Chapter 66
Landon
The screen flickers before it settles into view, Lakelyn’s face dominating the frame, all bright eyes and messy auburn curls. She’s on her bed, feet kicked up behind her, chewing gum in a way that makes me suspicious right off the bat.
“About time,” she says, her voice full of mischief. “Chad and I were about to file a missing persons report.”
Chad leans into the frame behind her, sipping from a mug that probably says something idiotic like Omega Fuel. “We just wanted to see your face. Been too long. Mason said you’ve been dodging his calls.”
“Hey, I’ve been busy,” I say, sinking onto the worn couch in my temporary apartment. “Training a bunch of betas and trying not to screw up my second chance at life.”
Lakelyn narrows her eyes. “Second chance? Or second chance with her?”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it. Lakelyn sees it immediately, because of course she does. She’s my twin. Knows every twitch of my face as if it’s her own.
“I’m not gonna screw this up again,” I say quietly. “Not with her.”
Chad and Lakelyn trade a glance—quick, subtle, but there. They’d been waiting for me to say it. They already knew.
“Well damn,” Chad murmurs, rubbing his jaw. “He’s serious.”
Lakelyn grins, sitting up straighter. “Took you long enough to grow a brain.”
“Thanks for the support,” I mutter.
She leans in slightly, her tone turning more gentle. “You were always the one who ran first, Lan. But if you’re saying it’s real this time...I believe you.”
“I am.”
There’s silence for a beat, the kind that means more than words.
Lakelyn tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “So…when are you coming home?”
“I’m not.”
Her brows lift.
“Not until she knows I’m not walking away again. Not until I prove it’s not just words this time.”
Chad lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Willow doesn’t stand a chance.”
I smile, small but certain. “She already knocked me on my ass. I’m just trying to be worthy of standing beside her again.”
“Good for her, you deserve anything she puts you through,” Chad replies. “But I’ve talked to her, and it doesn’t look good for you.”
I sigh, tugging my fingers through my hair. “I sent her ten dozen carnations.”
Chad raises a brow at me through the screen. “Trying to bribe her back into love with a funeral arrangement?”
Lakelyn smacks his arm with a roll of her eyes. “Chad.”
“What? Ten dozen is a lot of flowers,” he says, shrugging. “Might as well have sent her a petal avalanche.”
I huff a quiet laugh, even though my chest still feels tight. “And some derby gloves,” I add, softer now. “Hers are old.”
Lakelyn’s expression shifts in an instant. Her blue eyes, matching mine, fill with something warm and knowing, the kind of look only a sister gives. “See, that’s sweet. That shows you see her.”
Chad leans in and presses a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, and finally her lips. “He’s learning,” he murmurs between kisses. “Took him long enough.”
She laughs, resting her head on his shoulder, looking content in a way that punches straight through my ribs. Not with jealousy, just the ache of knowing what I almost had. What I threw away.
Chad looks back at the screen. “We gotta head out. Dinner with my mom. And apparently, Lakelyn needs an hour to choose an outfit.”
“I’m coordinating colors,” she says, mock-offended.
“You’re coordinating war strategies,” Chad mutters, kissing her again before glancing back at me.
“Look…Willow deserves the world. And you hurt her before. If you’re serious, you need to keep showing up, show her you’re there to stay.
Don’t stop. Even if it hurts. Even if you get your ass handed to you.
Because if you hurt her again, you’ll be disowned. ”
My jaw tightens. “I won’t.”
He nods once. And then the screen goes dark.
I lean back into the couch, phone resting against my chest, and stare up at the ceiling as if it has the answers.
The apartment is too quiet. I can’t stay here any longer. Practice isn’t for another hour, but I shove my feet into my shoes and grab my duffle and keys before heading to the rink. Maybe I can get some laps in. Work off some of this restless energy.
The rink is empty when I get there.
The kind of quiet that hums in your bones.
Just the overhead lights buzzing and the distant sound of traffic outside the old roll-up doors. I tug off my hoodie, lace my skates, and step onto the rink without music, without fans, without noise. Just me and the track.
I push hard into the first few laps, building speed. The rhythm of it soothes something raw. Muscles burn, lungs tighten, sweat beads along my spine, finally, something that makes sense. Something that hurts the way it should.
I'm halfway through another lap when the door clicks open.
I don’t look at first.
But I know it’s her. There is a pull inside my chest that tells me before even seeing her. A constant reminder that she’s my scent match.
She drops her duffel bag and snags out her skates, slipping off her tennis shoes and replacing them with her wheels. I do another lap as she silently prepares to come out on the rink. She didn’t say hi; hell, she probably didn’t even look in my direction.
I slow instinctively, coasting along the curve of the rink as she steps on. Her long legs are fluid and sure. Her pink hair’s tucked under a beanie, two pigtails sticking out, not caring how ridiculous she looks. Slouchy sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, helmet still on the bench. Pads in place.
But it’s the gloves that catch my eye.
Black with pink accents. Reinforced palms. Her name stitched into the wrist.
The ones I had delivered this morning.
She doesn’t look at me, but she knows I’ve seen them.
“Hey,” I offer, skating backward to match her approach. “You came early.”
“Wanted some extra laps,” she says, adjusting her wrist guards like they need more attention than they do.
My gaze drops to her hands.
“Do you like them?” I ask.
Her fingers curl slightly, just enough to press into the palms. Her eyes flick up to mine—then drop again.
“I do,” she says softly.
It’s just two words. But they mean everything. I want to say more. Ask her if she wore them because she knew I’d be here. If she misses me the way I miss her.
But I don’t push.
I skate beside her in silence, matching her pace. My eyes find one of her guys on the side of the rink, top row of the bleachers, silently watching us. I’m pretty sure it’s Graham. He doesn’t pretend not to watch us. I’m pretty sure he wants me to know he’s there. I swallow and clear my throat.
“Did you get the flowers?”
A small smile tries to pull at her lips. “I did.”
I press my lips together, holding back a smile of my own. “They are the start of the real apology that I owe you.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps skating—one, two, three more strides—before glancing sideways at me.
“They were dramatic,” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice. “You trying to win me back or start a florist side hustle?”
Relief kicks in, light and dizzying. “Only if the florist specializes in second chances,” I say, eyes locked on her face. “Was it too much?”
She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t skate away. And that feels big.
She lets out a soft breath that’s almost a laugh. “Maybe. But…it was you. In a ‘crash-through-the-door, bury-me-in-carnations’ kind of way.”
My grin escapes before I can stop it. “I don’t really do subtle.”
“No,” she says, and this time she’s smiling too. “You don’t.”
She holds my gaze for half a beat longer than necessary. It’s not forgiveness. Not even close. But it’s something.
And right now, I’ll take anything she’s willing to give.
The silence between us hums louder than the overhead lights.
I wait for her to pull back, to shut me out again, but she doesn’t.
She just keeps skating, the straps of the gloves catching the light with every push.
She keeps pace with me, our skates landing in sync, as though we’ve always moved around the rink together.
My heart pounds in my chest as the hope grows inside of me.
I shouldn’t look. But I do.
Her slouchy sweatshirt slips as she rounds the curve, revealing the soft slope of her shoulder—and something else.
A mark.
Faint. Fresh.
But I’d know what it means anywhere.
My chest tightens. I falter for half a beat, barely catching myself. She doesn’t glance back. Or maybe she’s giving me space to catch my breath.
I force my voice steady. “You got a new tattoo?”
Her mouth tugs just slightly at the corners, but there’s tension too. “No.”
I already knew that. But hearing it out loud makes it real.
“So…” I try, careful, the air suddenly thinner. “You let them?”
She coasts to a smooth stop at the edge of the rink. I follow, a little slower, feeling like I’ve stepped into a conversation I’m not ready for, but one I can’t avoid.
“Let them what?” she asks, eyes steady on mine.
My stomach twists. I know she’s not being cruel, just honest. She’s always been good at peeling back my layers, making me name the things I’m afraid of.
“Claim you,” I say.
She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t flinch.
“Yeah,” she says, quiet but sure. “I did.”
There’s no sharp edge to it. No intention to wound. Just the truth.
“I love them,” she adds after a second. “They see all the messy parts of me, and they didn’t hesitate.”
I nod slowly, trying to swallow the sting in my throat. “You deserve that.”
She glides a little closer, not enough to touch, but enough that I can feel the warmth of her again. Her gaze softens as she looks at me.
“I’m not saying this to hurt you,” she says. “But I need you to know...it doesn’t mean I stopped feeling what I feel for you.”
That one sentence hits harder than any confession.
“I don’t know what it is,” she continues, shifting her weight slightly on her skates. “If it’s just biology pulling at me…or if it’s something more. But you’re still in there, Landon. Somewhere in the mess inside my heart.”
My breath catches. She doesn’t owe me this. And yet, she’s giving it anyway.
“I guess part of me is still trying to figure out if I fell for you because you are my scent match…or if I just fell.”
I can’t speak. I don’t trust my voice not to crack wide open.
She gives me one last look—soft, unsure, open—and pushes off again, skating back into motion. But she leaves me there, standing still, with something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Hope.
I watch her glide away, the rhythm of her movements easy, practiced. Like nothing in the world could touch her here. And maybe nothing should.
But I want to.
I want to earn the right to.
I draw in a breath that feels too big for my lungs and force my skates forward, slow at first. Careful not to crowd her. Matching her pace, the way I used to match her laugh, her stubbornness, her fire.
She doesn’t look at me, but she doesn’t pull away either.
We skate in silence for a few more laps. Just the two of us and the hum of the world trying to catch up.
And then, so quietly I almost miss it, she says, “It’s not black and white, you know.”
I glance over. “What’s not?”
Her eyes stay ahead. “How I feel.”
My throat tightens, but I nod. “I get that.”
Another beat of silence. Another lap.
“But sometimes…” she trails off, dragging her teeth across her bottom lip before continuing. “Sometimes I wonder if being messy is the only way I know how to love.”
I don’t have the right to touch her—not yet—but I wish I could. I wish I could take her hand, stop us both, and tell her the truth I’ve been holding back.
“That week with you wrecked me,” I say instead. “In the best and worst ways.”
That earns me a glance. She presses her lips together, her eyes shining with an emotion I can’t put a name to, but I’ll take it.
I skate one more lap with her, heart raw, hope blooming in the bruised parts of me that thought she was lost for good.
Because maybe she’s not.
Not entirely.
Not yet.
The side door slams open behind us, breaking the quiet hum of the rink.
“Did someone turn the lights on early for us or—oh,” Daisy says, stepping inside with her usual swagger, bubblegum-pink helmet in hand.
Cheese follows with a tray of iced coffees, her hoodie glittering with a rhinestone skull. Knox trails in behind them, yawning as she shrugs on her elbow pads.
Willow doesn’t stop. Doesn’t drift toward them the way she usually does.
She keeps skating. Strides fluid. Focused. Each push of her wheels anchors her to the floor, as if the motion itself is the only thing holding her together. Still working through whatever the hell this is between us.
Just before the far curve, her head tilts. A glance. Barely a second.
But it sparks under my skin, live wire and heat, impossible to ignore.
And when she looks away, it doesn’t feel final.
She just keeps going, gliding back toward her team, back into the life she’s built without me, but not with the same walls she had before.
I stay there a moment longer, chest tight and lungs full of something I haven’t let myself feel in too long.
Because maybe I’m not completely shut out.
Maybe that look was an invitation.
A maybe.
And for now, I’ll take it. Because if there’s even the smallest space left in her heart, I’m going to earn it.