Shina Shinesの小説

Avery’s POVThe ice is colder than I remember.My skates scrape clumsily across the surface, every wobble echoing in my bones. I used to own this place fluid strides, confident cuts, the girl who never faltered. Now, I feel like a stranger.“Pathetic,” Jax mutters from the blue line. He doesn’t raise his voice, but the word carries, sharp as a slap.I shoot him a glare. “I’m a little out of practice.”“A little?” He smirks, lazily gliding toward me. Effortless. Like the ice bends for him. “You look like Bambi on roller skates.”Heat surges to my cheeks. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”“I am.” He flicks a puck in my direction. “Rule number one: stop whining.”The puck skitters across the ice. Instinct kicks in I catch it on my stick, handle it without thinking. For a second, it feels right. Then my balance falters, and I stumble.Jax’s laugh cuts through the rink. Low, amused, maddening. It was like him teasing me, except it wasn't hurtful in a way. “Shut up,” I snap, scrambling t

Avery’s POVThe worst part about Ethan Cole isn’t the heartbreak. It isn’t the memory of the rink lights burning into my skin as he shattered me in front of everyone.It’s that he still smiles at me like nothing ever happened.“Hey, Ave.” His voice is smooth, practiced charming enough to melt half the school. He falls into step beside me in the hallway, his hockey jacket slung over one shoulder like he’s posing for a magazine cover. “You disappeared after the game the other night.”“I had somewhere to be,” I mutter, keeping my eyes ahead.“Yeah?” His grin sharpens, but his tone stays casual. “Not in the bleachers cheering me on?”I stiffen, but he doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he lowers his voice just enough to make it feel like a knife sliding between my ribs.“You used to love watching me play. Shame you couldn’t handle the heat when things got tough.”I whip my head toward him, glare sharp enough to cut. “You don’t get to say that.”He just shrugs, all faux innocence. “I’m j

Avery’s POVGym class has always been my safe zone. Neutral ground. No ice, no sticks, no Ethan Cole parading his golden-boy smile. Just me, a pair of sneakers, and enough determination to pass without embarrassing myself.But today, Coach Daniels has other plans.“Hockey drills,” he announces, tossing a bag of pucks onto the floor like we’re suddenly at tryouts. “Teamwork. Coordination. Endurance.”Groans echo across the gym, but my stomach drops. Hockey drills. Of all things.I keep my face blank, my expression practiced. No one here knows. No one except Lila, and she’s sworn to keep my secret buried. I’ve spent months avoiding anything that could give me away anything that could link me back to the girl who used to live and breathe the ice.The girl who got humiliated on it.The class splits into groups, fumbling with sticks, laughing at their own awkwardness. For most of them, this is a game, a novelty. For me, it’s muscle memory. Every grip, every step, every flick of the wrist i

Avery’s POVBy Monday morning, the whole school is buzzing with one name.Jaxon Reid.The transfer student. The new goalie. The boy with the scar and the smirk who’d collided with me outside the arena like fate itself was making a cruel joke.I hadn’t told Lila about that moment. Some encounters feel too strange, too sharp-edged to share. Like they’ll lose their meaning if you say them out loud. But the universe has a way of dragging you back to what you’re trying to avoid. And today, it does so with whispers.Lunch Whispers“Did you hear? He nearly killed a guy.”I pause with my tray halfway to the table.At the far end of the cafeteria, two sophomore girls huddle, voices pitched just enough to carry. Their words slice through the noise like glass.“Not killed,” the other corrects quickly, but her eyes widen with thrill. “But he broke the guy’s jaw. Three places. That’s why he got expelled.”“No, I heard it was his coach he went after,” another voice chimes in. “They said he got arre

Avery’s POVThe bleachers are crammed full, everyone pressed in too close, the air thick with sweat and popcorn and this tense, humming energy that makes my skin itch. My hands are locked around the edge of the bench, knuckles gone pale, but I refuse to look at the ice. Not even for a second.I shouldn’t have come.I promised myself a while ago, swore up and down, full of anger and hurt that I wouldn’t set foot in here again. Not after everything. Not after what he did. But Lila wouldn’t let it go. She dragged me along, insisting, “Just one game. You don’t have to watch. Staying home on a Friday night just looks sad.”She might be right. I don’t know.The crowd roars, a wave of sound hitting me hard. I flinch before I can stop myself. Old habits, I guess. All those years clapping, shouting, yelling his name. Now the noise makes my stomach clench.I don’t look. I won’t.I stare down at this crack in the cement by my shoes. Count the lines. Trace the shapes. Anything but the ice.But my