chapter 6

The bruises had deepened by the second morning into a map I could no longer ignore.

I stood under the weak hostel light and watched the colors shift—purple at the center, yellow already creeping at the edges. Every mark sat exactly where his hands had held me. I pressed one fingertip to the darkest print on my left hip and felt the dull answering throb. Then I pulled the waistband of my leggings up and locked the evidence away.

The rink felt different when I stepped onto it.

Not colder. Not louder. Just tighter, as if the air itself had learned the shape of what happened in the dark. Damian was already there, running light edge work near the far boards. He didn’t look at me when I joined the ice. He didn’t need to. I felt the weight of his attention settle across my shoulders the moment my blades touched down.

Practice moved like a held breath.

Coach ran cycle drills until legs shook. I stayed in my lane, took every pass clean, finished every check with more force than necessary. Daniel kept to the opposite side of the ice. Once, during a board battle, his glove brushed my elbow. I jerked away hard enough that the nearest defenseman glanced over. Daniel’s face tightened. He didn’t try again.

Damian’s voice cut through the noise only when it had to. Low. Precise. The same captain the rest of the team obeyed without question. But every time he skated past me the space between our bodies felt charged, like the moment before lightning finds ground. Once his glove settled briefly at the small of my back, correcting my angle on a breakout. The touch lasted less than a second. The heat of it stayed under my jersey for the rest of the session.

After the final whistle most of the team cleared quickly. I lingered near the far corner, gathering the last scattered pucks, using the simple task as an excuse to stay moving. The building emptied in layers until only the low hum of the dehumidifiers remained.

I knew he was still there before I turned.

Damian stood at the center line, stick across his knees, watching me the way he watched game film—searching for the exact point of failure. Snow from the morning’s skate still clung to the tops of his socks. His expression gave nothing away.

“You’re still favoring the left side,” he said.

“I’m skating fine.”

“You’re protecting it. Anyone who’s watched you for more than a season can see it.”

I straightened and faced him fully. The ache between my legs had settled into a constant low reminder. I used it to keep my voice steady. “Maybe you should stop watching so closely.”

Something dark moved through his eyes. He pushed off and closed the distance until only a stick-length remained. Up close I could see the faint tension in his jaw, the way his pulse moved a little too hard at the base of his throat.

“I don’t have the luxury of looking away,” he said. “Not when one of my players is one bad hit from tearing something that won’t heal before playoffs.”

“Is that all I am? One of your players?”

The question left my mouth before I could stop it. Silence stretched between us, thick and dangerous. For a moment the controlled mask he wore slipped and I saw the same raw hunger that had lived behind his eyes in the dark. Then it was gone, locked down so completely I almost doubted it had been real.

“Go change, Arabel.”

The order landed soft. It still carried the weight of every command he had ever given on this ice. I held his stare for three more seconds, long enough to make sure he understood I was choosing to leave, then turned and skated toward the tunnel without another word.

In the locker room the other girls spoke in low clusters that fell quiet when I passed. I changed fast, pulled the hoodie tight around my throat, and stepped into the corridor.

Daniel was waiting near the water fountain.

He looked worse than he had two days ago—eyes red, shoulders tight, the clean confidence he used to wear completely stripped away. When he saw me he pushed off the wall and blocked the path without touching me.

“We need to talk.”

“No.”

“Arabel, please. I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep watching you look through me like I don’t exist.”

I stopped. The hallway was empty except for the two of us and the distant sound of a door closing somewhere deeper in the building. “You stopped existing for me the moment I saw you inside her.”

His face twisted. “It was one night. One mistake. She was lonely and I was—”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”

He flinched like I had struck him. “I still love you.”

The words landed with no force at all. I looked at the boy I had once planned entire futures around and felt nothing but a vast, clean emptiness.

“Then you should have remembered that before you climbed into my mother’s bed.”

I stepped around him. He didn’t try to stop me. The sound of his breathing followed me all the way to the exit doors and then faded.

Outside the snow had started again, fine and steady. I walked with my head down, bag strap digging into my shoulder, the cold working its way through the thin layers of my clothes. I made it halfway across the courtyard behind the athletic building before I realized I wasn’t alone.

Damian leaned against the low brick wall that bordered the path, black coat collar turned up against the wind. He didn’t speak when I slowed. He simply watched me approach the way he watched the net when the game was on the line—certain, patient, already calculating the outcome.

“You’re following me now?” I asked.

“I’m making sure you get where you’re going in one piece.”

“I don’t need a keeper.”

“No.” His voice stayed quiet. “But you have one anyway.”

The words settled between us with more weight than they should have carried. I stopped three feet away, close enough to see the snow melting against the heat of his skin, close enough to remember the exact pressure of his hands when he had held me still for every thrust.

“What do you want from me, Damian?”

He pushed off the wall and closed the last of the space. The wind caught the edge of his coat and brushed it against my leg. I refused to step back.

“I want you to stop looking at me like I’m the only enemy on the board,” he said. “There are worse things circling you than me.”

“Name one.”

His eyes held mine. For a second I thought he might actually answer. Instead he reached up and brushed a melting flake from the edge of my hood with the side of his thumb. The touch was almost nothing. It still sent a current straight down my spine.

“Go inside before you freeze,” he said. “We’ll talk when you’re ready to hear what I actually have to say.”

He stepped past me and walked toward the parking lot without looking back. I stood in the falling snow and watched until the dark shape of him disappeared between the cars.

Inside the hostel I locked the door, dropped my bag, and sat on the edge of the bed with my hands braced on my knees. The bruises throbbed in time with my pulse. The memory of his voice—low, certain, claiming a place in my life I had never offered—sat heavy behind my ribs.

I hated him.

I hated the way my body still remembered the exact shape of him.

I hated that some quiet, furious part of me had already started listening for the sound of his blades every time I stepped onto the ice.

Outside the snow kept falling, steady and silent. Inside I stared at the opposite wall and understood something I had been refusing to name.

The night against the glass had not ended when he told me to leave.

It had only just begun.