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I look away, rubbing the back of my neck. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Clearly.” She slips off the bench, then kneels in front of me, her hands on my thighs for balance. “Michael, talk to me. Please.”

“None of this matters,” I drawl, ignoring the way my gut churns.

She assesses me, seeing right through me, straight past my bullshit. She knows I’m lying.

“But it does,” she says. “It matters to you.”

I take the phone from her and lock the screen, like that will make me forget the comments.

“Yeah,” I admit quietly. “I think I just got good at pretending it doesn’t.”

She takes my hands in hers, blue eyes depthless. “Talk to me.”

Head low, I exhale hard. “It’s fucking exhausting. I don’t feel like I’m the one out there playing, scoring, helping my team win. It’s my last name. My dad’s legacy. Echoes of his successful career. The comparison game is constant. People are always mentioning what Dad was already capable of at my age, what he was already known for.” I huff out a humorless laugh. “Sometimes, it feels like I’m failing at something I haven’t even started yet.”

She practically growls, “You’re not failing.”

“Maybe not right now.” I lift my eyes to hers. “But I’m terrified that one day, they’ll be right. That without him, without the name, there’s nothing special about me. That I will always be Colton Thompson’s son and never just myself.”

She slides her fingers to my wrist, massaging it. “You’re wrong.”

“You don’t know what they say. What they’ve been saying for years.”

“I do know,” she says softly. “And I know what they say about me too. That I’m not enough. That I’ll never be an Olympic medalist. That I only made it this far because of my dad’s money and connections. That I’m taking the place of more talented girls.” Her voice pitches high, and she pauses, taking a deep breath. “It doesn’t bother me because I am my own harshest critic. Their words and my worries don’t make it true.”

I hate everyone who ever made her feel this way. I want nothing more than to prove to her what a brilliant woman she is, what a talented figure skater she is. She has a bright future. She’s so strong and resilient. When she falls, she gets right back up and tries again. Honestly, I think I’d rather see her win than win myself.

And I know that with her, I don’t need to pretend. I can be real.

So, I tell her what’s really on my mind. “What if what they say about me is true?” I ask, my voice hoarse. “What if I join the Phantoms next season, give it everything I have, and it still isn’t enough?”

“That still doesn’t lessen your value. You are a great player. You are talented, and everyone who cares about you is really proud of you.”

I swallow hard. The words hit deeper than any headline, any comment, any comparison ever has—but shame hits me too. I shouldn’t be fishing for compliments.

“You shouldn’t have to say that,” I murmur. “About me.”

She flashes me a small smile. “Why not? It’s the truth, and I’m your best friend. And what a terrible girlfriend I’d be if I didn’t support you.” She twines our fingers, eyes roaming over my face. “Is this what it’s like for you? All the time?”

I nod. “Every single day for a long time, since I was old enough to really pay attention to what people were saying about me. Actually, Turner’s parents were some of the first. I overheard them saying I’d never be at the same level as my dad, and that stuck with me for years.”

“I wish I could shut all those stupid people up,” she whispers. “I wish I could fix it.”

“You may not be able to erase the problem, but you help. So much.”

Her brows pull together. “How?”

“You’re my inspiration. My moving force.” I clear my throat. “I look at you, look at how ambitious you are, how relentless, and I want to be worthy of you. I want to be the best for you.”

For a second, she just looks at me. Then, she slowly stands and climbs onto my lap, her fingers fisting the fabric of my hoodie. “You’re already the best for me.” She inches her face closer to mine. “Wanna stop thinking about all that for a while?”

Relief washes over me. “Yes, please.”

She takes my face in her hands and molds her mouth to mine. It’s gentle at first. Her soft lips move in deliberate strokes, her tongue tracing my bottom lip, seeking access. I open for her—of course, I fucking open for her. Kissing her is an addiction at this point, one I never want to find a cure for.

My cock thickens, straining against my fly. The occasional breaths we take are short and sharp, as if neither of us wants to part, even for a second, even for oxygen. I’ve fantasized about kissing her so many times, and I can say my fantasy pales in comparison to the real thing. Every single time I kiss her is better than the last. My heart is beating out of my chest. Familiar heat pools under my skin. I want more.