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I grimace, flinching back from his hand as he reaches for my face.

He flushes deeply—eyes looking away from me as he tucks his hand away. “Sorry.”

My eyes roll as I look sideways at him. “Afraid I’m going to bite?” I mutter low, shifting away from where his knee is unconsciously pressed to my leg. “Don’t bother.”

Holden doesn’t say a word, a blush still living in the skin of his cheeks. He shakes his head, tapping his foot a little anxiously as the rest of the team make their way down the aisle.

“What the fuck are you listening to?” he asks, grabbing my phone to see The Smiths’ “Please, Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want” playing. He grimaces. “Jesus, really taking that broody sad boy thing to a new—”

“Shut up,” I interrupt, rolling my eyes.

Holden, surprisingly, does. A thread of guilt pulls at my mouth until I manage to open it and offer, “Sorry. I’m being an asshole.”

“Nah, nothing new. You’re my favorite type of asshole.” Holden shakes his head with a goofy look. “Well, I mean, from what I’ve seen—”

We both stop talking at the sight of a redhead, nervously shuffling along the aisle.

She’s so beautiful, blue eyes wide as she slowly looks around, cheeks beet red from exertion or a tinge of embarrassment, I’m not sure. As usual, Lily’s dressed too good for a plane with a bunch of college hockey–playing assholes—matching navy on navy with a sweater tied around her shoulders like a Ralph Lauren ad, silky red hair high up in a perfect smooth ponytail.

I almost stand, but Holden clamps a hand on my thigh. “Don’t,” he says quickly and quietly. No more than a whisper.

Lily looks upset, visibly so—like she’s dragging her own body through the plane, and it makes that sharpened center point of my chest ache.

“Holden—”

“Look, Tor,” he says, tilting his head to Paloma Blake catching up behind her. “She’s fine. She’s not by herself.”

I relax as much as I’m able, but my eyes stay locked on Lily as she scoots into a row ahead of us, her blond roommate behind her taking up all the straggling attention. I wait until the aisle is clear before taking a quick last-minute trip to the restroom—definitely not to check on Lily and make sure she’s all right.

She’s fine—happy even as Paloma shows her something on her phone and they whisper together quietly, Lily’s blue eyes wide and awestruck every time she looks at Paloma while Paloma looks away.

It’s impossible to break the tether that loops between us, like some thread of fate I’ve sawed at multiple times and have never been able to sever. I’m done fighting it.

• • •

“Watch your fucking mouth!”

The shout surprisingly comes from my left—Holden skating up to intervene between the new Mt. Hart player and me. It’s clear someone on the bench sent the younger player to antagonize me, considering I know every other fucker on their team.

I spent last year playing for them, nearly winning the Frozen Four for them by myself.

They rewarded me by kicking me off the team and talking shit about me to every press or media connection that would listen.

So most of the more daring players have been chirping at me all game.

I’m hyperaware of the fact that this is the first time Lily has been at my game since the infamous Harvard situation. I’m also keenly aware that LaBlanc knows that. There’s a part of me that feels like he’s waiting for me to screw up.

So I’m not going to fight, no matter how hard they push.

Holden watches me a bit longer but I only nod, chewing lightly on my mouth guard before tucking it back in as we take our positions for the face-off.

Rhys Koteskiy is the golden-boy smiling captain off the ice, but on it—he’s fucking incredible to watch. I’d never tell him how much I admired his play before our encounter last year. But there is a genuine excitement to play on his team, even now after spending the last months trying to mash that excitement into dust, because it distracts from the ugly truth.

I don’t deserve to be here and nearly everyone on the team hates me.

Still, it’s easy to play with Koteskiy’s record on the face-off. His ratio is near perfect, and even the Mt. Hart forward across from him looks a bit shaky to go against him.

Rhys wins easily, skating off toward the Mt. Hart goal. I take off after him, playing at the blue line carefully before crossing. He takes a shot—but the goalie covers and slides to his player, the guy Freddy’s been chatty with.