His thumb presses once against my shoulder. Pure signal. A marker.
Hold.
We move.
A girl I recognize from design looks between us, surprise cracking her expression before she schools it into something sharp. A guy in a Titans jacket grins like he just won a bet.
“Zoë Barnes,” someone says behind us. Not asking.
Gio answers without slowing. “Mine.”
The word lands heavy—strategy, alignment, lockstep. A claim the crowd can screenshot.
A reporter edges closer, mic half-raised. “Gio—are you—”
“Not tonight,” he cuts in, smooth as glass. He angles his body, shielding me without adding contact. “Game just ended.”
The mic drops. The cameras don’t.
We hit the exit doors. Cold air rushes in, flashes firing as they swing wide. My pulse is loud now. Consequence.
I glance up at him. “You good?”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “You still standing?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’re fine.”
Outside, the night swallows us whole—lights, noise, attention snapping into place behind our backs like a lock.
His arm stays where it is.
And I don’t step away.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 19
Gio
I’m halfway through my ritual when everything tilts.
Left skate laced. Right skate open. Tape wrapped clean over my knuckles, white bands over bruised skin. Headphones on, no music playing—just the muffled roar of the away rink bleeding through the foam, a low ocean of noise on the other side of the concrete wall.
Breathe.
Cross, pull, cinch.
The away locker room is smaller than ours. Lower ceiling. Harsher light. It smells like someone tried to bleach the failure out of it and didn’t quite manage. The boys are loud—half-dressed, chirping, stick blades knocking the floor. My stall is the eye of it; everything else just swirls around.
I keep my head down and focus on the pattern.
Left pad. Right pad. Velcro tight.
Glove on the bench. Blocker beside it.My phone buzzes before I’m fully awake. A stutter of vibrations, like the world can’t wait for me to put my feet on the floor.
I leave them unopened. If it’s real, it survives the morning.
