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The whispers would start soon enough.

How did Evans get so close to Callahan?

How reckless was he to let this happen?

It didn’t matter that she had earned her place. People would talk. People would assume. And Chambers? He’d be watching even closer now.

The thought made my fists clench, a sick heat burning under my skin.

Beneath the pride, something dark twisted in my gut, coiling tighter with every breath. I should’ve felt victorious—this was what she wanted, what I pushed her toward. The jersey. The recognition. The shot at Team USA.

But all I could think about was what happened after.

Once she got that jersey—once she made it—what the hell would I be?

A mistake she outgrew? A memory that faded the higher she climbed? Or worse, a secret she buried beneath medals and headlines?

I shook my head, trying to shove the thoughts down, but they latched on like barbs, ripping into me.

I had pushed Iris harder than anyone else. I made her fight. I made her bleed for this. And now? Now that she had it, I was the one terrified.

Because the more she succeeded, the more I felt it—the inevitability of her slipping through my fingers.

She wouldn’t need me then. She’d have teammates who looked at her like a rising star, coaches who would praise her, fans who would chant her name. She would be surrounded by people who could offer her everything—a future untainted by me, by us, by the wreckage I carried with me wherever I fucking went.

I turned away from the bulletin board, my teeth grinding together as I swallowed down the bitter taste of jealousy, of fear, of something far worse—the sick, gnawing realization that I might have just set her free.

And wasn’t that the whole point?

I should have been happy for her. I was happy for her.

But then why did every muscle in my body scream at me to drag her back into my orbit? To pull her close one last time, to kiss her like a goddamn brand, like a scar she’d never be able to erase?

Because if she walked away now—if she soared into that bright future without looking back—what did any of this mean?

What the hell was I supposed to be without her?

The buzz of excitement grew as players crowded the board, murmurs of congratulations filling the space. I stayed rooted where I was, watching as Iris walked toward us, shoulders squared, that signature confidence radiating off her like a pulse.

Her teammates swarmed her, drawn to her light like moths to a flame.

And I stood there, heart hammering, knowing—she belonged here.

But I wasn’t sure if I did anymore.

“All right,” Coach Callahan said. “Let’s focus on practice, yeah?”

The team trickled onto the ice, and I followed, forcing myself into professional mode. Cold. Detached. The way I was supposed to be.

Skates cut into the surface, the sharp scrape of blades filling the rink. I ran them through drills—clean, efficient, with no wasted movement. No extra pushes. No edge. Just another practice.

But every time my eyes landed on her, that tight knot in my gut twisted harder.

She moved like she was carved from ice and fire, slicing through the rink with a ruthless grace that made my chest ache. Her focus was locked in, razor-sharp, as if nothing outside the game existed. As if I didn’t exist.

I waited for it—the glance, the smirk, the stolen moment that would tell me last night hadn’t been some fever dream. That she still felt it too.

But it never came.