I stared at the pamphlets in my lap. Colorful. Hopeful. Lies printed on glossy paper.
The math didn't work.
It never had.
I'd just been too stubborn to admit it until now.
Until my father collapsed on a hospital floor and a doctor named a number that might as well have been infinity.
I thought about the bookstore.
The bills stacked on my kitchen counter.
The insurance gap widening into a chasm I couldn't cross.
And somewhere—unwelcome, intrusive—I thought about Gideon Jones standing in my doorway.
That deliberate smile.
That careful warning.
Take care of your family, Belle.
Like he'd known.
Like he'd been waiting for exactly this moment.
My hands fisted around the pamphlets.
Crushed them without meaning to.
Chapter 6
Gideon
The ice bit back this morning.
Good.
I drove into the boards harder than necessary. Shouldered the impact. Let the shock rattle through muscle and bone.
Five-thirty a.m. The rink empty except for the Zamboni driver smoking outside and the ghosts of a thousand drills embedded in muscle memory.
Cold air scraped my lungs raw with each breath.
Perfect.
I carved figure-eights. Hard stops that sprayed ice against the plexiglass. Crossovers so tight my edges screamed. Again. Faster. Tighter. Until my quads burned and sweat froze against my neck.
No plays to memorize.
No teammates to coordinate with.
Just movement. Precision. The singular focus that came when nothing else existed except body and ice and will.
This was the only place I didn't have to perform. Didn't have to smile for cameras. Didn't have to field questions about playoff chances or contract negotiations or which model I'd been photographed with last week.
Here, I could just be.
