38. Austin
AUSTIN
M y heart hasn’t stopped pounding since we parked. I’m trying to play it cool—really, I am—but I’ve stood up three times in the last five minutes just to sit back down again. Logan has already threatened to tape me to the bleachers if I don’t chill out.
“Rhodes,” he says, balancing a comically large coffee in one hand and elbowing me with the other. “You’re gonna burn a hole through the rink with that stare.”
“Can’t help it,” I mutter, fingers tapping out an anxious rhythm on my jeans. “She’s skating today.”
“Yeah, no shit,” Ryan adds, seated beside me, his hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. “We’re all aware. You’ve said it—what—thirty-seven times?”
“Thirty-eight,” Nathan deadpans from behind us.
Cole just folds his arms and stares ahead, his gum clicking between his teeth. “If you pass out, don’t expect me to carry you.”
“Not necessary,” I say, brushing them off. But honestly, I’m not sure I’m fooling anyone.
We’ve taken up half a section. A small army of hockey players, girlfriends, and friends, all here to scream our lungs out for the girl who somehow made me fall in love without even trying.
The announcer’s voice booms through the arena, calling the skaters for their warm-ups. I watch as competitors lace up their skates, stretch at the boards, and nervously tap their blades on the ice.
“She’s up next,” Aurora says over her shoulder, smirking. “Ready to embarrass yourself in front of everyone?”
I barely hear her. My eyes are already locked on the rink, searching for Maisie.
I freeze when I finally spot her, stepping out onto the rink like she’s always belonged there. The world gets a little quieter. A little slower. Her dress is an ombre pink, hugging her waist before flaring at the hips. It moves like liquid every time she shifts.
She skates toward center ice, glancing at the crowd like she’s searching for something—someone.
Me.
I stand again, cup my hands around my mouth, and yell, “You got this, Maisie!”
Her head snaps in my direction, our eyes lock, and she breaks out into a smile.
I feel it in my chest. Like sunlight cracking through clouds.
The announcer’s voice cuts through the air, calling her name.
She holds my gaze a heartbeat longer, then settles into her starting pose as the music begins.
And I stop breathing.
I lean forward, my heart in my throat, watching her start the routine she’s talked about, studied, practiced—each movement slow and precise, rising perfectly with the first notes of “Rewrite the Stars.”
I’m so focused on her, I almost miss the woman who steps into my peripheral vision.
She takes a seat beside me, placing her expensive looking purse onto her lap. Brown hair twisted neatly, a sleek coat. Older. Reserved. Watching Maisie intently, as if trying to memorize every movement.
I glance sideways. She notices, catching my eye.
“You know her?” she asks, nodding toward the rink.
I swallow hard. “Yeah. That’s my girlfriend.”
Her expression shifts—something flickering across her face so fast I barely catch it.
“I’m her mom.”
My stomach drops straight through the bleachers.
Oh fuck.
This is her. The mom who never shows up. The one Maisie said hasn’t seen her skate since she was a kid. The one she didn’t invite this time because she couldn’t handle being let down again.
“You’re—?” I blink. “You’re Maisie’s mom?”
She nods slowly, still watching the rink. “I wasn’t planning to come. But someone sent me a message. They told me I’d regret it if I didn’t. That she’s magic out there.”
My throat tightens. “That was me,” I say quietly. “I sent it.”
She turns to look at me fully now, her brows lifting. “Is there a reason why?”
I glance back at the ice where Maisie’s on the ice. She lifts her arms, then her whole body curves into motion, elegant, confident, like she’s telling a story I’ve never heard but suddenly know by heart.
“Because I love her,” I say. “And she deserves to be seen.”
Her mom looks at me for a long second, and then turns her attention back to the rink.
Maisie skates like she’s dancing with the music itself. Like her body knows the beat better than the speakers. Every jump lands with perfect control, every spin seems to hang in the air a little longer than it should.
I hear a collective inhale from the crowd.
She’s perfect. I don’t have another word for it. Every spin, every step, every little flick of her wrist feels like it’s dipped in gold. I can see her breathing through the transitions, feel the emotion pouring out of her as the music swells.
When the final sequence hits, she takes a deep breath, throws her arms up, and nails a clean triple toe loop. The crowd stands, cheering as she comes to a stop.
I lift out of my seat, clapping, and whistling, and making all the goddamn noise I told her I would. “That’s my girl!” I yell.
Her mom sniffles beside me, wiping under one eye.
“She always loved to skate,” she murmurs. “She’d practice outside. On the sidewalk. On the tile in our kitchen with socks. I used to think it was just a phase.” She pauses. “I should’ve come before.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t know what to say. There’s a pressure building in my chest, tight and aching. Not because of her. But because of Maisie. Because I know how much this moment will mean to her.
Maisie lifts her arms slowly, and gives a small, graceful bow toward the crowd. Her eyes flicker across the stands, searching, and then land on her mom.
Her mom’s expression softens, her lips trembling.
The announcer’s voice cuts through the noise, reading out the scores. Technical elements, program components. High numbers that confirm what we all saw. She nailed it, just like I knew she would.
Maisie’s shoulders relax, a shy smile tugging at her lips. She steps off the ice, heading toward the boards where her coach waits, clapping quietly.
Her mom catches my eye for a brief second, but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to. I know exactly what she’s thinking. She’s grateful I made her come see her daughter perform.
I catch her mom’s eye one last time and nod. Maisie deserves this. She deserves to have someone here who sees her.
I’m just glad she finally does.