Chapter 11 -Lena

I don’t even make it through the front door before I hear my name.

“…Merritt...Lena Merritt...”

The TV is on in the living room, volume just loud enough to carry down the hall. My mom must’ve left it playing. I drop my bag by the door and step closer, heart already sinking.

It’s the post‑game press conference.

And there she is.

The reporter from the lobby.

Her voice is sugary‑sweet in that way people use when they’re about to say something awful.

“Evan, witnesses say the fan was just talking to her. Why did you react so strongly?”

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “Sports reporter,” I mutter. “Right.”

She sounds more like a gossip blogger fishing for drama.

I sink onto the couch, arms crossed tight. My stomach twists as I listen.

Evan sits at the table, jaw tight, eyes sharp. He looks irritated, but controlled. More controlled than I expected after last night.

“We grew up together,” he says when she asks if he knows me.

My breath catches. He didn’t have to say that. Then she pushes again, of course she does.

“What is your relationship with her?”

“We’re childhood friends.”

Friends. The word stings more than it should. Then she goes for the kill. “There are rumors she’s afraid to return to the ice. Can you comment on that?”

My whole body goes cold. Rumors? From who? Only my parents know. Coach Daniels knows. And the coaching staff back in Chicago, Coach Ramirez and his team.

No one else.

No one who should be talking.

My chest tightens with anger and embarrassment.

But Evan doesn’t take the bait.

“No,” he says firmly. “I can’t personally say anything about that. You’d have to ask her.”

The reporter tries again, but he cuts her off.

“Any athlete wouldn’t be human if they didn’t have some fear after an injury.”

I exhale slowly. He handled it perfectly. Better than I would have. Better than I expected him to.

I rub my hands over my face. I should thank him. For the drunk guy. For this. For… everything. But the thought of actually talking to him makes my stomach flip.

The pond is quiet, the early light soft against the ice. My blades carve steady lines as I finish my last lap, breath fogging in the cold air. Coach Daniels stands near the edge, phone pressed to his ear, pacing.

“Yes, I saw the clip,” he says, voice tight. “No, she didn’t say anything to the press. The reporter ambushed her.”

I wince. He’s talking to the team’s PR department. Damage control. Because of me. Because of Evan. Because of everything.

I slow to a stop, chest rising and falling. I’m tired. Not physically, emotionally. The kind of tired that sinks into your bones.

Coach ends the call and gives me a reassuring nod. “Don’t worry about it. They’re handling it.”

I nod back, but the knot in my stomach doesn’t loosen. I change out of my skates, pack my bag, and head toward the parking lot. My breath catches when I don’t see Evan’s truck.

Part of me is relieved. Part of me is disappointed. I hesitate, then turn toward the arena doors. If I don’t do this now, I never will.

Inside, the rink is colder, louder. The team is finishing practice, skates cutting sharp lines across the ice. I spot Evan immediately, fast, focused, intense. He looks like he belongs out there. I don’t.

I stand in the shadows near the tunnel, waiting. Watching. My heart thuds painfully with every second that passes.

When practice ends, the guys file off the ice, laughing and shoving each other. Evan is last. He steps through the gate, pulling off his gloves, and freezes when he sees me. The air between us goes tight. Awkward. Heavy. Charged.

“Lena,” he says, voice low.

“Hi,” I manage.

We stand there, neither of us moving, neither of us knowing what to say first. I swallow hard. “I… wanted to thank you.”

His eyes soften, just barely.

“For last night,” I add. “For… everything.”

He nods once, slow. “Yeah. Of course.”

Silence stretches between us, thick and complicated. There’s so much I want to say. So much I’m afraid to say. And I have no idea where to start.