My Anonymous Boy

Jade

The ice rink is the only place in southern Florida where you can see your own breath.

It hangs in thin, ghostly plumes between the metal bleachers and the glare of the floodlights, dissolving against the roar of six thousand students screaming at the top of their lungs. The air smells like chilled moisture, popcorn salt, and the sharp bite of shaved ice whenever a skate cuts hard into the surface. Down on the ice, the Florida College crest gleams blue and gold beneath the scarred plexiglass, but from the third row behind the home bench, all anyone is looking at is number seven.

Cole.

He steals the puck at the blue line, his stride effortless, long and powerful. The arena rises in a deafening wave of noise, cowbells clattering and sneakers stomping against the aluminium floorboards. I stand with the rest of the student section, clapping my hands together in rhythm, pulling the sleeves of my oversized navy hoodie down over my palms to keep the chill away.

“Look at him,” Darcy yells into my ear, grinning as she shakes her shaker pom-pom. Her blonde curls bounce against her cheek, her Florida College crewneck cropped just above her high-waisted jeans. “God, your man really knows how to feed an ego, doesn’t he?”

I smile because I have to. It’s muscle memory by now—a soft, practised curve of my lips that looks proud and adoring from every angle. “He practised that breakaway all week,” I say, shouting over the horn that suddenly blares as Cole snaps a wrist shot clean past the goalie’s glove.

The red siren flashes. The arena erupts.

Cole slides backward on one skate, hands raised toward the ceiling, head tilted back in pure, unrestrained swagger. When he turns toward the student section, his grin is blinding—the golden-boy smile that had half the freshman class tripping over themselves two years ago. For a fleeting second, his hazel eyes sweep over the crowd, catching mine just long enough for the cameras on the jumbo screen to zoom in on me cheering for him.

Jade Evans, Cole Harrison’s girl.

Beside me, Lilia nudges my shoulder gently. Unlike Darcy, who is already standing on her toes trying to catch number twenty-two’s eye—Colin, who just slapped Cole on the helmet—Lilia is looking at me with those quiet, observant green eyes of hers.

“You okay?” Lilia asks beneath the roar of the goal song. “You’ve been quiet all evening.”

“Just freezing,” I lie, smoothing down the front of my black leggings. “You’d think after two years I’d remember to bring gloves.”

“You’re not just freezing, Jade,” Lilia says softly, but the crowd surges again as the referee drops the puck at centre ice, drowning her out.

I turn my gaze back to the rink, swallowing the tight ache that’s taken root at the base of my throat. It’s easier to watch the game than to explain the knot in my chest. It’s easier to let everyone believe that what they see from the stands is the truth: that Cole and I are the untouchable campus couple, the hockey star and the girl who sits in the front row with his jersey number painted on her cheek.

They don’t see the four days of unread texts sitting in my message log. They don’t hear the way his voice dropped flat and dead on Tuesday night when I asked if he wanted to get dinner before his morning skate, telling me I was suffocating him before hanging up without saying goodbye.

A sharp clatter of sticks against the boards jerks my attention back to the ice.

A defensive turnover sends the puck skittering back toward our zone. While Cole drifts near the blue line, waiting for another cherry-picked pass, number fourteen drops low, his edges digging deep into the ice as he cuts off a two-on-one rush from the opposing forwards.

Noah Clayton.

He doesn’t play with Cole’s flashy theatrics. He doesn’t showboat or look up at the stands after a clean hit. Noah plays with a quiet, lethal precision that usually goes unnoticed until you realise the other team hasn’t managed a clean shot on goal all period. Through the visor of his helmet, I can see the sharp line of his jaw and his dark chestnut hair plastered with sweat against his forehead. When he angles his broad shoulders to shield the puck, absorbing a heavy check against the glass with barely a flinch, the Plexiglas vibrates with a dull thud right in front of us.

Noah looks up just once as he clears the puck out of the zone.

His deep brown eyes meet mine through the glass. It lasts less than a heartbeat—just a split-second flicker of steady, grounded stillness in the middle of a chaotic rink—before he turns and skates hard to the bench for a line change.

My breath catches slightly in my throat.

I don’t know Noah Clayton. Not really. He’s Cole’s teammate, Cole’s linemate, and one of the quietest guys on the varsity roster. While Cole commands every room he walks into, surrounded by a loud entourage of frat brothers and cheerleaders, Noah usually sits at the edge of the locker room, his headphones on, minding his own business. In the two years Cole and I have been dating, I can count the number of words Noah and I have exchanged on one hand.

Yet every time I see him, a tiny, buried memory pricks at the back of my mind.

First semester, freshman year. The very first day on campus. I was carrying an armful of art supplies and a campus map I couldn’t read, completely lost outside the student union. I had tripped on the uneven kerb, sending charcoal pencils and sketch pads scattering across the hot concrete. A guy had stopped instantly, dropping to one knee to gather my charcoal before the wind could blow the loose sheets away. When he handed them back to me, his dark brown eyes had been so warm, his voice so quiet and genuine when he asked if I was okay, that my chest had hitched with a sudden, breathless spark.

We had stood there for five seconds in the Florida humidity, staring at each other. Then someone had shouted his name across the quad, and he was gone.

Two months later, Cole swept into my life at a Halloween mixer with his loud charm, his hockey jacket, and an intensity that felt like a whirlwind. By the time I realised Noah was on Cole’s team, Cole had already staked his claim, introducing me as his girl to the entire locker room. Noah had never brought up that morning on the quad. Neither had I. We simply existed on opposite sides of the room, strangers connected only by the guy wearing number seven.

The third-period buzzer sounds with a deafening blare. The scoreboard flashes 4–1. Florida College takes the win.

“Come on,” Darcy says, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the stairs as the crowd begins filing out toward the lobby. “Colin said they’re doing a quick team meeting, then we’re all heading to the house party on Maple.”

“I don’t know if Cole wants to go to Maple,” I say, navigating the concrete steps. “He said he was tired earlier this week.”

Darcy rolls her eyes playfully. “Please. Cole never misses a victory party. Especially not when he scored the game-winner.”

We push through the heavy double doors into the warmer air of the arena lobby. The high ceilings echo with the chatter of students, parents, and alumni waiting for the players to emerge from the locker room tunnel. Lilia pulls out her phone to check her reflection, while Darcy leans against the railing, eyes glued to the double doors where the team usually comes out.

I pull my phone from my back pocket. The screen is blank. No messages from Cole. No ‘meet me outside’ or ‘great game, see you in a minute.’ Just the same silence that has filled the space between us for the last three months.

I catch my reflection in the dark glass of the trophy case beside me. Straight, light-brown hair falling past my collarbones, pale skin washed out under the fluorescent lights, blue eyes that look too tired for a Friday night. I’m wearing the uniform of a girl who has completely forgotten how to dress for herself: Cole’s team hoodie, black leggings, and running shoes. Comfortable, plain, invisible.

“Here they come,” Darcy murmurs, perking up.

The doors swing open, and a wave of cologne, damp hair, and athletic tape rolls into the corridor. The hockey team pours out in their matching travel suits and backward caps, laughing loudly, high-fiving the students lining the walkway.

Cole is at the centre of the pack.

He looks effortless. His blond hair is pushed back, damp and curling at the nape of his neck, his navy team polo clinging to his broad chest. He’s grinning, soaking in the praise from two freshmen who lean over the railing to congratulate him. Right behind him, standing near the edge of the group, are the cheerleaders. Poppy and Claire are laughing at something Cole just said, while Imogen—a sophomore flyer with long platinum hair and a cropped varsity sweater—stands close enough that her shoulder brushes Cole’s bicep.

Cole doesn’t move away. He just laughs, tossing his car keys lightly from one hand to the other.

A cold trickle of dread slips down my spine. I step forward, pulling my hands out of my hoodie pockets. “Cole.”

He pauses, his smile dimming just a fraction as his hazel eyes land on me. It’s a micro-expression—one nobody else would ever notice—but after two years, I know every subtle twitch of his face. It’s the look he gives me when I interrupt him while he’s watching a film or when I call him during his afternoon nap.

Irritation.

“Hey, Jade,” he says, his tone casually polite, performing for the crowd around him. He takes two steps toward me but doesn’t reach for my hand. He doesn’t lean down to kiss my cheek. He just stands there, a foot of deliberate distance separating us. “Good game, right?”

“You played amazingly," I say softly, trying to bridge the gap. I reach out, my fingers lightly touching his forearm. “I was thinking maybe we could skip the first hour of the party? Just grab some food at the diner down the road. We haven’t really talked since Tuesday, and—”

Cole pulls his arm away, pretending to adjust the strap of his duffel bag.

His jaw tightens. He leans in, lowering his voice so only Darcy, Lilia, and the people immediately beside us can hear, but the sharpness in his tone cuts right through the lobby noise.

“Jade, seriously?” he whispers, his eyes hard. “We just won the conference opener. The whole team is going to Maple to celebrate, and you want me to sit in a booth eating pancakes like an old married couple?”

My face burns. “I just wanted twenty minutes with you, Cole. That’s all.”

“You’re doing that thing again,” he says, letting out a heavy, patronizing sigh that makes my stomach churn. He shakes his head, looking at me like I’m an unruly child making a scene. “You’re being clingy. You do this every time we have a big night. Why do you always have to be so desperate for attention the second I’m trying to enjoy myself with the guys?”

The word hits me like a slap. Desperate.

Darcy freezes beside me. Lilia’s jaw drops, her eyes flashing with instant anger. “Excuse me, Cole?” Lilia starts, taking a step forward, but I quickly catch her wrist, shaking my head.

I don’t want a scene. Not here. Not in front of Poppy and Claire, who are already watching us from five feet away with smug, amused smiles on their faces. Not in front of the entire student section.

“Forget it,” I whisper, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to keep it steady. “Go to the party.”

Cole rolls his eyes, as if my hurt is just another inconvenience he has to manage. “Don’t act like the victim, Jade. You can come to Maple if you want, but fix your attitude first. I don’t need you moping in the corner all night.”

He turns on his heel without waiting for an answer, walking back over to where Imogen is waiting. She tilts her head up at him, whispering something with a giggle, and Cole’s easy, charming smile returns instantly, as if the last two minutes never happened.

My chest feels completely hollow. I stand frozen in the middle of the crowded concourse, the hum of voices and laughter swirling around me like static.

A shadow falls across my shoulder.

I look up, blinking back the hot sting in my eyes.

Noah Clayton is walking past, his heavy hockey bag slung over one broad shoulder, a dark grey hoodie pulled over his wet hair. He’s alone, trailing a few paces behind Colin and Jacob. As he reaches the exit doors, he stops.

He looks at Cole, then his dark brown eyes shift to me.

There is no mockery in his expression. No pity, either. Just a quiet, heavy stillness. His gaze lingers on my face, taking in the pale shock in my eyes, the slight tremble in my hands tucked back into my pockets. For three long seconds, he just looks at me, as if he wants to say something—as if he’s holding back words that have been locked behind his teeth for far too long.

“Clayton!” Colin calls from the double doors, holding them open. “You riding with us or what?”

Noah blinks, breaking the connection. He looks back at Colin, nods once, and pushes through the glass doors into the humid Florida night without a word.

“Jade,” Darcy says softly, her voice uncharacteristically gentle as she puts a hand on my back. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m going back to my dorm,” I say, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.

“You don’t have to be alone,” Lilia insists, her eyes full of worry. “Come stay at our place. We can order food, watch a movie—”

“I just want to sleep,” I lie, forcing the ghost of a smile back onto my face. “I’m just tired.”

Ten minutes later, I’m sitting in the front seat of my beat-up Civic in the arena parking lot. The stadium lights hum overhead, casting long, stark shadows across the asphalt as cars peel out toward the campus bars, bass rattling their trunks.

I rest my forehead against the steering wheel and close my eyes.

The silence inside the car is suffocating. It isn’t just that Cole dismissed me tonight. It isn’t just the cruel sting of him calling me clingy in front of his teammates. It’s the terrifying, quiet realization that has been creeping up on me for months, one ignored call and one cold shoulder at a time.

I am completely, entirely alone in this relationship.

I’ve spent two years bending myself in half, shrinking my needs, keeping quiet, and smiling for the crowd, all to keep a boy who looks through me like I’m made of glass.

I lift my head, staring at the empty passenger seat. My hands are shaking as I pull my phone from my pocket, the glare of the screen illuminating the dark interior of the car. There are no texts. No calls. Just the cold glow of a glass screen.

I take a deep, shuddering breath, my thumb hovering over the app store.

I need an escape. I need someone—anyone—who will listen to me without calling me desperate for simply wanting to exist.