LOGINThe penalty box door slams behind me, and the sound echoes in my skull. I drop onto the bench, chest heaving, knuckles throbbing from the punch I landed on Mitchell. The crowd is roaring, the refs are yelling, the announcers are losing their minds — but all I hear is the pounding in my head. Lena. Someone is messing with her. Someone is trying to break her. And I’m stuck in a box like an idiot while she’s back home dealing with all of it. I run a hand through my hair, tugging hard.Everything I’ve done, being there for her, helping her heal, trying to protect her, and someone is still getting to her. Still messing with her head. Still trying to ruin everything she’s worked for. And she didn’t tell me. Not because she doesn’t trust me. Because she didn’t want to distract me. Which somehow makes it worse.I look up at the ice. Mitchell is skating around like he didn’t just take a cheap shot at me. He smirked when he hit me earlier, like he knew I wasn’t fully here. Because I’m not. I’m
Evan left yesterday for his playoff game. He won’t be back for a few days, and even though we’ve spent plenty of time apart before… this feels different. He calls when he can, texts when he can’t, but I still feel the empty space he leaves behind. And the rink feels different too. Not safer. Just… quieter. After Coach Daniels tore into the rink manager, things improved a little. My skates haven’t gone missing again. My schedule hasn’t mysteriously vanished. No more field trips taking over my ice time.But now? Now I feel like someone is always watching me.Not in the obvious way, no one lurking in corners or staring from the stands, but in the subtle, prickling‑at‑the-back‑of-my-neck way. Like eyes follow me when I walk to the locker room. Like someone is waiting for me to slip. I try to ignore it. I try to focus. But Nationals are getting closer, and every mistake feels heavier.My parents invited everyone over to watch Evan’s game, his parents, his brothers, Coach Daniels, and Gabby
Something 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
Practice ends on a high note, fast, clean, sharp. Exactly what we need heading into playoffs. I’m grabbing my water bottle when Coach Hartman’s voice booms across the rink. “Hart! Office. Now.” Not a request. Not even close.The guys all wince like I’m walking into a firing squad. Mason mutters, “G
I can’t breathe. I’m pacing my room, replaying the shopping trip over and over until the humiliation burns behind my eyes. Lena’s mom. Mrs. Hart. That little girl. All of them ganging up on me like I’m the problem. Like I’m the one who doesn’t belong. They treated me like I was invisible. Like I wa
It’s been a few days since the party, and things have settled into this weird, comfortable rhythm. Lena and I text every day now. Not long, deep conversations. just little things. A joke. A picture of the pond. A sarcastic comment about practice. And, of course, her favorite topic: Sabrina.Every t
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







