Chapter 8 -Lena

I don’t want to be here. I said that at least six times this morning, once to my mom, twice to my dad, and three times to Coach Daniels’ wife, Mara, who somehow guilt‑tripped me with nothing more than a soft smile and, “It would mean a lot to the boys if you came.”

The boys, meaning her husband and their five‑year‑old son, Theo, who is currently swinging his legs beside me in the front row like he’s trying to kick the air into submission.

He’s adorable.

He’s also the only reason I didn’t fake a stomach bug.

“Lena, look!” Theo tugs my sleeve, pointing at the players warming up. “That one’s my favorite! He skates so fast!”

I smile, even though my stomach is twisting. “He does skate fast.”

The arena lights feel too bright. The boards feel too close. The smell of ice and rubber and cold metal hits me like a memory I’m not ready for. My chest tightens, but I focus on Theo’s excitement, on the way he narrates every move like a tiny sports commentator.

Mara squeezes my hand. “You’re doing great.”

I nod, even though I don’t feel great. I feel like I’m sitting inside the mouth of a beast I barely escaped from.

“Want to help me grab snacks before the game starts?” Mara asks.

I jump at the chance to move. “Yes. Please.”

We weave through the crowd, and for a moment, I almost feel normal. People are laughing, talking, wearing jerseys. No one is staring at me. No one knows who I am. Until someone does. A man at the concession stand, mid‑thirties, red‑faced, already smelling like beer, leans too close. “Hey there, sweetheart. You here alone?”

I stiffen. “No.”

He grins. “You sure? ’Cause I don’t see a boyfriend.”

I turn away. “Not interested.”

Mara steps closer, protective. “She said no.”

He scoffs, muttering something crude under his breath, but he lets us go. I shake it off, grab the drinks, and head back to our seats. Except when we get there… he’s behind us. Of course he is. He sits two rows up, leaning forward like he’s waiting for me to notice him. And I do, every time he whistles, every time he calls out something gross, every time he tries to get my attention. My dad hears him first. “Hey,” Dad snaps, standing. “Knock it off.”

Coach Daniels joins him, voice low and firm. “She told you to leave her alone.”

The man just laughs. “Relax. I’m just talking.” Talking. Right.

My pulse spikes. My hands shake. The arena feels smaller, louder, hotter. I try to focus on the ice, on the players skating warmup laps, on anything but the man breathing down my neck. Then the game starts. The crowd roars. The puck drops. The players collide. And for a moment, I forget everything except the rhythm of the game. Until the man leans forward again. “Hey sweetheart, smile for me...”

A crack like thunder slams against the glass. I jump, heart in my throat. Evan Hart is standing right in front of us, stick pressed to the shield so hard it vibrates. His eyes are locked on the drunk man, cold, furious, dangerous.

“Back. Off.” His voice cuts through the noise, sharp as a blade. “Touch her again and I’ll break this stick off up your ass!”

The rest is drowned out by the crowd gasping, the refs blowing whistles, the announcer shouting something about unsportsmanlike conduct. The drunk guy goes pale. My dad pulls me closer. Mara covers Theo’s ears. Coach Daniels mutters something that sounds like, “Oh, for the love of—”

And Evan? He skates away like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just risk another suspension. Like he didn’t just defend me in front of thousands of people. Like he didn’t just paint a bigger target on his back.

My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. I don’t know what scares me more, the drunk man, the arena, or the way Evan looked at me like he’d burn the whole world down to keep me safe.