Chapter 17
Eloise
Pain had a flavor. I realized that on Tuesday morning. It tasted like metal and old coffee.
It sat on the back of my tongue, a coating I couldn't brush away. It lived in the hollow of my chest where my heart used to be. It lived in my knees, making them ache even when I wasn't skating.
Nationals.
The word was plastered on banners all over the arena in Detroit. 2024 U.S. FIGURE SKATING CHAMPIONSHIPS.
The lights were brighter here. The ice was harder. The air was thinner. Or maybe I just couldn't breathe.
"You look like a corpse," Cami whispered, adjusting the rhinestones on my competition dress in the locker room. "A very sparkly, expensive corpse. But a corpse."
"Thanks," I murmured, staring at my reflection.
She wasn't wrong. My skin was translucent. My eyes were dull, rimmed with red that even layers of concealer couldn't hide. I had lost five pounds in three days. My cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut glass.
"Eloise," Cami stopped fussing and grabbed my shoulders, forcing me to look at her. "He’s an idiot. A giant, wolf-boy idiot. You know that, right?"
"Don't," I whispered. "Don't talk about him."
"We have to talk about him because you are about to go out there and skate the most important program of your life, and you look like you’re going to a funeral."
"I am," I said flatly. "I’m burying the girl who thought she could have it all."
Cami sighed, pulling me into a hug. I stood stiffly in her arms. I couldn't soften. If I softened, I would shatter.
"Just skate," Cami whispered into my hair. "Skate so hard he feels it in Ironwood. Skate so hard he regrets being born."
"That’s the plan," I said, pulling away.
I grabbed my skates. I walked out of the locker room.
The hallway was lined with competitors. Girls in glitter and spandex, stretching, pacing, listening to music. The air smelled of hairspray and anxiety.
I walked past them. I didn't make eye contact. I was the Ice Princess. I was untouchable.
I reached the curtain. I could hear the crowd. Thousands of people. Scouts. Judges. My mother, watching from Europe on a live stream. My father, sitting in the VIP box, expecting his return on investment.
"On deck: Eloise Vance."
I stepped through the curtain.
The lights hit me.
I skated to center ice.
I took my starting pose.
I closed my eyes.
Usually, this was the moment I visualized Jack. His smile. His warmth. The way he called me Mouse.
Today, I visualized nothing. Just a black void.
Good, I thought. Fill the void with ice.
The music started. Rachmaninoff. Heavy. Tragic. Perfect.
I moved.
I didn't remember the skate.
It was a fugue state. My body took over—years of muscle memory, thousands of hours of repetition.
I jumped. I spun. I extended.
I felt nothing.
When I landed my triple lutz, the crowd gasped. It was huge. Perfect height. Feather-soft landing.
I didn't smile.
I went into my step sequence. Sharp turns. Deep edges. I attacked the ice. I carved my pain into the surface, leaving deep, jagged scars in the frozen water.
I finished with a scratch spin, spinning faster and faster until the world blurred into a grey smear.
I stopped. I threw my arms up in the final pose.
The silence lasted for a heartbeat.
Then, the arena exploded.
The roar was deafening. People were on their feet. Flowers rained down onto the ice.
I stood there, chest heaving, sweat dripping into my eyes.
I looked up at the scoreboard.
Technical Score: 78.50.
Component Score: 74.20.
Total: 152.70.
A personal best. A championship score.
I looked at the VIP box.
My father was standing. He was clapping. He was smiling—a rare, genuine smile of triumph. He pointed at me, then turned to the person next to him, mouthing, "That’s my daughter."
I looked around the arena. Four thousand faces. All cheering. All loving me.
I looked for the one face that wasn't there.
I looked for the messy dark hair. The scar. The gold eyes.
Empty seats. Strangers.
I felt a cold wind blow through the hole in my chest.
I had done it. I had won. I was the Golden Girl.
And I had never felt more alone in my entire life.
I bowed mechanically. I skated to the kiss-and-cry. I sat next to Sasha, who was actually crying.
"You did it," Sasha sobbed, hugging me. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
"Yeah," I whispered, staring at the camera with dead eyes. "Perfect."
Jack
The Hive was quiet on Saturday night. The team was away at an exhibition game in Minnesota. I stayed behind. "Injury recovery," Coach said. "Mental health day," Silas said.
"Pity leave," I corrected.
I was in my room. The lights were off.
I was sitting on the floor, leaning against the bed, holding my phone.
The livestream of Nationals was playing on the small screen.
I watched her skate.
She was magnificent. She was terrifying.
She moved like a wraith, sharp and deadly. There was no joy in her movement, only precision. She looked like a weapon forged from diamonds.
When she finished, when the crowd erupted, I felt a tear slide down my cheek.
"Good girl," I whispered to the empty room. "You did it, Mouse. You won."
I watched her in the kiss-and-cry. She looked hollow. She looked like she was bleeding out internally.
I turned off the phone. I couldn't watch anymore.
I stood up. My body ached. Not from hockey—I hadn't practiced in three days. From the bond.
It was screaming. It was a physical tether being pulled taut, fraying with every mile of distance between us. My Wolf was lethargic, curled into a ball in the back of my mind, whining softly.
She is hurt. She is cold. Go to her.
I can't, I told the Wolf. I traded her. For Dad.
I walked to my dresser.
The medical grant approval letter was sitting there. It had arrived yesterday. My mom had texted me a picture of Dad starting his first treatment. He was smiling.
I picked up the letter.
It was just paper. Flimsy. Cheap.
I had traded the love of my life for a piece of paper.
I crumpled it in my fist.
I threw it across the room.
It hit the wall and fell to the floor.
It didn't make me feel better.
I walked to the closet.
I opened the door.
There, on the floor, was a small, white skate.
She must have dropped it when she left. Or maybe she threw it.
I picked it up. It was tiny. Scuffed. The pink laces were frayed.
I held it to my chest. It smelled faintly of her—vanilla and old leather.
I slid down the closet door until I was sitting on the floor, clutching the skate like a lifeline.
"I’m sorry," I sobbed. "I’m so sorry."
The door to my room opened.
I didn't look up. "Go away, Silas."
"It’s not Silas."
It was Coach Miller.
I looked up, wiping my eyes hastily. "Coach. I thought you were in Minnesota."
"Bus left an hour ago," Coach said, stepping into the room. He didn't turn on the light. He stood in the shadows, looking like a bear in a windbreaker. "I stayed back. Figured the Captain shouldn't be alone."
"I’m not the Captain," I muttered. "I’m quitting. As soon as the season is over."
Coach sighed. He walked over and sat on the edge of my bed. The mattress groaned.
"I heard about what you did," Coach said quietly.
I froze. "What I did?"
"The Dean called me," Coach said. "Gloating. Said he 'handled the Sterling problem.' Said you were a smart boy who knew how to make a deal."
I looked at the floor. "I didn't have a choice."
"There’s always a choice, Jack," Coach said. "Sometimes it’s just a choice between two different kinds of hell."
"He was going to kill my dad," I whispered. "He was going to pull the grant."
Coach was silent for a long time.
"I know," he said finally. "Vance is a shark. He smells blood and he bites."
Coach leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"But here’s the thing about sharks, Jack. They only bite if you’re in the water."
"I live in the water," I said bitterly. "It’s his university. His grant."
"Is it?" Coach asked. "Or did he just make you think it was?"
I looked at him. "What do you mean?"
"I did some digging," Coach said. "After he called me. I didn't like the smell of it. The grant... the anonymous donor..."
He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket.
"The donor isn't anonymous to the Athletic Department," Coach said. "Because the money flows through our booster club accounts."
He handed me the paper.
I unfolded it. It was a financial ledger printout.
Donor: The Sterling Alumni Fund.
Primary Contributor: Marcus Thorne.
"Thorne?" I frowned. "The old NHL goalie? The one who played for the Sentinels in the 90s?"
"Yeah," Coach nodded. "He’s a shifter. A Wolf. Did you know that?"
I shook my head.
"He set up that fund specifically for retired players with health issues," Coach explained. "It’s protected money, Jack. It’s a trust. The Dean can't touch it. He can't revoke it. He can't even see who gets it without a subpoena."
My heart stopped. The blood roared in my ears.
"He lied," I whispered.
"He bluffed," Coach corrected. "He used your fear against you. He knew you wouldn't check. He knew you’d panic."
I stared at the paper.
The grant was safe. It had always been safe.
My father was never in danger.
I had broken Eloise’s heart for nothing.
I had destroyed us for a lie.
A sound ripped out of my throat—a guttural, animal roar of pure, unadulterated rage.
I scrambled to my feet. The skate fell from my hand.
"He lied!" I shouted, pacing the room like a caged beast. "He looked me in the eye and he lied!"
"He’s a politician, Jack," Coach said calmly. "Lying is his job."
"I’m going to kill him," I snarled. My eyes were glowing. I could feel the shift itching under my skin. "I’m going to walk into his office and tear his throat out."
"And then you go to jail," Coach said, standing up to block my path. "And Eloise is alone. And your dad is ashamed."
"I don't care!" I yelled. "He took her from me!"
"So take her back," Coach said.
I stopped. I looked at him.
"What?"
"Take her back," Coach repeated. "She’s in Detroit. Nationals just finished. The gala is tomorrow night. If you leave now... you can make it."