Page 11

Jenna doesn't miss a beat, already running through today's schedule like she's got it tattooed on the inside of her eyelids. "First, you'll talk to the press. Then we have photo ops, followed by meeting with the kids and their parents. After that, we bring in the gear with the company logo, and all the kids will get to have their first practice." Her enthusiasm is almost infectious. Almost.
"Sounds too exciting to be true," I drawl, the sarcasm thick enough to spread on toast. She shoots me a quick glance but doesn't rise to the bait.
"Victor, come on. This is important for the community. For the kids," she chides, steering the conversation back to safer waters. But I can't help the bitterness that creeps into my voice, the way it always does when things get too personal, too close to the bone.
"Sure, Jenna. Whatever you say."
I stare out the window again, the world outside taking shape as the sun climbs higher. The coffee sits heavy in my stomach, and I wonder if anything can really warm the chill that's settled deep inside me. It's just another day, another attempt to plaster over the cracks in my life with a good deed and a smile for the cameras.
"Let's just get this over with," I mutter, more to myself than to Jenna, as we pull into the city limits of Worcester, the day ahead looming like a mountain I've got no choice but to climb.
The chill of the morning bites at my skin as I step out of the car, the Fidelity Bank Worcester Ice Center looming in front of me. It's a huge building with towering windows. Apparently, the kids had been practicing on the frozen pond behind their school, so Jenna had said the first step was to secure space at an actual arena. In reality, I was grateful not to have to visit where they were practicing. I worried it would bring back too many memories.
Almost immediately, the air is filled with the cacophony of voices, camera shutters clicking like an erratic heartbeat. Jenna, ever the orchestrator, places a hand on my shoulder and steers me toward the throng of journalists.
"Remember, stick to the script," she whispers, and I nod, though her words are already drowning in the sea of questions flung at me.
"Mr. Stone, how do you feel about today's event?" one reporter calls out.
"Excited," I say, plastering on a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "It's all for the kids, right?"
Jenna gives a slight nod to a familiar face, and the next question comes from a journalist I know is in our pocket. Softballs, every one of them. "Are there plans formore community projects from your company?" the voice cuts through.
"Absolutely," I respond, though my mind is elsewhere.
"Thanks, everyone," Jenna interjects after a few minutes, her tone leaving no room for argument. "We're eager to get to the first practice."
As we pivot away from the podium, I catch something—someone—in the periphery of my vision. Chestnut curls that send a jolt of recognition through me. I don't know her name, but it's her, the protester from yesterday, her presence here setting off alarm bells in my head, though I'm not sure which type.
"Victor," Jenna nudges me, trying to recapture my attention, but I'm fixed on the sight of her. Why's she here? Not stirring up more dissent, I hope.
"Sorry," I mumble eventually, tearing my gaze away from the enigma wrapped in chestnut waves. We push through the doors into the relative calm of the rink, the smell of cold and anticipation welcoming us.
"Nice job," Jenna says, her voice a low hum as we step away from the lingering press. I can still feel their eyes on me, like ants crawling up my spine.
"Who was that woman?" I ask without preamble, my thoughts snagging on the image of chestnut curls and a frown that seemed to hold the weight of the world.
"Which one?" Jenna's brow furrows.
"The protester from yesterday. She was at the back."My words come out terse, clipped by a curiosity that feels like it's clawing at my throat.
"Didn't catch her," Jenna admits with a shrug. "But point her out next time, subtly, and I'll see what I can find out."
"Sure," I nod, though doubt gnaws at me. Subtlety isn't exactly my strong suit.
"Next up is the photo op," Jenna's voice pulls me along as we head towards the rink's edge. "Then we let the kids gear up for practice."
"Really necessary?" I groan, feeling like a puppet with its strings pulled taut.
"Smile and look thrilled, Victor. It's part of the charm offensive." She nudges me towards a spot by the boards, the gleam of the ice a cold contrast to the heat under my collar.
I roll my eyes but do as I'm told, plastering on a grin that feels more like a grimace. The photographer snaps away, the flash a staccato against my patience. Out of the corner of my eye, parents and kids begin to trickle into the stands, a colorful blur of excitement and anticipation.
And then I see her again—the woman with the chestnut hair—and my breath hitches. She's here, in the flesh, and as our gazes lock, there's a flicker of something on her face. Disgust? Disdain? It's gone before I can decipher it.
"Victor, chin up," Jenna instructs, oblivious to thesilent exchange. But her words are distant, drowned out by the sudden pounding of my heart. Chestnut, I think. That's what I'll call her until I learn her real name. Chestnut, who looks at me like I'm the villain in her story.
"Enough with the photos," Jenna declares, waving her hand dismissively at the photographer. "We don't need to turn Victor into a sideshow."