Chapter 1
The sound of Lana Del Rey flooded through my headphones as I glided across the ice, the music drowning out everything except the sharp scrape of my blades carving into the rink.
For a few seconds, I could almost pretend I was alone.
No pressure. No expectations. No Anastasia.
“Evie!”
Too late.
I landed my combination badly, the edge wobbling beneath me before I forced myself upright. Ice sprayed across the rink as I came to a stop near the boards.
Coach Anastasia Doburk stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, disappointment already written across her face.
“What was that?”
I tugged one AirPod free. “You mean my triple lutz, triple toe?”
Her expression flattened.
“Leg bent. Arms lazy. Landing weak.”
I exhaled sharply, my breath fogging in the freezing air.
Five and a half hours on the ice and somehow she still expected perfection.
Anastasia skated closer, blades cutting hard against the ice. “Penelope lands cleaner than that.”
I blinked. “Your nine-year-old daughter?”
“She has discipline.”
I muttered something under my breath that would probably get me banned from international competition if she heard it.
“Again,” Anastasia snapped. “And this time, Evie, skate like you want to be here.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because six months ago, I would have killed to be here. Three weeks ago, people online were still calling me the future of American figure skating.
Now I wasn’t even sure I still liked the ice beneath my feet.
I pushed off anyway.
The music shifted in my ears as my competition program started, familiar enough to feel stitched into my bones. My navy training dress glittered beneath the overhead lights every time I turned, rhinestones scattering fractured light across the rink.
This routine used to feel effortless.
Now it felt like survival.
I built speed slowly. Crossovers. Edge change. Outside edge. Arms in.
Triple axel.
The world blurred.
One rotation.
Two.
Three—
My blade hit the ice perfectly.
Relief slammed through me so fast it almost hurt.
“Yes,” I breathed.
A tiny spark of pride flickered in my chest.
Then—
“Toes flat, Evie!”
Of course.
I dropped my head with a groan.
“I landed it.”
“You survived it,” Anastasia corrected coldly. “There is difference.”
God forbid she ever sounded impressed.
Still, as she stopped beside me, she pulled a bottle from her bag and tossed it toward me without looking.
Electrolytes.
“Drink something before you pass out on my ice,” she muttered.
The concern was buried so deeply beneath irritation I almost missed it.
Almost.
She checked the time on her phone before pulling her gloves tighter. “Five-thirty tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”
Then she skated off.
I stood alone at center ice, breathing hard while the music faded into silence.
The rink suddenly felt too big.
Too familiar.
I double-tapped my AirPod, letting another song fill the quiet as I drifted slowly across the ice. The cold burned through my lungs while exhaustion settled deep into my bones.
Back home for two weeks and already it felt like I’d slipped backward into an older version of myself.
Same rink.
Same pressure.
Same impossible expectations.
Same people pretending not to notice the bruises I came home wearing.
I spun into a Biellmann, pulling my skate high above my head as the world twisted around me in dizzy blurs of light. My muscles screamed in protest, but I held the position anyway.
Pain meant you were still pushing.
Still fighting.
Still worth something.
The slam of arena doors echoed through the rink.
Voices flooded in.
Loud. Cocky. Chaotic.
Hockey players.
I dropped my leg instantly and turned toward the entrance just as the Lake Forest Tigers stormed onto the ice like they owned the damn place.
Which, to be fair, they probably thought they did.
My stomach tightened when half the team slowed.
Watching me.
Fantastic.
Whistles echoed across the rink.
“Careful, princess, you’re making the rest of us look bad.”
“Think she can teach us that spin?”
I rolled my eyes and pushed toward the exit.
Typical.
I’d almost reached the boards when someone skated directly into my path.
Fast.
Too fast.
My body reacted before my brain could.
I jerked backward instinctively, pulse spiking hard enough to make me dizzy.
The player stopped inches from me.
Tall. Black practice jersey. Number seven. Restless energy radiated off him even standing still, like he was permanently wound too tight beneath the surface. One glove hung from his mouth while he tightened the strap on the other, dark hair flattened unevenly beneath his helmet.
His brown eyes locked onto mine without apology.
Weston Gray.
Of course.
The entire rink revolved around Weston freaking Gray.
Not that being the son of Daniel Gray—NHL legend, professional asshole, and apparently the second coming of hockey according to half this town—helped his ego.
Captain of the Lake Forest Tigers.
Campus god with skates.
Walking anger management issue.
“You always practice alone?” he asked, pulling the glove from between his teeth.
His voice was rougher than I expected.
I tightened my grip on my skate guards. “You always nearly run people over?”
One corner of his mouth lifted.
“Only when they drift into hockey territory.”
I let out a humorless laugh. “Cute.”
The guys behind him snickered.
Weston didn’t move.
Up close, he was worse somehow. Too confident. The kind of guy who took up space without trying.
The kind of guy I usually avoided.
“Evie.”
Aaron’s voice cut through the tension as he skated over.
My brother pulled off his helmet, glaring between us. “West, quit terrorizing my sister.”
Weston looked back at me. “Sister?”
“That explains the attitude,” he muttered.
I smiled sweetly. “And you being Aaron’s teammate explains the lack of brain cells.”
Aaron barked out a laugh while the rest of the team groaned dramatically.
But his eyes flicked toward me immediately after.
Quick. Automatic.
Checking.
Only once he registered that I looked relaxed did his shoulders loosen slightly.
“Practice starts in five, Gray,” Aaron warned, nudging Weston’s shoulder as he skated past. “Coach already wants your head after yesterday.”
Weston shrugged like getting screamed at by authority figures was a hobby.
“Maybe coach should recruit players who can keep up.”
“You punched Walsh yesterday.”
“He cross-checked me first.”
“You still punched him.”
Weston only smirked.
But something sharp flickered beneath it for half a second. Irritation. Defensiveness. Something hotter than arrogance.
Then it disappeared.
Like he’d spent years learning how to lock it down fast.
Aaron sighed like this conversation exhausted him daily. “One NHL scout shows up and suddenly you lose the ability to act human.”
Weston’s jaw tightened instantly.
There.
A crack in the armor.
Small, but real.
“Maybe if they stopped acting like I’m my father every five seconds, I wouldn’t,” he snapped.
The rink went quiet for exactly one beat.
Then Weston laughed suddenly, easy and careless, like the edge in his voice had never happened at all.
Aaron shook his head. “Therapy. Seriously.”
Weston ignored him completely.
Instead, his gaze dropped briefly to my wrist.
To the thin silver scar peeking beneath the sleeve of my training jacket.
My stomach twisted.
I tugged the sleeve down immediately.
Something in his expression shifted.
Not pity.
Worse.
Awareness.
“Try not to flirt with my sister long enough to survive drills,” Aaron added.
A chorus of oooohs echoed around the rink.
Weston still didn’t look away from me. “This flirting?”
“Trust me,” I deadpanned, stepping around him, “if you were flirting, I’d be deeply concerned for the female population.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
God. He was annoying.
I pushed through the gate before he could answer, my guards clicking against the concrete as I headed toward the locker rooms. The second the heavy door shut behind me, the noise of the rink dulled into a muffled blur.
Only then did I finally breathe properly.
My pulse still hadn’t settled.
It wasn’t Weston.
It was the way my body still reacted when someone moved toward me too fast.
The locker room sat empty except for the buzz of fluorescent lights overhead. I dropped onto the wooden bench in front of my locker with a groan, slowly pulling off my skates.
My entire body ached.
The kind of ache that settled deep into your bones after years of overtraining and pretending you were fine.
I tugged my hoodie over my head before checking my phone.
Five unread texts.
Amie: Why does your brother suddenly look like an NHL thirst edit???
Amie: Actually forget Aaron.
Amie: WHO is Captain Brooding and why does he look like he ruins lives for fun???
Amie: Please tell me you’re coming tonight.
I snorted softly despite myself.
Amie had operated at maximum volume since the age of twelve.
Another message appeared before I could answer.
Jack: Missed training. Anastasia homicidal?
Evie: You missed lifts rehearsal AGAIN. She nearly killed me.
Jack: Worth it?
Evie: No.
Jack: Damn.
Jack: You eat yet?
My chest tightened unexpectedly.
That question shouldn’t have hit so hard anymore.
Jack had asked it almost every day since Colorado.
Since the hotel hallway.
Since he’d found me sitting on the bathroom floor shaking so hard I couldn’t breathe properly, blood drying beneath my lip while I lied through my teeth and told him I’d slipped.
He’d never once said he believed me.
I stared at the screen for a second too long before typing back.
Evie: Working on it mom.
Jack: You’re mean when you’re sleep deprived.
Evie: I’m mean all the time.
Jack: True.
A laugh escaped me quietly before I could stop it.
I locked my phone and leaned back against the locker, exhaustion washing over me all at once.
Two weeks home and everything already felt too tight.
Too loud.
Too close.
At qualifiers, there had always been distractions. Flights. Interviews. Cameras. Crowds.
Here, there was nothing to hide behind.
Just me and the silence.
A sharp whistle echoed faintly from the rink outside followed by shouting.
Then cheering.
Curiosity pulled me to my feet before I could stop myself.
I moved toward the viewing window overlooking the ice just as the Tigers launched into a scrimmage.
The energy difference between hockey and figure skating always gave me whiplash.
Figure skating was calculated perfection.
Hockey was controlled violence.
Weston fit it perfectly.
I spotted him instantly weaving through players with terrifying speed, jersey hanging loose over broad shoulders while he stole the puck from another player like it was effortless.
Cocky asshole.
The second he slammed the puck into the net, the arena erupted.
Even during practice.
Weston lifted his stick briefly while teammates shouted around him, confidence radiating off him so naturally it was almost irritating.
Then another player slammed hard into him near the boards.
Weston shoved him back instantly.
Not playful.
Automatic.
Aggressive enough that the coach immediately blew his whistle.
The switch happened fast.
One second Weston was grinning.
The next his entire body sharpened into something harder.
Meaner.
Then it vanished just as quickly.
Aaron skated over, shoving Weston hard enough to nearly send him off balance.
Weston just laughed like nothing happened.
Like anger was something he swallowed so often it no longer even registered.
Then his head turned toward the viewing window.
Toward me.
Our eyes locked from across the rink.
And stupidly—ridiculously—it felt exactly like standing too close to the edge of something dangerous.
He lifted one eyebrow slowly.
Like he’d caught me watching.
Heat crawled up my neck instantly.
I flipped him off through the glass.
His grin widened.
Oh, I already hated him.
