Chapter 21
Billie
Ihadn't slept.
Couldn't.
Every time I closed my eyes, I heard his voice—rough and slurred and broken. Heard him telling me I was happy. That it didn't look fake. If I'd already forgotten what we did in that locker room like it meant nothing.
Like he meant nothing.
The ceiling had a crack running through it, thin and jagged, splitting the plaster down the middle. I traced it with my eyes for the hundredth time, following the fracture from corner to corner, wondering when it would finally break all the way through.
My phone sat facedown on the nightstand. Silent now. No texts. No calls. Nothing.
Good, I told myself. That's what you wanted. Clean break. No complications.
But my chest felt hollow. Like someone had scooped out everything vital and left me with just the shell.
Outside, campus was waking up. Footsteps in the hallway. Muffled laughter. Someone's alarm blaring through the wall until it cut off mid-shriek. The world kept moving like nothing had changed.
Like I hadn't just told Calder Shaw goodbye.
I rolled onto my side, pulled the blanket tighter. It didn't help. Nothing helped.
His voice kept playing on a loop—You looked happy out there today.
I hadn't been. Not even close. Nate's mouth on mine felt like performance art, cold and calculated, designed for cameras and headlines and nothing real. I'd stood there and let it happen because it was easier than explaining. Easier than watching Calder's career burn because of me.
I'm trying to protect you, I'd said.
And he'd thrown it back in my face like I was lying.
Maybe I was. Maybe protecting him was just an excuse to run before I got in too deep. Before I admitted that what happened between us wasn't just sex or rebellion or escape.
It was him.
And I wanted him in ways that terrified me.
I sat up slowly, pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw stars. The pressure helped. Grounded me. Reminded me I was still here, still breathing, still functional.
You don't get to fall apart; I told myself. Not over a man who can't even say he wants you sober.
But that wasn't fair. He'd been drunk, yes—angry and jealous and spiraling. But underneath all that noise, I'd heard something else. Something raw and desperate that mirrored the ache in my own chest.
He wanted me.
And I wanted him.
And neither of us could have what we wanted without destroying everything we'd built.
My phone buzzed. Once. Sharp and insistent.
I reached for it before I could stop myself, heart hammering, hoping—
Hannah. Not him.
You ok? Haven't heard from you in a while.
I typed back fast, muscle memory:
Fine. Hockey's been busy.
Dealing with some stuff. Talk later?
Sent it before I could overthink.
The phone went dark. I set it back down, facedown again, like that would stop me from checking it every thirty seconds.
It wouldn't.
Because even now—even knowing it was over, knowing it had to be—I was still waiting.
Still hoping he'd call back sober and tell me everything his drunk voice couldn't.
I want you. I'm sorry. This matters.
But the phone stayed silent.
And I lay back down, staring at that crack in the ceiling, wondering how much longer I could hold myself together before I split clean through.
The honk cut through the quiet like a gunshot.
Once. Sharp. Impatient.
I knew that sound. Knew the rhythm of it—entitled and expecting compliance.
Nate.
I stayed where I was, curled on my side, blanket pulled to my chin. Maybe if I didn't move, he'd assume I wasn't here. That I'd gone to practice early or grabbed breakfast or literally anywhere but this room where I could hear him waiting.
Another honk. Longer this time.
My jaw clenched.
He wasn't going away. That was the thing about Nate—he didn't take silence as an answer. He took it as a challenge.
I threw the blanket off and grabbed yesterday's hoodie from the floor. Didn't bother with real clothes. Pulled on sneakers with mismatched socks and shoved my phone in my pocket.
The cold hit me the second I stepped outside. November in Michigan didn't care if you were dressed for it or falling apart. It bit down hard either way.
Nate's car idled at the curb, sleek and black and polished to a shine. The window rolled down halfway, his face visible through the gap—clean-shaven, sharp-eyed, that same smile he wore for cameras.
I walked over slowly. Opened the passenger door. Slid inside without a word.
The heat was on full blast. Pop music played low through the speakers. He smelled like cologne and coffee and something faintly sweet I couldn't place.
"Morning," he said, like this was normal. Like he hadn't kissed me in front of cameras yesterday for leverage.
I pulled the seatbelt across my chest. Clicked it into place. Stared straight ahead.
He didn't drive. Just sat there, hands loose on the wheel, eyes forward.
The silence stretched. Thick and uncomfortable. I counted my breaths—one, two, three—waiting for him to say whatever he came here to say.
Finally, he spoke.
"Saw you at practice yesterday." His voice was casual. Too casual. "He looks at you a lot."
My stomach tightened.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You do." He turned then, eyes sharp and knowing. "What's going on between you and my dad?"
The world tilted.
My pulse hammered in my ears. Blood rushed hot and cold at the same time.
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
He smiled. Not kind. Not angry.
Victorious.
The car rolled forward. Smooth. Controlled. Like he had all the time in the world to wait me out.
I gripped the edge of the seat, nails digging into fabric. My throat was tight. Too tight.
"There's nothing going on," I said.
He laughed. Short and sharp.
"Right. Because my dad always stares at his players like he's trying to memorize them." He glanced over, eyes cold. "Or maybe it's just you."
The streetlights blurred past. Campus buildings gave way to storefronts, empty parking lots, the familiar route to the rink.
I forced my voice steady. "He coaches me. That's it."
"You're lying."
"He pushes me harder than anyone else on the team."
"Yeah?" Nate's jaw tightened. "Why do you think that is?"
I turned toward him, heat rising in my chest. "Because he actually thinks I'm good."
His smile twisted. Mean and deliberate. "Yeah. He sees what you can do on your knees."
The slap happened before I could think. Palm against cheek. The sound cracked through the car like a whip.
His head snapped sideways. The car swerved—just slightly—before he corrected.
Then his hand was on my face. Fingers dug into my jaw, hard enough to bruise, forcing my head back against the window. His grip was iron. Controlling. The kind of touch that said I own you.
"You think I'm an idiot?" His voice was low. Dangerous. "I'm not. I see it. You think you're better than me now?"
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move.
But I could speak.
"Touch me again and I'll ruin you."
The words came out quiet. Steady. A promise, not a threat.
His eyes flickered—surprise, maybe. Or calculation.
He let go.
I yanked the door handle before the car even stopped moving. Stumbled out onto the curb outside the rink, cold air slapping my face.
The door slammed behind me.
Nate's car idled for a moment. I felt his eyes on my back, heavy and expectant.
Then the engine revved.
Tires peeled out.
Gone.
I stood there, breath fogging in the morning cold. My jaw throbbed where his fingers had pressed. My hand stung from the slap.
My legs wanted to give out. Wanted to drop me right here on the sidewalk until someone found me.
But I didn't fall.
I straightened my spine. Tugged my hoodie sleeves down over my knuckles. Tucked my hair behind my ears.
And I walked toward the entrance. Head high. Shoulders back. Hands shaking like an earthquake lived under my skin. But I walked.
Practice was brutal.
Not because of the drills—I could skate those in my sleep. But because Calder barely looked at me. Called my name twice, maybe. Didn't correct my form. Didn't yell when I missed an easy pass.
Just... nothing.
Like I'd ceased to exist.
I showered fast, head down, water scalding against my skin. Tried to wash off the bruise forming along my jaw, the phantom pressure of Nate's fingers still digging in.
It didn't work.
I was halfway dressed—sports bra, jeans, hair dripping—when Kira appeared in the doorway.
"Hey." She leaned against the frame, chewing her bottom lip. "Nate's here."
My hands stilled on my shoelaces. "What?"
"In the lobby. Says he needs to talk to you." Her eyes flicked to my face, then away. "You okay?"
I forced my fingers to move. Tied the knot. Grabbed my hoodie. "Yeah."
She didn't believe me. I could tell by the way she hovered, weight shifting foot to foot like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.
I pulled the hoodie over my head. Tugged the sleeves down. "I'm fine, Kira."
"You don't have to go out there."
I wanted to. God, I wanted to stay in this locker room until he gave up and left. Until practice tomorrow. Until graduation. Until I never had to see his face again.
But I didn't trust him. Didn't trust what he'd do if I ignored him. What he'd say. Who he'd tell.
I see it, he'd said.
And if Nate saw it, how long before everyone else did too?
I grabbed my bag. Slung it over my shoulder.
"Thanks," I said quietly.
Then I walked out.
The lobby was too bright. Too loud. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bouncing off polished floors and glass doors that showed the parking lot beyond.
And the press.
Three photographers. Maybe four. Clustered near the entrance with cameras raised, lenses pointed like weapons.
Nate stood in the center of it all, jacket slung over one shoulder, posture relaxed. He looked up when I appeared, that practiced smile sliding into place.
"There she is."
My stomach turned.
I kept walking. Slow. Measured. Every step deliberate because my legs wanted to run and my hands wanted to shake and neither was an option.
Not here. Not in front of cameras.
He met me halfway, hand sliding around my waist like it belonged there. Pulled me close enough that his breath ghosted against my ear.
The cameras started clicking.
"Smile," he murmured.
I didn't.
His grip tightened. Fingers pressing into my hip, just shy of painful. A warning.
We moved toward the doors together, his arm anchoring me against his side. The photographers stepped back to give us space, but their lenses stayed trained. Hungry.
Cold air hit my face when we stepped outside. Sharp and clean and nothing like the heat radiating off Nate's body.
More cameras. More voices calling his name, asking questions I couldn't process through the white noise building in my skull.
When did you two get back together?
Nate, over here—
Billie, can we get a statement?
He stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. Turned toward me. Hand still locked around my waist, holding me in place.
His eyes were dark. Cold. Nothing like the boy I'd once loved.
"Kiss me like you mean it," he said. Low enough that only I could hear. "Or I'll ruin him."
The air left my lungs.
Calder.
I saw it in Nate's face—the calculation, the threat, the absolute certainty that he could destroy everything with a single phone call. A single interview. One well-placed rumor about inappropriate conduct between a coach and his player.
He'd do it. I knew he would.
The cameras waited.
Nate's smile widened. Expectant.
My hands moved on autopilot. Slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. I rose on my toes, jaw tight, stomach churning.
And I kissed him.
Hard.
Like I meant it.
His mouth opened against mine, surprised, maybe, before he caught up and kissed back. Possessive. Claiming. One hand in my hair, the other splayed across my lower back, pulling me flush against him.
The cameras exploded. Flash after flash, white-hot bursts that burned through my closed eyelids.
I heard the murmurs. The excited chatter. Someone laughing.
Nate's mouth curved against mine. Victorious.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were bright. Satisfied.
"There we go," he said. Loud enough for the press. "Missed you, B."
I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe.
He pressed a kiss to my forehead—gentle, tender, perfect for the cameras—and whispered against my skin.
"Good girl."
Then he let me go.
Stepped back. Waved to the photographers. Slid into his car like nothing had happened.
The engine purred. Tires rolled.
Gone.
I stood there on the sidewalk, lips still tingling, body numb.
The cameras kept clicking.
I felt him before I saw him.
The weight of his stare pressed between my shoulder blades like a blade. Heavy. Sharp. Unforgiving.
I turned slowly, heart hammering against my ribs.
Calder stood in the hallway leading back to the rink. Arms crossed. Jaw set. Eyes dark and cold as winter ice.
He'd watched the whole thing.
The cameras were still snapping behind me, but I couldn't hear them anymore. Couldn't hear anything except the blood rushing in my ears and the ragged pull of my own breathing.
His gaze dropped to my mouth. Lingered there. Then dragged back up to meet my eyes.
The look on his face wasn't hurt.
It was fury.
Raw and barely leashed.
I opened my mouth—to say what; I didn't know. To explain. To apologize. To scream that it wasn't real, that it didn't mean anything, that I was trying to protect him.
But he spoke first.
"If this is where your head is," he said, voice low and lethal, "I'm going to fucking bench you."
The words hit like a punch.
Cold. Brutal. Meant to cut.
And they did.
My spine locked. Every muscle in my body went rigid, bracing against the blow.
I didn't look at him. Couldn't. If I did, I'd shatter right here on the pavement in front of the cameras and Nate and everyone.
I grabbed my bag. Slung it over my shoulder.
And I walked. Past Calder. Past the open doorway. Past the hurt I could feel radiating off him even though he stood perfectly still.
My vision blurred. Throat tight. Chest aching.
"Good girl." Nate's voice carried across the parking lot, smug and satisfied. "I'll see you tonight."
I kept walking.
Behind me, I heard the shift. The subtle scrape of boots on concrete.
Calder moved.
I didn't turn around. Didn't need to. I knew what I'd see—his hand curling into a fist at his side, knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding from here.
He wouldn't say anything. Wouldn't do anything.
Not in front of witnesses.
The cold bit through my hoodie as I reached the edge of the lot. My hands were shaking. My jaw throbbed where Nate had grabbed it earlier.
And my lips still tasted like betrayal.
I turned the corner. Let the building swallow me.
And finally—finally—I let myself fall apart.