Chapter 17
Billie
The ice bit through my skates like glass cutting skin. Every whistle hit like a jolt and every barked order found me first.
“Again, Donovan.”
I wheeled around the cone, legs burning, lungs clawing for air. My stick caught the puck clean, fired it toward the net—wide by an inch. The whistle shrieked before the puck even hit the boards.
“Do it right.”
My jaw locked. “That was right.”
Calder’s answer came low but sharp. “Then nail it next time instead of arguing.”
The girls along the blue line kept their heads down, pretending to focus on tying laces or stretching out calves, but no one missed a thing. Reese met my stare for half a heartbeat, one brow lifting. What did you do? it said.
I didn’t have an answer.
Because it wasn’t just hard practice. He was different—colder, sharper, like every word held back last night had turned into a weapon and he was emptying the whole clip across the rink.
The next whistle cut through the cold. “Again.”
This time, I took it tighter, cut in fast, let the puck fly. It hit the post and clanged out. My throat burned. The air felt too thick to swallow.
“Not good enough,” he called.
My stick slammed against the ice before I could stop it. The crack echoed up into the rafters. The noise made him pause but not soften. He skated toward me, gliding with a masculine grace I almost hated him for.
“You want to break something, Donovan?”
“Already did,” I shot back. “My legs, three drills ago.”
He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could see the scar along his jaw, the same one I’d almost traced with my fingers. His eyes stayed fixed on mine, unreadable, but the line of his mouth twitched—like he wanted to bite back more words than he could afford.
“Again.”
My gloves creaked around the stick. “You’ve got a full team out here, Coach. Maybe try breaking someone else.”
“None of them can handle it.”
The rink went silent. Even the scraping skates behind me stopped. His voice carried, low and rough, sliding through the chill straight under my skin.
He meant it as discipline; I knew. A challenge. But the words hit like something else entirely.
I shoved the puck forward and skated another line. Harder. Faster. The edges of my blades screamed across the ice. I fired. Hit the net clean enough to rattle it.
“Again,” he said.
“Get someone else.”
“Again.”
We stared at each other across the space between us—the ice shining like a wound neither of us could close.
My breath came hard, lips stingingly cold. “You punishing me, Coach?”
His jaw flexed. “I’m making sure you remember what you’re here for.”
I took in the distance between us; the heat fighting through the cold, the eyes of half the team burning holes in the back of my neck.
And still, my hands tightened around the stick. “Oh, I remember,” I muttered.
Then I skated off the line and hit the drill again, daring him to call me out one more time.
The puck ricocheted off the goalpost and slid past my skate. Another miss. Another whistle.
Calder’s voice cut through the ice. “You losing focus, Donovan?”
My chest heaved. Sweat stung my eyes even though the rink air was freezing. “You want me to draw blood before you’re satisfied?”
He ignored the jab, tossed another puck toward me like it offended him. “Again.”
I stared at the puck instead of him. Every muscle in my body thrummed with anger. He’d spent the whole hour riding me hard enough to humiliate me, and every girl on this sheet knew it. Even Reese had stopped smirking.
“Maybe if you spent less time trying to skate me into the ice and more time coaching,” I shouted, my voice cracking through the cold, “the team would actually improve.”
The words echoed, sharp and clean. Sticks froze midair. The rink went still except for my breath.
Calder turned, slow. “You want to test me, Donovan?” His tone dropped so low it scraped something inside me.
“No,” I said, boots biting into the ice as I squared to him. “I want you to stop taking out your guilt on me.”
A few gasps slipped from the line behind me. Reese mouthed holy shit.
Calder’s jaw worked like he was chewing on rage. The veins at his temple stood out against the stubble. “Watch yourself.”
“Why? Because everyone’s watching already?”
His nostrils flared. He took a step forward, ice crunching beneath his boots. “You done?”
“Not even close.” The tremor in my voice wasn’t fear—it was something else, something meaner. “You stand up there pretending this is about discipline or drive, but it’s not. You don’t get to be hard on me to erase what you did.”
The silence that followed felt alive. No one moved. The sound of the ventilation system groaned through the rafters, loud and lonely. The puck under my blade ticked against the ice like a clock counting down a bad decision.
Calder didn’t blink. His mouth opened, then closed. Whatever he wanted to say, he buried it deep.
Someone coughed near the bench. Skates shifted uneasily.
“Locker room,” he clipped out finally, eyes still locked on me. “Now.”
I didn’t move. For five seconds, I stood there, staring him down, heart slamming, the whole world hanging in the space between us. Then I kicked the puck toward the boards. It smacked hard and died against the wall.
“I’m not your scapegoat,” I said, quieter but no softer. “You want a player, you’ve got one. You want to rewrite history, find someone else.”
I turned before he could answer, blades hissing as I cut across the ice toward the tunnel. Every stride felt like breaking surface after being held under too long.
The girls parted as I passed, their whispers washing after me, a string of static I didn’t bother to catch.
By the time the last whistle hit, I hadn’t moved from the room. My gear was soaked, pads sticking to my skin, helmet resting beside me like an apology I didn’t remember accepting.
The locker room filled and emptied in waves—laughter first, then the shuffle of skates on tile, the hiss of the showers.
Reese paused by the door, bag over his shoulder. “He wants you back on the ice.”
I blinked up at him. “You serious?”
“Dead serious.” She glanced toward the tunnel, winced. “Good luck, Dono.”
Kira’s hand brushed my shoulder as she passed. “Don’t let him eat you alive.”
The door closed behind them, and it was quiet again. Only the hum of the lights and the mechanical drip from the melting ice of my elbow pad. I strapped my helmet back on, tightened the chin guard till it hurt, and went.
Calder waited at center ice—hands on hips, clipboard gone. No puck, no stick in his own hand. Just that stare.
“You wanted a reason to fight,” he said. “Now you get one. Suicides. Goal line to line. Don’t stop till I say.”
I didn’t answer. Just skated to the stripe and set my feet.
“Go.”
The whistle cut through the cold, and I exploded forward. Sprint, stop, pivot, back again. My blades screamed across the grooves left by the earlier drills. Each stride tore at what was left of my lungs. My breath turned sharp and heavy inside the cage of my helmet.
He watched, silent except for the whistle. Every time it blew, I turned. Blue line. Red. Blue again. Goal. Repeat.
The rink dimmed at the edges after a while. The boards blurred. Thirty minutes stretched long and mean. I didn’t look at him. Didn’t give him the satisfaction. When my thighs started to shake, I bit the inside of my cheek and kept going.
If he wanted to break me, he’d have to do more than yell.
The whistle finally died. I coasted to a stop, bent double, palms on my knees. Sweat dripped from the end of my nose, pattered on the ice like rain. My chest heaved, dragging air that felt too thick to swallow.
He stepped closer, voice low. “That enough for you?”
I leaned on my stick and stared at him through the cage. “You’re a coward.”
His eyes hardened. “Watch it.”
“You can’t look me in the eye because I make you feel something, and you hate it. So you punish me.”
He narrowed his stance, every muscle turning to stone. “You’re projecting.”
“No, Coach.” My voice came out raw, scraped clean. “You are.”
The silence stretched, hot and fragile. His jaw clenched; his hands curled into fists at his sides.
I turned before the tremor in my knees gave me away, skated for the tunnel. My breath rasped like static against plastic.
When I reached the doors, I looked back once. He still stood there, motionless in the low light—jaw tight, eyes dark, like the words had landed somewhere he didn’t want them to.
Then I left him with them.
Once I got to the locker room, again, I dropped my gloves onto the bench, the smack louder than I meant it to be. My hands shook from fatigue, not anger this time. The ache in my legs pulsed steady and deep, a metronome reminding me I was still standing. Still here.
I unlatched my pads one by one, the sound of Velcro ripping through the empty space. The door creaked open and a gust of cooler air swept in. Reese appeared, her hair slicked back, cheeks red from the shower. She hesitated in the doorway, towel slung over her shoulder.
“You good?”
Her voice carried that mix of sympathy and warning—she’d seen the whole thing. Probably everyone had.
I reached for my hoodie, tugged it over my head. “Fine.”
She didn’t push, just nodded once and disappeared down the hallway. The door clicked behind her and the silence that followed felt earned.
My ribs ached each time I bent to gather my gear. Sweat ran down my spine, cold now, but my mind felt sharp. The noise, the humiliation, the eyes from the bench—all of it had drained out of me. What was left wasn’t rage. It was something cleaner.
The mirror across the room showed a girl I almost recognized. Hair plastered to her temples, eyes rimmed red, shoulders straight. No trembling, no pleading for a look of approval from a man who couldn’t decide if he wanted to destroy me or protect me.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor again—Kira this time. She stopped at the threshold, a bag on her arm, her expression cautious.
“What’d he do now?”
“Nothing.” I forced a smile that tasted like salt. “I’m good.”
She studied me a second longer, then shrugged. “Text me when you’re home.”
“Yeah.”
When she left, I sat on the bench and unlaced my skates slow, the fibers cutting faint lines into my fingertips. My hands were rougher than I remembered. Stronger, maybe.
The air outside the rink hummed faint through the exit door—a car starting, girls laughing. Life going on.
I slung my bag over one shoulder. The words settled in the cold like a promise, still echoing when I pushed open the door and stepped into the night.
The night air slapped heat off my cheeks, sharp with exhaust and old rain.
The lot lights buzzed overhead, flickering halos reflected in the patches of melted ice.
My skates clacked against the concrete as I crossed toward my car, each step heavier than it should’ve been.
The world outside the rink felt too bright after so many hours under fluorescent hum and frozen air.
I just wanted the quiet—just a moment to let my lungs find a rhythm that didn’t taste like anger.
“Hey, you’re Billie Donovan, right?” a voice cut through it. “Nate Ransom’s ex?”
The guy looked out of place in the near-empty lot. Puffy jacket zipped to his chin, camera strap slung across his shoulder, press badge swaying from a lanyard that reflected in the yellow streetlight. He smiled like we’d already met.
I froze halfway between the curb and the driver’s side door. “No,” I said. “I’m Crestwood’s center.”
He chuckled softly, flipping open a little notebook like this was a favor he was doing me. “Right, right. I’m doing a piece on Nate’s breakout NHL season. Wanted a quote—what was it like dating him in college? Did you help with his training habits? Off-ice stuff?”
He winked, waiting for me to play along.
Every muscle in my body locked. The noise of the rink still throbbed in my ears, and for a beat I thought maybe I’d misheard him. But his grin didn’t falter, the pen already poised to catch whatever sound I made next.
There it was again—that familiar script waiting to cage me.
Nate’s ex. Nate’s helper. The supporting role I’d already spent too long perfecting.
I could say something polite, brush it off.
Give him a headline about shared goals or mutual respect, the kind of quote that would make me sound grateful to once orbit his spotlight.
My throat tightened. I pictured Nate leaning on a post-game podium somewhere, all clean charm and easy humility, talking about adversity and growth.
Maybe they’d cut to footage of him scoring, the crowd roaring his name.
Then maybe, if the reporter was clever, a flash of me would follow—face blurred, captioned: the college ex.
The thought made my hands curl into fists inside my pockets.
I met the reporter’s eyes. “I’m not a footnote in anyone’s story,” I said.
He blinked, still smiling but suddenly less sure it was the right look. “Come on, it’s just a piece—”
“Find another angle.” A beat. "Maybe you should ask him why we broke up in the first place."
I turned before he could recover. The gravel crunched under my shoes. He called something after me—maybe my name, maybe Nate’s—but the wind carried it off.
The night clung to my skin, crisp and biting, but it felt honest.
My boots hit the cracked sidewalk in a steady rhythm, each step scraping off what was left of the day. Breath clouded the air, thin smoke curling behind me. I shoved my hands deep into my jacket pockets and kept moving.
A bus roared past, spraying slush onto my jeans.
I didn’t flinch. The city hummed low, indifferent, and for the first time that didn’t bother me.
I passed the darkened windows of a diner, caught my reflection in the glass, and didn’t look away.
The girl staring back looked tired, sure—but solid. Scratched up, still skating.
My phone buzzed once in my pocket. Probably Hannah, maybe Kira, but I left it there. I didn’t owe anyone a reply tonight.
The arena lights burned faint in the distance behind me, a warning or a promise—I couldn’t tell. Didn’t matter. The cold stole my breath clean, and I kept walking, shoulders square, pulse steady. I had work to do. And I was done waiting for permission to matter.