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The cold in the rink hits different when I’ve already been embarrassed in front of the entire team before coffee. Virgil already stomped off, muttering about OSHA violations and emotional trauma, and now we’re lacing up for morning skate while trying to act like that little love note on a fifteen foot tall sign wasn’t the highlight of everyone’s week.

Boone’s the first to crack. “Okay, but real talk—who do you think’s doing it?”

I tug my practice jersey over my head. “Madeline. Or Harper. Even Pru. They’re the obvious choices. They totally want me to do well. If it helps the Slammers organization, it helps everyone.”

The room goes still for one stunned beat, then Shep barks a laugh. “What? Madeline? Our TikTok queen?”

“Yeah. Madeline. Or Harper. Or Pru. Probably the threesome. It could even be Britt in a pinch.”

Shep makes a ‘Y’ with his arms. “A marketing threesome? Sign me up! Woooooo!”

Holden stutters to a stop. “Mention my wife and the wordthreesomein the same sentence again, and I’ll pop you in the jaw.”

“Wait.” Bennett stops mid-sip of his protein shake, cap still dangling in his hand. “You thinkPru—the woman who can’tbe bothered to return my emails about important meetings with Franklin—is up on a ladder in the middle of the night rearranging letters on a rusty-ass minor league arena sign?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Makes perfect sense. Contract negotiations. Publicity push. Building my image. You know, brand awareness.”

“Holy shit,” Boone mutters from the corner. “He’s serious.”

Gage spins toward me on the bench like he’s watching a nature documentary. “Bro, I love you. I do. But you think Britt—who once sent a cease-and-desist to a fan for naming their cat after Heath—is up there with Madeline in a ski mask and bolt cutters?”

“Could be,” I say, tugging on my gloves. “You saw the sign. It’s good press. And those four are all in charge of my press.”

Heath, tying his skates with his usual grim determination, snorts. “Brogan, my guy. This isn’t a PR campaign. This is acrush. Someone has it bad.”

“I don’t have a secret admirer,” I shoot back. “I have a marketing team.”

Bennett chokes on his shake. “Yourmarketing teamloves you so much they’re risking felony trespass for heart emojis and amooooood?”

“Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing I’ve seen this season.”

Shep claps me on the back like I just admitted I believe in Sasquatch. “I want a sign,” he declares. “My contract’s not even up till next year, but I want in on this action. Preferably something with glitter. Maybe a spray-painted abs outline. As soon as practice ends, I’m going up to the front office.”

Gage deadpans, “I’ll start a petition to get you a mirror.”

I roll my eyes. “Look, I’m just saying—if itissomeone doing the admirer thing, they picked a really inconvenient time. I’m already stressed about this contract.”

Ben leans back against the lockers. “Maybe the sign’s not foryour contract. Maybe it’s for your ego.”

I freeze. Because damn. That hits a little too close.

But I recover fast. “Whatever. I’m just saying—if they’re trying to get my attention, they’re doing a great job. It’s working. Mission accomplished.”

Shep raises a hand. “Cool. So... we agree I’m getting a sign next, right?”

The second my blades hit the ice, I expect the chaos in my head to melt away, like it always does.

It doesn’t.

I skate a lap—hard, fast, pushing my legs till they burn—but the sign is still there in my mind. Huge. Looming. Half the letters missing, half the town confused, and all of it whispering one name I keep trying not to think about.

Joely.

She was weird last night. Not like normal-weird. Like guilty-weird. Like “I climbed the sign and declared my secret undying love in Helvetica Bold” weird.

But I shake it off, force myself to swallow the thought. Joely’s never been one for showy declarations. Not her style. She loves in the margins—quiet, steady, the kind of girl who slips a coffee into your hand on a bad morning, not one who risks frostbite and a trespassing charge just to spray-paint her feelings where the whole damn world can see.

I want it to be her so bad it hurts, but the truth is, Joely Parnell doesn’t do grand gestures. Not for me. Not for anyone. And maybe that’s the real reason this is eating me alive—I can’t stop hoping, even when I know better.