Chapter 4
Luna
Today has been a fucking disaster.
The rink is emptying, most of the other skaters chatting easily as they head up to the lounge.
I exhale sharply, rubbing my hands over my face.
It’s fine. It’s the first day. It’s just practice.
But no matter how many times I tell myself that, it still feels like failure.
The next group of skaters walks in as I switch out my skates on the bench—solo skaters this time.
My eyes land on Anastasia, one of the top ice skaters at Valcérre.
Everything about her is perfect. Perfect posture, perfect physique.
She takes a few minutes to stretch and warm up before starting to work on her spins and crossovers. And I hate how she makes it look so easy and effortless. I look away, ignoring the sting of jealousy tightening in my chest.
I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, and carry my skates by their laces as I walk out of the rink. I climb the last set of stairs, heading toward the athlete’s lounge. I need food. Water. Something, God anything, to get my mind off how badly today went.
The hockey players are gathered at the bar near the balcony, owning the place like it was built for them. Some lounge at the high-top tables with their legs stretched out, others lean back against the countertop.
I recognize some of them from when I stopped by the hockey arena earlier. However, only one of them catches my attention—again.
Even seated, he carries himself differently. Lean, powerful, and contained. The kind of posture that says he doesn’t give a fuck.
He isn’t loud like the others. He’s not grinning, talking, or socializing like he belongs in the conversation.
Instead, he’s quiet.
He’s wearing a hoodie, the sleeves pushed up just enough that I catch a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the fabric.
I look away and keep walking, focusing on the café counter. Food first. Then I can drown in my self-pity.
But then I hear them talking.
“Who’s the new girl?”
“Nico’s new partner.”
Why are they talking about me?
“The tall one with the braids?”
“Yeah.” A low whistle. “She’s hot.”
I stop mid-step.
Of course.
Not, “She’s a good skater.” Not, “She might be a threat this season.” Just hot.
A laugh follows, and someone mutters something I don’t catch before another voice cuts in. “Z, here got a good look at her earlier.”
I blink.
Wait. What?
“Yeah, I caught him staring from the balcony.”
“Maybe he’s got a thing for figure skaters.”
My fingers curl tighter around my bag strap, and my face feels hot all of a sudden.
“Relax. She’s just another ice princess.” His voice is completely uninterested.
I freeze.
Of all the things he could have said, that’s what he landed on.
Just another ice princess, like I’m no different from the others. I’m just a cliché, another pretty girl on the ice with nothing to prove. As if I haven’t fought for every damn opportunity I’ve had.
Screw this.
I step forward, gripping my bag tighter over my shoulder. “Excuse me?”
The conversation dies instantly. All the casual laughter and teasing disappear as every pair of eyes focuses on me. Zayden Aldenhurst—and yes, I know his name; everyone does—is still leaning back in his chair with his protein shake in hand, completely unbothered.
His eyes flick to mine as he studies me slowly, like he’s taking his time deciding if I’m worth acknowledging. Something about him makes my skin burn with frustration.
“Didn’t quite catch what you said.”
His expression doesn’t change. If anything, he looks more bored, like I’m inconveniencing him by standing here. And then he speaks. “Something bothering you, Ice Princess?”
A slow shiver runs down my spine. I hate how his voice makes my stomach tighten in a way that catches me off guard. How his words burrow under my skin, settling there like they belong.
I fold my arms and stare at him, trying not to get distracted by the way his piercing brown eyes hold mine. “Just wanted to make sure I heard you right. Something about me being just another ice princess?”
A few of the hockey players exchange glances, one of them shifting uncomfortably. But not him. Zayden doesn’t blink, or hesitate. “If the title fits.”
I see red.
The audacity, the smug confidence. Like he knows exactly how to get under my skin and enjoys every second of it. “Right. Because hockey players are so much better?”
“Did I say that?” His voice drifts through the air, smooth as the ice downstairs, but there’s something beneath it, like he’s waiting for me to react.
I should walk away, let it go. Instead, I plant my hands on the table, leaning in just slightly. My fingers brush his, barely touching, but a sharp, electric jolt crawls up my arm.
Zayden stills.
His eyes drop briefly to where my fingertips accidentally graze his.
My breath catches, and I push away, forcing space between us, breaking whatever that was. “Maybe not, but you sure as hell implied it.”
“Look, Ice Princess—”
“Don’t call me that.”
His head tilts, just slightly. “Sensitive?”
My fingers curl into fists. I could throw my skate at his head right now.
Instead, I exhale sharply, forcing my voice steady.
“Enjoy your protein shake, Hockey Boy. Just don’t choke on it.
” And with that, I turn and walk away with my heart pounding in my chest. I don’t have to look back to know he’s still watching me.
“Hijo de puta (son of a bitch),” I mutter under my breath.
The cold air stings against my skin, but I hardly notice. My body still aches from training, and my mind is replaying a loop of every mistake, every missed lift, every whispered doubt.
And then there’s him.
Zayden Aldenhurst.
Just another ice princess.
The words shouldn’t mean anything. But they do.
I just thought that he, of all people, would understand. Even though his last name rules the school and his dad is white. He’s still the only Black player on that damn team. He still has to be twice as good just to be seen as enough.
I’ve heard the rumors. That he’s only on the team because of his dad, and no matter how good he is, they don’t believe he’s earned his spot.
I step into my dorm, drop my bag by the door, and let out a sharp breath. I should shower. I should eat. Instead, I grab my phone and press Rylee’s name. It rings once before she picks up.
“Hey, sissy.” Her voice is warm, soft, and familiar.
And suddenly, the lump in my throat is impossible to ignore. I flop onto my bed, pressing my forehead against my arm. “Why am I calling you instead of getting ready for class?”
Rylee laughs. “Because you’re upset.”
I groan. “I hate that you know me.”
She shifts in the background, probably walking around her villa in Paris. “Rough first day?”
I exhale slowly. “You could say that.”
“Let me guess. You’re already doubting yourself.”
I close my eyes. “Maybe.”
“Luna!”
It’s not a scolding, just my name, but it’s enough. Enough to make my chest tighten.
“You earned your place there. You belong there. Got it?”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. “Got it.”
“So, what happened?”
I hesitate. I could tell her about practice, about the lifts, about how every muscle in my body still aches from trying too hard. But instead, I say the part that got under my skin. “Some hockey player called me an ice princess.”
Rylee snorts. “And?”
“And it pissed me off.”
“Did you throw your skate at him?”
I thought about it.
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. “No. Pero lo quería matar (No. But I wanted to kill him).”
“Then I’m proud of you.”
I shake my head, staring up at the ceiling. “It just…got to me.”
“Why? Because some guy who doesn’t even know you said something dumb?”
“I just… I don’t want to let you or Luc down.” The words slip out before I can stop them, and as soon as they do, the weight in my chest feels heavier.
“Luna.” Rylee’s voice softens. “You could never let us down.”
I press my lips together. “But—”
“No. Listen to me.” She’s serious now. That big-sister voice, the one she used when I was a kid and needed someone to keep me from spiraling. “Luc and I don’t care if you win every competition or fall on your face a hundred times. You love skating, and that’s enough. You are enough.”
Of course, she said exactly what I needed to hear. I close my eyes and let her words sink in a little deeper.
“So get out of your head, baby girl. You’ve got this.”
I breathe in then out. The pressure and the weight are not gone, but they feel a little lighter. “Thanks, sissy.”
“Anytime.”
Rylee is quiet for a second before she speaks again. “Have you talked to Mom?”
I hesitate just a second too long before answering.
“No. I’ve been busy.” It’s not a lie, not completely, but it’s also not the truth. Because even if I had the time, I wouldn’t call.
Rylee exhales. “Luna.”
I know that tone.
“I’ll call her soon, but right now, I need to get ready for class.”
She sighs through the speaker but doesn’t push. “So this hockey boy. Is he hot or not?”
I groan. “I’m hanging up now.”
She laughs like she already knows the answer. “That’s not a no.”
“Bye. Te quiero mucho. (I love you so much.)”
“Yo también te quiero. (I love you, too.)”
I hang up before the lump in my throat gets any worse.
As always, the memories come knocking whether I want to let them in or not.
Six-year-old me was sitting on the couch, wondering if my mom was coming home. Rylee had just left for college, and I didn’t know what time it was, except that it was dark outside.
I pulled the oversized blanket over my head. It still smelled like Rylee, sweet vanilla, but she wasn’t here anymore. I didn’t want to cry, but my chest ached in a way I didn’t understand.
The little flip phone Rylee had given me was clutched in my hands. I opened it and dialed the first number. Mom.
The phone rang, but no answer.
I tried again, and still no answer.
I stared at Rylee’s number, trying to decide if I should call her. Not because she wouldn’t answer, I knew she would, but I didn’t want to wake her up. She had school and work, but I called her anyway.
She answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Hermanita, you okay?” Her voice was soft, a little raspy from sleep. No frustration. No annoyance. Just warmth.
“Can’t sleep. Can you sing me a lullaby?”
There was a silence on the other line, and then she softly began. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”
I closed my eyes, my body curling deeper into the blanket, her voice pulling me away from the ache in my chest.
By the time she reached the second verse, my breathing had evened out.
I didn’t tell her Mom wasn’t home. Or that I was hungry.
I just let her sing.
The next morning, I woke up to the buzz of my phone against my pillow.
“Hello?”
“Morning, sleepy head. Go open the door.” Rylee’s voice cut through my sleepy brain.
I slid off the couch, my small feet padding across the cold wooden floor. I paused for a second before reaching for the knob and opening the door. A little part of me was hoping to see Rylee standing there.
Sitting on the welcome mat was a brown paper bag. I picked it up and peeked inside. Eggs, pancakes, and a little container of syrup.
I closed the door and carried it with me back to the couch.
“She’s not back yet, is she?”
I shook my head, even though she couldn’t see me. “No.”
She inhaled softly on the other side. “I want you to eat your breakfast and get ready for school, okay? The bus will be there soon to pick you up.”
I could hear the jingle of keys. She was probably heading to class.
“I have to go, but don’t tell anyone, okay? I’ll call you later.”
“Okay. Love you, sissy.”
“Love you, too.”
I blink, shaking off the memory as I grip my phone tighter. My heart is beating too fast.
Why does this still affect me?
Why does a memory from over a decade ago still feel fresh?
I exhale, shaking my head.
She’s trying now, and she’s been trying for three years. But three years don’t erase the fifteen that came before.
No amount of time ever will.
My phone vibrates, and when I check it, it’s a message from Rylee.
Rylee: He’s totally hot.
I roll my eyes but smile anyway.