I lift my head, looking down at her. Her eyes are closed, her lashes dark against her pale skin. She looks peaceful. She looks like she belongs here. I should move. Getting up would be smart. Cleaning up would be smart. I should leave. I don't. I roll off her, but I don't go far. I pull her against me, tucking her head under my chin. She sighs, a soft exhale of breath, and drapes her arm over my chest.
"You okay?" she asks, her voice muffled against my skin.
I stare up at the ceiling. The silence in my head is heavy, but it's not empty. It's full of her. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin, the weight of her leg thrown over mine. I'm terrified. I'm absolutely fucking terrified. This is what I need. Her presence shuts out the world. She makes the noise stop. And that's a dependency I can't afford. But I can't let her go.
"Yeah," I say, the word sticking in my throat. "I'm good."
I lie awake, listening to her breathe as she drifts off. The silence isn't scary anymore. It's just the truth. I'm not fixing it. I'm just hiding. And she's the only place left to hide.
The silence doesn't last. It never does. The high is fading, the chemical flush of endorphins draining out of my system and leaving the hollow ache behind. I'm staring at the ceiling, counting the water stains on the plaster. Zoë is asleep, her breathing soft and rhythmic against my side. She's out. She trusts the dark. I don't.
My eyes drift to the door. The thin slice of light under the wood is steady. No shadows moving. No footsteps in the hall. But I can't stop looking. I'm tracking the perimeter of a six-by-six room because I can't shut off the part of my brain thatscreams threat. I used her. I used her to scrub the noise from my head, and she let me. She took every fucked-up, desperate thing I dished out and asked for more. That should make me feel like shit. It should make me feel like a predator. Instead, it just makes me feel like I've found the only weapon that works.
I shift my weight, careful not to wake her. My shoulder throbs where I hit the boards, a dull reminder that the real world is still out there, waiting for morning. Coach's ultimatum hangs over the bed like a guillotine. Fix it. I can't fix it. Shutting out the rumors isn't possible. I can't stop the whispers. But I can come here. I can bury myself in her until the static goes quiet. That's not protection. That's a fucking addiction.
I look down at her face in the gloom. She looks peaceful. Untouchable. The irony tastes like ash in my mouth. I'm supposed to be the dangerous one. I'm the one with the record and the temper. But she's the one who just gutted me without even trying. I need to get up. Getting dressed has to happen. I need to get the hell out of here before the sun comes up and forces me to look at myself in the mirror. But my arm is trapped under her, warm and heavy, and the thought of moving it feels like a physical loss. I'm losing the distinction between keeping her safe and keeping her close. The line was already thin; now, it's gone.
If I lose this—lose her—I'm not just losing a girl. I'm losing the only tether I have left.
I stare at the door until my eyes burn, waiting for something to break. Nothing does. The room stays dark. The silence stays heavy. And I lie there, terrified, knowing I'm one mistake away from losing everything.
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Chapter 25
Gio
The first light of dawn filters through the cheap blinds of my dorm room, painting stripes on the wall. My bed beside me is cold. Zoë is gone. She always leaves before the sun comes up, like a vampire who can't stand the light of day.
The silence in the room is a physical weight. Last night, it was a balm. Her breathing, the rustle of the sheets, the warmth of her skin—it was the only thing that could drown out the static in my head. Now, the silence is just an amplifier. The hum of the mini-fridge is a jackhammer. A drip from the leaky faucet in the bathroom is a waterfall.
I can still smell her on the pillow. Vanilla and something sharp, like ozone. The scent is a ghost, and it's haunting me already.
I get up, pulling on jeans and a hoodie. Getting out is what I need. The one place that's ever made sense is where I'm headed. The rink.
The campus is deserted at this hour. The air is crisp and cold, biting at my exposed skin. I don't go back to my dorm. I walk straight to the arena. The side door is always unlocked for the early morning maintenance crew. I slip inside, the familiar smell of ice and Zamboni fluid hitting me like a punch. It's supposed to smell like home. Today, that smell just resembles a tomb.
The lights are left off as I step onto the ice, my sneakers squeaking against the hard, frozen surface. It's vast and empty. A white desert under the dim glow of the emergency exit signs. This is my church. Here, the rules are simple and the effort is honest. Skate fast, hit hard, don't fuck up.
But the ghosts are here, too. I can see the flash of a dark jacket in section 112. I can feel the phantom impact of Dante's body against mine. I can hear Coach's voice, not from yesterday, but from a dozen other practices, a dozen other film sessions. Fix it. The words are an order. They're a diagnosis. He sees the fracture. He sees the liability. And he's right.
My eyes close as I try to find the quiet zone, the place where it's just me and the ice and the puck. But all I can see is Zoë's face when I told her Jessica was gone. A flash of cold fury in her eyes before it iced over completely. I erased her agency. I took her power, just like my father took mine. The thought is so repulsive it makes me sick.
A sharp scrape of a blade on ice echoes through the arena. My eyes snap open. I'm not alone. A figure is gliding smoothly from the far end of the rink, not in full gear, but in sweats and a beanie, a stick in his hands. He moves with an economy of motion that's instantly recognizable. Coach Addison.
He stops a few feet from me, the spray of ice shavings a soft cloud in the dim light. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, just looks at me. His gaze is assessing.
"Couldn't sleep, Rossi?" he asks, his voice quiet in the cavernous space.
"Something like that," I mutter, staring down at my sneakers.
He nods, like he expected that answer. He taps his stick on the ice, a sharp, clean sound. "This ice doesn't lie. It tells you exactly who you are. Right now, it's telling me you're a guy who'd rather stand in the dark than face the light."
My body flinches at his words. "I'm facing it."
"Or are you just hiding from it?" He skates a slow circle around me. "You're hiding in the dark. You're hiding in a girl's bed. You're hiding behind a reputation you think makes you tough." He stops in front of me again. "None of that is going to help you when the puck is dropped and the other team is coming for your head."
"I can handle it," I say, the words automatic. A lie I've been telling myself for years.
