Chapter 10
TEN
SIERRA
“HEY, ICE QUEEN,” Justin says.
I should have known this day was going to shit when I accidentally tugged on my Team USA windbreaker this morning.
My pace quickens, but Justin catches up to me.
His hair is styled, and he’s dressed in jeans and a hoodie.
Standing like this, with his rosy cheeks and boy-next-door smile, feels oddly nostalgic.
Like the times he would catch up to me outside the rink before practice.
“You were at the party the other night.” His mouth quirks into a smile. “I’m glad you’re getting out there again, Si. You deserve it.”
Be the bigger person, Sierra. “Thanks, Justin.”
The silence isn’t just the absence of sound. It’s a living thing, swollen with the weight of quiet sobs muffled into tear-soaked pillows and words that have echoed in my mind for months.
“I’ve been rehearsing what I’d say if I ever saw you again,” he says. “But now that you’re here, nothing I’ve practiced feels like it’s good enough.”
Just say you’re sorry.
I had convinced myself I didn’t need those words. Because how could I be angry at him for choosing himself? Why did I expect him to mess up his life just because mine was ruined? I had no right to think he’d stay and believe I could heal, when I didn’t.
Justin watches me with eyes that once grounded me, but now they surface my anger like a lighthouse.
“Sierra, I didn’t have a choice.” Those words are carried away with the wind because of how useless they are.
As if I had a choice—like the unforgiving ice, solid beneath my body as my bones liquefied under my skin, had asked my permission.
Nothing has been in my control since that fall, not this fractured life, not the anger, not even the way my chest tightens whenever I catch sight of my skates.
“I don’t need an explanation from you, Justin. We were just partners,” I say, my voice void of emotion as the lie floats between us.
He looks at me like I’ve hit him, and I know then he remembers that day.
Hours before our final skate, he came into my hotel room and said he needed to confess his feelings for me.
He kissed me then, and although I didn’t immediately kiss him back, I relaxed.
Finally, after four years, I’d done it, I’d made him happy.
He told me there was only me for him, that after we won this thing, he wanted to celebrate with me.
“Just partners?” he repeats, sounding wounded, like he hadn’t imagined I’d become this version of myself, so cold and mean. “How could you say that? You were never like this, Sierra. I thought you would be over this by now.”
I halt so abruptly, he doesn’t realize I’ve stopped until he’s a few steps ahead of me. “Over what?”
His brows pinch together. “Huh?”
“Over. What?” I repeat. “What should I be over, Justin?”
I’ve never spoken to him like this. In all the years we were partners, he called the shots, and I blindly followed. But after the accident, something harsh ripped open my chest and made a home there. I let it take over, because I’d choose anger over my tears any day.
“You know what I mean. It’s been a year, Sierra. Having you act like we were nothing hurts.” His voice cracks, and his brows curve upward in sad little apostrophes, and maybe a year ago that would have worked on me. But now it makes me want to rip his eyebrows off his face.
After all this time he hasn’t once considered that I was hurt ten times worse than he would be from my silence. It was him who made the decision to leave me and find a new partner. His dream to win gold was much bigger than whatever we created the past four years. It was all a lie.
There’s no one else for me, ice queen.
“I think you’re forgetting you left me, Justin. I would never have done that to you.”
His gaze flashes before it softens like it does when he knows he’s wrong but still won’t admit it. “I miss skating with you.”
“You’re with Julia,” I remind him. There’s no way he means that.
“For now.” The look he gives me makes my ears burn. “Just remember that I’m here for you, Sierra. Always.”
I want to stamp liar on his forehead. Where were you when I was crying in my hospital room until my throat felt raw? Where were you when I wanted it all to end? Where. Were. You?
I lock those screaming thoughts behind my calm expression, giving him only what I want him to see. Because even as I clutch the fragments of my past self, I refuse to give him credit for breaking me.
So I nod, turning into the arena, and changing into my skates for another solo practice. But I should’ve known it was coming the moment I stepped onto the rink. Not again.
“One hundred, ninety-seven, ninety-four, ninety-one …” I begin to count.
My fingers tingle, a numbness setting in as my train of thought derails.
My breath hitches, and another weight presses down on my chest, suffocating me.
“Shit,” I whisper, the words barely escaping my lips.
With trembling hands, I go to reach for my phone—the one I left on the bench. “No, no, no.”
I’d gotten a little cocky and decided to skip my pill. I tricked myself into thinking I didn’t need the crutch.
Today, the rink is deserted since there’s time before practices start, and I’m afraid of how long this pain is going to last. I desperately fist the fabric of my half-zip and pull it away from my chest, holding it there to get a breath in before I pass out.
Sweat beads on my forehead and blankets every inch of my skin like I’m standing in the middle of an inferno.
It’s when I close my eyes and try to focus on something—anything—that I hear the squeak of the gate and a scratch of ice under shoes before warm hands cup my face.
“Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?”
Dylan.
My face must be pale, sweaty, and contorted. And Dylan fucking Donovan is the one to find me like this. If I could cut a hole in this ice and fall in, I would.
“Breathe. Talk to me, Sierra,” he says. So gently, so carefully, like he thinks I’ll shatter.
My skin grows hotter, and the embarrassment clings to me like the sweat soaking my skin. It could’ve been anyone, anyone but him. Why is he even here?
For months, I’ve managed to handle my panic attacks on my own—save for Scarlett, who’s seen more than I ever wanted her to.
It’s always been in places that feel big and then shrink.
Like my dorm, where the walls nearly press in on me as I remind myself I’m not dying.
Or that time I was on a park bench, knitting, when the panic was so tight in my ribs that I nearly drove the needle into my chest, desperate for something sharp enough to force my lungs open.
“Sierra,” he calls again.
“I—I …” The words are lost in a fit of heaving breaths and tears that sting my eyes when I wrench them open. This can’t be happening right now. Hyperventilating is one thing, crying is so much worse.
“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. Just keep breathing.” His brown eyes are so softer than I’ve ever seen them. It almost distracts me.
Dylan scans the empty rink, and when he’s going to move, I tighten my hold on his wrist. If I was in my body at all, I’d be mortified by how frantic I’ve become, but somehow Dylan understands the unspoken words; his hands remain firm on my face. Exactly where I need them to be.
Even with his touch, my thoughts pierce through like shards of glass. You should have stayed at home. Everyone was right. You’re weak now.
When Dylan’s hands shift to my shoulders, I startle, but he doesn’t let go. We glide to the boards. I’m sure he’s regretting coming here. I’m sure he has better things to do, like girls he actually likes.
It’s a wave, it’ll pass. Temporary.
I chant Dr. Toor’s words over and over. As soon as we reach the gate, a ragged sob tears from my chest. My balance wavers, and I trip over the rink edge, and not even a second later, Dylan’s arm catches me around my waist and pulls me back against his chest.
That’s when I give up and drop my weight, taking Dylan down with me.
My tailbone hits the rubber flooring with a dull thud, and Dylan lands behind me with a grunt.
The gate’s metal hook must be digging into his back, but he still doesn’t let go.
Doesn’t let me feel the absence of his touch.
Instead, he pulls me in, his legs bracketing mine in a protective cocoon.
Then he pulls me in so my back rests against his chest.
“Focus on how my chest moves. Match my breaths, Sierra.” His deep voice grounds me like gravity.
When his arms come around my shoulders, I allow myself to hold on to his veiny forearms and sink deeper into him.
He inhales an exaggerated breath, and I follow, holding it for four beats as he does, then breathing out.
I can feel his heart beating against my chest, and with each breath, I unconsciously try to sync our heartbeats.
“That’s it. Just like that,” he whispers against my ear. “You’re doing so good.” His warm breath falls like a blanket on my skin. “Can you open your eyes and tell me five things you see?”
His voice is melodic, and it forces my heavy lids open again. He’s doing one of the grounding techniques I learned in therapy. There’s a fleeting thought somewhere in my chaotic mind that wonders how he even knows it.
“The trophy case, your gear bag,” I say, breathlessly. The dark blue bag with the Dalton logo and the number twenty is forgotten on the floor near the bleachers like he didn’t think, just ran. “The bleachers, an empty s-soda can, your shoes,” I say a little quicker now.
“Good girl,” he whispers, making goose bumps rise on my neck. “Now, how about four things you feel?”
I don’t listen to the voice in my head trying to pull me back, I listen to Dylan. “The rubber mats, my anklet,” I say, feeling it pressing into my ankle inside my skates. “Your arms and … your heartbeat.”
I also feel the sweat soaking my body, but I keep that to myself.
“Three things you hear?”
“The buzz of the lights.” I focus to find something else but the only thing I want to hear is his voice. “Your voice, and … I—I can’t hear anything else,” I say, and Dylan chuckles. This time the goose bumps that crawl on my skin are a result of his proximity and not the panic attack.
“That’s okay. Tell me what you smell.”
“You,” I say too quickly.
I feel his smile against my temple. We’re so close, and everything in my brain and body focuses on that detail.
The other sensations flood from my body to welcome whatever the hell this one is.
Something familiar, yet so foreign. The darkness in my chest ebbs the longer I stay in the moment, right here on the damp floor, with him.
But it’s still him, and we don’t do this.
“I think I’m okay now,” I say. The silence is nearly suffocating as I sink back into myself. No one wants to be stuck mending something they didn’t break. Especially not some hotshot hockey player. Dylan’s not here to spend the day tangled with my anxiety. I can barely do that.
But when I try to move, his hold tightens. I hate how much my body likes it.
“We still have one more. Name one thing you’re proud of yourself for today.”
The question catches me off guard. I turn to him, but he only watches me with quiet patience. “I’m proud of … waking up on time?”
Dylan gives me a flat look. “No. Try again.”
“But that’s what I’m proud of,” I argue.
“That’s a cop-out answer. Your alarm woke you up this morning. Try again.”
Actually, it was the awful flashes of the Olympics, but I don’t tell him that.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’m proud of …” The words stall on my tongue, stretching the silence too long.
Dylan scoffs. When I glance at him, he’s shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“What? How?”
“You can’t name one meaningful thing?”
“I was thinking!”
“For two minutes? It shouldn’t take that long.” He shifts, and I’m sure the mats are as uncomfortable for him as they are for me. “Sierra, I’m proud of you for getting on this ice today, and even on late nights when you shouldn’t be. And I’m proud of you for accepting my help.”
I can’t speak. Dylan must sense it because, after a heavy perusal of my face, he leans forward until his hands are on my skates.
I jerk back to avoid bumping my nose against his cheek.
His long fingers work the laces loose, and he pulls off the first skate.
And now I don’t know if my face is hot from the panic attack or my green chameleon socks.
“Nice socks,” he whispers.
“They’re good luck,” I defend.
He hums in amusement and squeezes my ankle before placing my foot on the rubber floor. I can’t hold back the immediate sigh of relief, and I slump into him as he removes the second skate, giving the same squeeze, watching the anklet jingle.
“Is that for good luck too?” Dylan asks, touching the tiny charm.
“Used to be. My old partner gave it to me,” I say.
He only nods, and we sit there for a minute—or maybe an hour—but it still feels too short when he stands and pulls me up with him. I spin to face him, still cradled in his arms as he towers over me. I try to stand still, not wanting to force him to stay with me any longer.
I’m proud of you for accepting my help.
Dylan’s gaze drops to where my hand clutches the fabric of my half-zip. His fingers hover near the zipper, asking for permission. I nod. Slowly, he slides it down, then helps me pull the sweater off, revealing the low-cut tank top beneath.
“Thanks.” It comes out breathless.
His lips quirk. “Didn’t think that word existed in your vocabulary.”
I roll my eyes. “Shut up.”
This time, his laugh booms, nearly making me smile. “There she is.”
When I go to smack his chest, he catches my wrist, his grip gentle. Dylan’s expression shifts, the teasing warmth replaced by something heavier.
“Are you going to be okay?” he asks, his voice low.
There’s something so vulnerable about the question that it falls heavily on my chest. Heavily enough that I can’t swallow the ball that forms in my throat. I drop my gaze because it’s only a matter of time before I see that look in his eyes. Pity.
He’s never looked at me like that, and maybe that’s why, no matter how much I’ve trained myself to shrink, I can never to do that with him. I give in to his words every time. So now, when he’s probably looking at me like everyone else, I know I won’t be able to handle it.
I try to stop it, but the roughness escapes me. “I’m fine. You didn’t have to do that.”
Three beats of silence pass, long and awkward. I still don’t look at him.
“Are you serious? You looked like you were in pain.”
I still am. “I’m not your responsibility, Dylan.”
“I never said you were.” His voice is low, edged with something I can’t quite place. Then voices echoing through the arena pull our attention, and Dylan steps back. “I should go.”
He disappears down the hall. I sink back to the floor, feeling like absolute crap. And this time, it’s not because of the panic attack.