Page 134

My pulse hammered in my throat as I imagined it unraveling—whispers in the locker room, questions hanging in the air like a noose. If anyone figured us out, if the wrong person caught wind of what we’d done, it wouldn’t just cost Iris her shot at Team USA. It would cost me everything.

She shrugged again, not saying anything. Not trusting herself.

I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. She was lying. Covering. But not well enough.

Brooke’s eyes narrowed, laser-focused on the cracks forming right in front of her. “So then what’s with all those late-night practices with Callahan? You sure he isn’t giving you more than just coaching advice?”

The air in the rink fucking vanished.

My fingers curled into fists at my sides as tension coiled in my gut, hot and suffocating. The way she said my name like that—so goddamn casual—sent a slow, burning fury through me.

I didn’t even think before I snapped.

“Just focus on your own game.” My voice came out sharp, clipped, a little too defensive. Too obvious.

Both girls turned toward me. Fuck.

Iris’s eyes locked onto mine, wide with something that looked like both embarrassment and anger. Brooke’s smirk only deepened, like she’d just cracked open a mystery she hadn’t even meant to solve.

“What’s got you so riled up?” she teased, head tilting, voice laced with amusement. "It was just a joke."

I clenched my teeth. Fucking hell.

“Even jokes have consequences, Wittaker,” I bit out, every muscle in my body wound tight enough to snap.

But Iris knew better. She knew me.

Her gaze flickered between us, calculating, like she was trying to figure out just how much longer this game could go on before someone got burned.

I ran them into the ground. Not just Iris—everyone.

Drills were brutal, relentless, a storm of exhaustion and grit. My whistle cut through the rink like a goddamn whip, sharp enough to slice through the tension coiling in my chest. I needed this. Needed the control. The discipline. The punishing rhythm of laps and sprints and drills that had nothing to do with strategy and everything to do with me trying to outrun my own goddamn thoughts.

“Faster! Push it!” My voice echoed off the boards, rough and merciless. They obeyed—they always did. Skates carved into the ice, breaths came sharp and ragged, muscles strained to keep up with my demands. Good. If I couldn’t get my head straight, then at least I could burn the chaos out of them.

But inside? I was fucking unraveling.

Chambers knew something. I felt it. The way he watched Iris with that smug, knowing smirk—it set my teeth on edge. He was waiting, circling, biding his time until he could sink his teeth into the truth.

And Brooke? Too fucking perceptive. Her eyes had narrowed when I got too close to Iris, like she was already piecing things together. Like she saw something no one else was supposed to. The whispers were coming—I could feel them creeping in, threatening to dismantle everything before I had the chance to figure out what the hell I was even doing.

And then there was my dad’s voice in the back of my mind, low and unshakable:

Don’t ruin her.

Too fucking late.

I’d already crossed the line, already let her slip beneath my skin, claw her way into parts of me I didn’t even know were still alive. And now? She was under my control on this ice, but off it? She was everywhere.

Her mother left her at fifteen. Walked out like she was nothing. That kind of abandonment left scars. Deep ones. And now she had me—the last person who should be holding her together. Because I knew myself.

I destroyed things.

I fucking ruined them.

I forced my focus back to practice, forcing every second into the rhythm of drills and the sound of skates biting into ice. Iris skated past me, and for just a second, I saw it—that flicker of doubt.

I snapped.