom pressure of Nate's fingers still digging in.
It didn't work.
I was halfway dressed—sports bra, jeans, hair dripping—when Kira appeared in the doorway.
"Hey." She leaned against the frame, chewing her bottom lip. "Nate's here."
My hands stilled on my shoelaces. "What?"
"In the lobby. Says he needs to talk to you." Her eyes flicked to my face, then away. "You okay?"
I forced my fingers to move. Tied the knot. Grabbed my hoodie. "Yeah."
She didn't believe me. I could tell by the way she hovered, weight shifting foot to foot like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
I pulled the hoodie over my head. Tugged the sleeves down. "I'm fine, Kira."
"You don't have to go out there."
I wanted to. God, I wanted to stay in this locker room until he gave up and left. Until practice tomorrow. Until graduation. Until I never had to see his face again.
But I didn't trust him. Didn't trust what he'd do if I ignored him. What he'd say. Who he'd tell.
I see it,he'd said.
And if Nate saw it, how long before everyone else did too?
I grabbed my bag. Slung it over my shoulder.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
Then I walked out.
The lobby was too bright. Too loud. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bouncing off polished floors and glass doors that showed the parking lot beyond.
And the press.
Three photographers. Maybe four. Clustered near the entrance with cameras raised, lenses pointed like weapons.
