I shove that aside.
I think about Gio Rossi. He watches like engagement, not dismissal. He doesn’t flinch when I push back. Under my skin, that awareness curls low, unwanted and persistent.
He’s infuriating. He’s arrogant. He represents everything I mistrust about legacy power.
And he’s standing in the middle of something he didn’t fully control.
If the wreck is his—if someone got hurt because of him—I’ll hold him accountable.
But if this is a narrative tightening around him, then choosing the wrong side of it matters.
“Fine,” I say at last. “I won’t decide.”
Maya raises an eyebrow. “That’s new.”
“I’ll wait,” I clarify. “Because pictures like that don’t surface alone. There’s always more.”
Clara nods once. “Observation without alignment.”
I look down at the sketchbook.
At the cage.
I draw a door this time.
I leave it shut.
We clink glasses. The sound is dull, imperfect.
The tequila still tastes wrong.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 9
Gio
I’m halfway through taping my stick when my phone vibrates against the bench. Once.
I ignore it.
Tape tightens under my fingers. Pull. Tear. Smooth. The routine works because it always has. Control lives in repetition. Noise stays out if you don’t give it a seam.
Morning skate is brutal on purpose. Earlier than anyone needs. Earlier than anyone wants. Coach calls it discipline. I call it containment.
The rink lights are too bright for how early it is, the building still half-asleep outside these walls.
The vibration hits again. Twice this time.
“Rossi.”
Adrian’s voice doesn’t carry. It doesn’t have to. He’s on my left like a shadow with a heartbeat, eyes on my hands, not my face.
I keep taping. A beat.
Then he adds, quieter, “Check it.”
“I’m busy,” I say.
