Page 6

SEBASTIAN

T he rink always clears too fast after practice.

Out there, everything makes sense. My body knows what to do. Hit. Skate. Breathe. There’s clarity in motion. In noise. In the burn in my legs and the ice under my blades. I don’t have to think—I just am .

But off the ice?

Everything blurs.

The focus. The purpose. The sense of who I am.

Thoughts crowd in. Noise that used to be background turns sharp. And the things I’ve buried—the shit I’ve locked down—start to claw their way back up.

Kane falls in beside me in the tunnel, shaking out his shoulder. “Slade’s getting faster,” he says. “Still dumb as hell, but faster.”

“Needs to be,” I grunt. “He’s managed to piss off half the league with that mouth.”

Kane snorts. “Including you.”

I grunt in agreement.

We keep walking, and the adrenaline starts to drain. My legs are wrecked. Chest still tight from the last sprint. It’s the good kind of ache—the kind that settles into your bones and quiets everything else. No thoughts. No noise. Just that clean, earned exhaustion.

For a second, I feel like I can breathe.

And then I see her.

Olivia’s near the staff exit, her back to me. Arms wrapped around herself—not defensive, just...still. Too still. She’s talking to Coach, who’s watching her closely, his expression tight. Concerned. Like he knows something I don’t.

He squeezes her shoulder before she turns and starts toward the doors. Her gaze stays down, shoulders missing that usual edge of confidence. No sharp lines. No steady calm. Just something...off.

Her steps falter—like she feels me watching. She glances over her shoulder.

That’s when I see her face.

Fuck.

There’s a bruise blooming across her cheekbone. A cut splitting her bottom lip. Swelling along her jaw, angry and uneven.

Everything in me locks up. Then ignites.It’s like something tears loose inside me. Every calm thought I had on the ice snaps.

The hallway stretches between us, but I cut the distance fast—pulse loud in my ears, every step heavier than the last. My imagination’s already running wild. What the hell happened to her? A fall? An accident?

Or something worse.

Something I’ll want to break someone for.

Her eyes find mine, wide at first—then narrowing slightly. Her shoulders draw back. Chin lifts just a fraction. Calm on the outside, but I can see it—the way she steels herself. Like she’s gearing up to deal with me.

“I’m fine, Sebastian,” she says quietly. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Well, it looks pretty fucking bad.”

The bruises are fresh, skin darkening beneath her eye and along her cheekbone. The cut on her lip is still open, swollen. Her jaw’s puffy—the kind of swelling that says it hurts to talk.

And she’s standing there like it’s nothing. Like I’m supposed to look at that face and believe her.

“What happened?” I demand, low and hard.

I don’t know why it hits me like this. Why I feel like I’d put someone through a wall just for touching her. I tell myself I’d feel the same if it were someone else—one of the trainers, a teammate’s wife, anyone on staff.

But that’s a lie.

Because it’s not someone else. It’s her.

And seeing her like this—banged up and trying to act like it’s nothing—does something to me. Something I don’t fucking like. Something I don’t know how to shut off.

“It happened fast. I handled it. I’m okay now.” Her voice is steady, but her hand lifts—fingertips brushing the cut on her lip. She winces.

That’s when I notice.

The ring she’s always fidgeting with, like it grounds her?—

Gone.

And suddenly my thoughts are spiraling.

Was it her husband?

Did he put his hands on her?

Did she finally take it off because of him? Or did he rip it off before he left a mark?

The rage that coils in my gut is sharp. Immediate.

I shouldn’t care. Not like this.

But fuck, I do.

“Did he do that to you?” The words come out sharp. Feral. Dangerous.And instantly, I want to take them back—or at least soften them. But it’s too late.

Her brows pull together. “What?”

Before I can push again, Kane steps up beside me, brow furrowed. “Ouch.”

Olivia offers him a small smile. “Just a run-in with a very angry sidewalk. You should see the other guy.”

Kane huffs a laugh, but it’s as uncertain as I feel. “You alright, though?”

“Been worse.” Her voice lifts, light enough to pass for a joke. But when she tries to smile wider, it pulls at the cut on her lip. She flinches and presses her hand to it. “I’m heading home. Taking a few days off. I’ll be back when I don’t look like Quasimodo.”

Kane actually laughs at that. And it crawls under my skin. There’s nothing funny about her standing there bruised and pretending it’s fine.

"Get some rest," Kane offers.

"Thanks." She glances at me—quick, unreadable—and then turns to leave.

And I can’t let her go. Not yet.

“Wait.” I reach out, my fingers wrapping around her wrist, light, but deliberate. Just enough to make her still.

She freezes.

Then slowly, her eyes lift to mine.

Everything around us fades. The hallway noise, Kane shifting beside me, the faint hum of skate sharpeners echoing from the equipment room. All of it drops away.

Her pulse is quick under my fingers. Or maybe it’s mine.

And hell if I don’t want to pull her in—wrap her up and shield her from whatever the fuck did this.

I search for something to say. Some string of words that’ll make it better. Make it right.

But nothing comes.

Just the weight of her pain sitting in my chest like it belongs to me.

I want to fix it. Take it from her. Break whatever put it there. But I can't even string a few comforting words together.

"If you need..." My thumb moves over the inside of her wrist—slow, steady.I don’t even realize I’m doing it, until I feel her pulse quicken. I stop, shake my head. "Fuck, I don’t know." The words scrape out of me. "If you need anything..."

She blinks, takes a breath that falters just slightly. "Thanks."

For a second, she pauses like she wants to say more. Like maybe she needs to. But all she does is pull her hand free—gentle, trembling—and step back.

Whatever I just did... maybe I made it worse.

She doesn’t look at me again, just nods at Kane.“I’ll see both you next week."

And then she’s gone.

I watch her walk away—busted lip, missing ring, the shape of her name still caught in my throat. I fucking hate that I can’t do anything about it. Not without crossing a line I’ve already started leaning over.

Kane’s still standing beside me. I can feel him watching me, probably trying to figure out why the hell I’m acting like this is personal. Maybe because it is.

After a beat, he mutters, “What the fuck was that?”

I don’t answer.

I just stand there, fists clenched at my sides, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of my ribs.

And fuck if I don’t want to break someone’s face for it.