I look at Rylan.
“You’re done,” I say. “Here. Period.”
His face hardens. “So that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
The pressure tightens instead of lifting.
I start walking again, jaw locked, boots scuffing concrete harder than necessary.
“This is fucking unreal,” I mutter.
Rylan drifts back into the crowd, already pretending this didn’t matter. Like he didn’t just drop a live wire into the middle of my season.
Undefeated. Everyone says it like it’s armor. Like it blocks attention instead of attracting it. Scouts hunt undefeated teams. Coaches dissect every frame. Media circles, bored and starving.
Frozen Four is months out. Months. Everything between now and then is glass.
I pull my phone from my pocket, thumb hovering before I lock the screen again. Any move right now creates noise. Noise cuts both ways.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
Zoë cuts across my thoughts without permission—her walk, her posture, the way she moved past me earlier without asking for a goddamn thing. She understands pressure because she lives inside it. That’s what makes her dangerous. To herself. And maybe to me.
I shove the thought down. Distraction gets punished. This season doesn’t tolerate mistakes. It doesn’t tolerate misplaced loyalty. And Rylan knows it.
“Hey,” Rylan calls over his shoulder.
I stop again. Slow.
“What.”
The word lands as warning.
He turns, walking backward a step like we’re still operating on old terms.
“No hard feelings,” he says, smiling. “I respect the boundary.”
“Good,” I snap. “You crossed it.”
He lifts his hands. “Relax. I told you—I understand.”
I don’t buy it.
“You were always the good one, Gio,” he adds, voice easy, warm. “That’s why people listen to you.”
There it is.
The words slide under my ribs, slick and intentional. He’s setting the frame. Responsibility. The cleaner. The guy who fixes things so others don’t have to.
“Don’t,” I warn.
He smiles wider. “Just saying. See you around.”
He turns, then pauses, glancing back with a smile that carries calculation.
“Guess I’ll find another way to get noticed.”
