He walks off like he ended this exactly where he wanted. Like he didn’t just light a fuse and leave it at my feet.
That’s what tightens my fists. Not anger. Certainty.
I stand there longer than I should.
This isn’t finished. Rylan didn’t come for forgiveness. He came to find the wall. To confirm I wouldn’t help. To log the answer and adjust.
He never pushes straight on. He leaks sideways—through people, through timing, through proximity. And now he knows where to press.
“Fuck,” I say again, quieter.
I move before I can stall myself, heading for the rink, stride locking into place as it always does when the ground starts to shift beneath me.
OceanofPDF.com
Chapter 3
Gio
Closer now, the air turns colder. Concrete gives way to that familiar bite—ice and metal bleeding through the walls, the building itself holding its breath.
Game night.
Outside, the crowd is already a dull roar, vibrating through the structure. It’s different from practice. Repetition belongs to practice. Game night is for blood.
My head stays crowded, circling back to Zoë—her refusal to soften, the way she left without checking behind her, the certainty in how she moves through space. The way she exists on her own terms.
Rylan talked about the coach’s daughter once, and it detonated his whole fucking career. Zoë causes damage without opening her mouth. That’s the problem. Visible. Competent.Exposed inside a system that punishes women for breathing wrong.
Instincts snap fast—toward containment. Toward ownership of the disruption she creates. Toward managing the variable before it destabilizes everything else. That impulse is the dangerous part.
Handling Rylan isn’t the issue. Scouts aren’t the issue. Neither is the Frozen Four or every asshole waiting for me to slip.
What sits heavy in my chest as I step through the controlled doors and into the team side of the world is the unanswered question of how far I’ll go if Rylan decides Zoë is the lever he wants to pull.
Uncertainty spreads like a fault line I haven’t learned how to reinforce. Not yet.
Inside, the locker room smells like a specific kind of aggression—sweat, muscle rub, the metallic tang of sharpened steel. That scent usually grounds me, locks me into place. Today it closes in, tight and restrictive, pressing against my ribs.
My gear bag hits the bench with a heavy thud, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.
Adrian and Declan are already there, stripped down to their undershirts, the easy camaraderie of the team settling around them like a second skin. Both glance up as I enter, conversation hitching for a fraction of a second.
Adrian speaks first, leaning back against his locker, gaze sharp and assessing. “You’re leaking.”
“Give it time,” I mutter, pulling my hoodie over my head.
Declan stays focused on his skates, lacing them with precision that borders on obsessive. His eyes flick past me, tracking my face like he’s scanning for damage. Nothing gets past him.
“That asshole talk to you?” Declan asks quietly.
The strap on my pads tightens under my fingers until the elastic bites into my calf. “He said hi.”
Adrian snorts, jerking his chin toward the door. “That tracks.”
“Usual behavior,” I say evenly. “Running his mouth. Treating consequences like suggestions.”
Declan slows his lacing and looks up properly. “About what?”
