“About being a fuckup,” I snap. “Same as always.”
His gaze stays on my face longer than I like, stripping layers, checking seams. “You shut him down?”
“Yes.”
“Clean?” Adrian asks, humor gone.
“Clean,” I say. “Final.”
Declan exhales sharply, relief cutting through. “Good. Because if he—”
“I handled it,” I cut in, words sharp. I don’t want to hear the rest. I don’t want to confront how fast Declan would’ve gone to war for me over something that was never his responsibility.
Silence settles, dense with everything left unsaid.
Adrian lifts both hands, palms out. “Alright. Message received.”
We move again, falling into ritual. This part always works. Motion takes over. Discipline locks in.
Tape wraps my wrists in slow, deliberate pulls. The sticky rip echoes through the room. Arena noise leaks under the door—low, thrumming, expectant. That sound carries weight. Tonight demands impact.
“This’ll burn it off,” Adrian says, rolling his neck. “Whatever’s eating at you.”
“Always does,” I reply. A line repeated often enough to almost believe.
The stick gets taped next. Slow. Precise. Hands steady. Everything aligned exactly where it belongs. My body knows this routine better than my name.
Thoughts drift anyway—to Zoë’s hands. Sketching. Sewing. Cutting fabric with surgical confidence. The contrast betweenmy violence and her precision grinds under my skin, settling low and hot.
“You’re quiet,” Declan says, sliding his helmet on. “That usually means trouble.”
“Fuck off,” I fire back on reflex.
He grins behind the cage. “There he is.”
Focus slides again. Zoë cuts in without warning—straight spine, chin lifted, presence locked in place. Earlier, she walked away like she’d already calculated the cost and paid it in advance. Clean. Decisive. Absolute.
Tape drags harder than necessary. “Shit.”
“What?” Adrian asks.
“Nothing.” The word rings thin.
What sticks is how she moves through hostile spaces and forces them to adapt. How she carries herself as if cover is unnecessary.
She stays with me. In my head. Under my skin.
Declan bumps my shoulder hard enough to rock me. “You sure you’re good?”
I meet his eyes. “I said I am.”
He holds the look, then nods. Lets it go. Trust, or something close to it.
Ice hums under my skates as I step over the boards for warmups. The arena fills fast, stands blurring into color and noise. I push harder, chasing speed like it can outrun thought.
It doesn’t.
Muscle memory kicks in. I can handle Rylan. Pressure. Scouts. Media. Frozen Four bullshit. I live inside that noise. I know how to turn it sharp without letting it draw blood.
