LOGINSomething is off with Lena. Not in the obvious ways, she still smiles when she sees me, still leans into my side when we sit together, still texts me good luck before every practice and game. But there’s a tightness in her shoulders. A hesitation in her voice. A distance she thinks she’s hiding. She’s keeping me at arm’s length again. Not because she wants to. Because she’s trying to protect me. Protect us.With playoffs breathing down my neck and her next competition two weeks away, she doesn’t want more attention. Not after the Sabrina mess. Not after the kiss that went viral in under an hour. I get it. But I also know her. And something is wrong. She brushes it off every time I ask.“Just tired.”“Just stressed.”“Just a long day.”But her eyes tell a different story. So before I have to leave for our next game, I drive to the rink early and find Daniels in his office, hunched over a clipboard like he’s trying to solve a murder.He looks up when I knock. “Hart. Shouldn’t you be on
The rest of the afternoon feels like a blur, a loud, bright, dizzy blur. Everyone is talking at once. Everyone is hugging me. Everyone is smiling. And Evan? He never leaves my side. Not once. His arm stays around my waist as we walk through the arena. His hand finds mine every time someone pulls me away for a picture. When we sit down for dinner with both our families, he rests his hand on my knee under the table, steady, warm, grounding.Every time I look at him, he’s already looking at me. Like he can’t believe I’m real. Like he doesn’t want to miss a second.After dinner, after the congratulations and the photos and the endless retelling of the jump, he drives me home. Chicago fades behind us, the highway stretching out in front of us, the sky turning dark.It’s quiet in the car, not awkward, just… full. I watch the lights blur past the window before finally asking the question that’s been sitting in my chest since the podium. “So,” I say softly, “about the kiss.”He glances at me,
I slam the locker room door so hard the metal rattles. There is no way this happened. No way Lena Merritt, shaky, panicky, washed‑up Lena, beat me. ME. How the hell did she beat me? I pace back and forth, nails digging into my palms, heart pounding so loud I can barely hear myself think. Third place. She got third place. My spot. I should be on that podium. I should be the one everyone’s cheering for. I should be the one Evan is looking at like she hung the moon. But no.Lena skates one decent routine, one, and suddenly the whole world is acting like she’s some miracle comeback story. I grab my skate bag and throw it against the bench. It hits with a dull thud, not nearly satisfying enough.“How?” I hiss under my breath. “How did she fucking beat me?”Her jump wasn’t even perfect. She practically fell out of it. And the judges still scored her higher. Why? Because she’s the tragic little ice princess who had a meltdown on camera? Because everyone feels sorry for her? It’s pathetic. An
I’ve played in packed arenas. I’ve played in hostile ones. I’ve played in playoff games where the noise rattled my bones. But nothing, absolutely nothing, makes me as nervous as sitting in the stands of a figure skating competition.PR thinks it’s good for me to be here. “Show support for Lena,” they said. “Humanize your image,” they said.Whatever. I was coming anyway. We knocked Philly and New York out of the playoffs, and Coach gave us the weekend off before the final game. One more win and we’re in the Stanley Cup.But right now? Hockey feels a million miles away. Right now, all I care about is Lena. I sit between my mom and Mason, with my dad, Gabe, and Lena’s parents filling the rest of the row. It’s weirdly comfortable, like our families have been doing this forever.The arena is buzzing. Skaters glide across the ice, music swelling, blades slicing clean lines. It’s… peaceful. Calming. Like watching ballet, but colder. I get why people love this. I get why she loves this.Gabby
The arena is louder than I expected. I knew competitions drew crowds, but after months of training in quiet rinks and frozen ponds, the noise hits me like a wave. People are everywhere, parents, coaches, judges, little kids with posters, other skaters stretching in the hallways. And somewhere in the stands… Evan. I try not to look for him. I fail. He’s easy to spot, tall, broad‑shouldered, wearing a Wolves hoodie and sitting with my parents, his parents, Mason, and Gabe. They’re all talking like they’ve known each other forever. My stomach flips.Daniels notices. “Eyes on me, Merritt.”I snap my gaze back to him. “Sorry.”He gives me a small smile. “You’re fine. Nerves mean you care.”Nerves also mean I might throw up, but I don’t say that. The last few weeks have been brutal, early mornings on the pond, afternoons in the rink, drills until my legs shook, jump attempts until I wanted to scream. My jump is better now. Not perfect. But landable. If I don’t psych myself out.Skaters from
Philly is cold in a way that feels personal. We flew in two days early, coach wanted us settled, rested, and practiced before the playoff game. The hotel is decent, the rink is fine, and the guys are buzzing with that pre‑game energy that’s half adrenaline, half boredom.Mason is sprawled across the foot of my bed like he owns the place, scrolling through his phone with a smirk that tells me he’s about to start trouble.“So,” he says without looking up, “how was your little date with Lena?”I throw a rolled‑up sock at him. He dodges it without even trying.“It wasn’t date,” I say.“Right,” he says, finally glancing up. “You took her to a diner. Walked her to her door. Almost kissed her. Totally not a date.”I glare. “You’re annoying.”He grins. “And you’re in denial.”I shake my head, but I can’t help the smile tugging at my mouth. “It wasn’t like that.”“Uh‑huh.” He sits up, leaning forward. “The forehead kiss? Dude. That’s leading man shit right there. And the movie moment, you call
I’ve been replaying that conversation with Lena for days. The way she stood there in the tunnel, nervous but trying to be brave. The way she thanked me, quiet, sincere, like she wasn’t sure she had the right to. The way her eyes kept flicking away from mine, like looking at me too long might burn.
Of course they’re talking about Lena again. They always are. I sit on the bench at the training rink, arms crossed, watching the younger girls practice. They’re giggling, whispering, glancing at me like I’m some kind of celebrity. I should be flattered. I should be enjoying this. But all I can thin
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
Winning should feel better than this. The buzzer sounded, the crowd went wild, my teammates swarmed me, and for a split second, I felt that old rush, the one I’ve been chasing since before the suspension. But the second I stepped off the ice, reality slammed back into me. I know what I did. I know







