Chapter 38
HAILEY
So, I wasn't fucking crazy: Lively Summers was avoiding me.
My hands clenched into fists as I watched him walk away, not even waiting one second after the end of practice. I wasn’t going to call out to him; I’d done that before, but he’d just given me a one-word answer, that asshole.
Was this how he was going to play it now?
The still fresh memory of today’s practice session crashed over me like ice water, sharp and unwelcome. We'd been running one-on-one drills—Coach Hawkins’ idea to “strengthen individual technique”—so of course I’d been paired with him.
And he’d approached it like a fucking textbook exercise. Clinical. Detached. Every movement was calculated, every instruction delivered in that same flat, professional tone that made my skin crawl with something dangerously close to… desperation .
“Your follow-through is inconsistent,” he’d said, skating up behind me as I lined up for another shot. His voice carried across the ice like winter wind, devoid of the warmth that used to color even his critiques. “You're dropping your shoulder too early.”
I fucking hated it.
Because there was no warmth. No teasing. No stupid grin or playful jab about my “technique”. Just cold, mechanical observation that felt like being dissected under a microscope by a disinterested scientist.
I hated it. I hated it. I hated it. God, I hated it so much.
“I know what I'm doing,” I'd snapped, but even I could hear the defensiveness bleeding through my voice, raw and exposed.
“Yeah, I know.” The word dropped between us like a stone into still water, creating ripples of tension that made my jaw clench.
He’d moved closer then, close enough that I could smell his soap, that clean woodsy scent that’d started to make my brain short-circuit God knows when .
Close enough to remind me of woods and moonlight and the way his arms had felt around me that night, when I was falling apart. “But you’re still doing it wrong.”
Before I could protest, his hands had been on me—one on my elbow, the other guiding my wrist into the proper position.
His chest had pressed against my back as he adjusted my stance, solid muscle and radiating heat that seeped through my practice jersey like I wasn’t wearing anything at all. I hated that, too.
“Like this,” he’d murmured, his voice dropping to that low register, the vibration of it traveling through his chest into my back, shaking my heart inside my ribcage .
But when I glanced over my shoulder, heart hammering against my ribs with an emotion close to anticipation, his expression had been completely neutral. Blank. Professional. Like I was just another player he was correcting, not the woman who’d practically begged him to kiss her in those woods.
I didn’t even know what to think about that at all. Heck, the indifference in his eyes had been worse than any insult he could have thrown at me. Because I didn’t know how to handle it. It was weird, and it made me uncomfortable.
And I felt like such a brat for that. Didn’t make it go away, though.
“Better,” he’d said, stepping back immediately, that careful distance reasserting itself between us like a physical barrier. “Try it again.”
And then he’d skated away like nothing had happened. Like proximity to me was just another drill to endure and forget.
Just remembering it was enough to make my jaw clench now, three hours later, as I stood in the empty corridor watching his retreating form disappear around the corner.
It had been three days. Three days since the Rink Runners had returned from Blackwater Bay, and every single one of those days had been a fresh lesson in torture. I'd expected things to be awkward—hell, I'd been prepared for awkward after the way I’d left things. But this?
This was so much worse than awkward.
Gone were the stupid nicknames, the teasing grins, the way his eyes used to light up whenever they landed on me like I was the best thing he’d ever seen.
Gone was the Lively who’d invaded my space without permission, who’d called me “Hailstorm” in that annoyingly sweet voice.
Fuck, I never thought I’d see the day when I’d actually miss him calling me that.
He didn't even look at me anymore. Not really.
His gaze would slide over me like I was furniture, functional but forgettable.
When he spoke to me, it was only about scheduling, about logistics, about the bare minimum required for us to coexist as co-captains.
And the second practice ended, he was gone. Every. Single. Time.
Yesterday, I'd tried to catch him after our mixed scrimmage, jogging after him as he headed for the exit. "Summers," I'd called, and he'd paused, turning with that bland expression that made me want to physically recoil.
"Yeah?"
"We need to talk about—"
"The schedule adjustments are working fine," he cut me off smoothly. "Coach Gunner's satisfied with the ice time allocation. Something specific about logistics?"
I knew that he knew that wasn't what I wanted. He was deliberately edging me out.
"No, that's not—"
"Great. See you tomorrow, Baleman."
And he'd walked away. Again. Left me standing there like an idiot, watching his retreating form and fighting the urge to scream. Or chase after him. Or grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he looked at me— really looked at me —instead of through me like I was literal furniture.
But I'd done none of those things. I couldn't. Because I'd asked for this, hadn't I? I'd told him to leave me alone, to stop acting like a lovesick puppy. Well, congratulations, Hailey. Mission fucking accomplished .
So why did it feel like I was suffocating?
This wasn't the peace I'd thought I wanted when I'd screamed at him to leave me alone. This…this was drowning in slow motion, each breath harder than the last. It felt so fucking was unreal .
Was I really...? Was I really having a panic attack right now because Lively freaking Summers was barely acknowledging me at all?
Yes. Yes, I was . I totally was. Oh my God .
The admission was like ripping off a bandage, exposing raw nerve endings to air that burned. It felt too much like I'd lost something…something I'd never even acknowledged I'd had until it was gone.
The space where his warmth used to live in my peripheral vision felt cold and empty.
And the thing was, I'd asked for this… demanded it.
Screamed it at him with all the venom I could muster, all because I'd been too embarrassed to face him after breaking down like that.
After…after having him reject me like that, and he'd listened. Shit, he'd listened a little too well.
Now, I was the one left facing the consequences of my own words.
I was left with a Lively whose professional courtesy hurt worse than any insult he could have thrown at me.
Left holding my breath every time he entered a room, waiting for some sign that the old Lively was still there, buried beneath all that polished distance.
For some reason, this distance felt even worse than when he'd refused to kiss me.
The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet, the walls closing in with each shallow breath. I pressed my palms flat against the cold concrete, desperate for something solid to anchor me as the panic clawed its way up my throat.
A familiar voice cut through the fog. "Hailey? Hailey !" Gina's face swam into focus, her dark eyes wide with concern as she rushed toward me.
Deep in my chest, panic surged. Attention—the last thing I needed now.
"What the hell happened? Are you okay?" Her gaze darted down the empty corridor, searching for the source of my distress. "Was it that asshole Summers? I swear to God, I'll—"
"I'm fine." The words were curt. I straightened my spine, and pushed the panic down, down, down , stuffing it into that box where all my inconvenient feelings lived. "Just... tired. That's all." I managed what I hoped was a reassuring smile. She didn't look very convinced.
No, her eyes narrowed, seeing through me the way only someone who'd watched me battle on the ice for years could. But I was Hailey Baleman, Captain of the Blizzard Belles. I couldn't afford to break down here, and especially not where anyone could see.
"I said I'm fine." The words came out sharper than intended, my defenses rising like hackles as I smoothed down my shirt. In fact, I felt like such an idiot , for even letting myself almost spiral like that. What the hell was that?
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into the callused skin of my palms, as anger started to surge in my chest.
Fuck this. This was so stupid. He wasn't even giving me any chance at all to apologize!
I knew I'd told him to quit flirting with me and to leave me alone, but didn't he think he was going too fucking far with this?
We still needed to lead our teams together for the remaining weeks.
Was this really the way he was going to be until then?
Fine then! If he was going to be like that, then I wasn't going to keep bothering him, either.
I gave Gina my coolest stare as I said, "I'm just fucking peachy." And I totally ignored how much those words reminded me of that night in the woods, when I'd let Lively Summers see way more than I'd ever let anyone else see, and he'd still rejected me.
I threw myself into practice with renewed viciousness over the next few days, pushing my body harder than I had in months.
Each slam against the boards, each brutal check, each sprint across ice felt like exorcism—like I could somehow purge him from my system through sheer physical punishment.
Extra drills after official practice ended.
Additional weight training that left my muscles screaming in protest. Late-night ice sessions when the rink was empty and I could skate until my legs gave out, until the burn in my lungs drowned out the ache in my chest.