Chapter 3
Gwen
By the time I get off the ice, my entire body feels like it has been personally insulted by physics. The universe has made this something personal.
My knee throbs in that dull, blooming way that suggests I’ll wake up tomorrow and briefly forget I’m not made of rubber. My hip feels like it’s already drafting a complaint letter. And my pride well. My pride is a collapsed soufflé on the floor of a public kitchen.
Which is to say: it’s fine. Everything is fine.
The stands are still loud, but the noise is receding now, turning into a distant roar rather than an immediate threat. People mill around with hot drinks and rosy cheeks, waving at players, taking photos near the Grizzlies banner like this is the kind of night you put in a scrapbook.
I consider leaving. Right now. Immediately. Before anyone can approach me with the words “You were so brave,” which is a socially acceptable way of saying, “I watched you fall and lived to tell the tale.”
But Tess has my elbow. Not gripping, not dragging. It’s just there steady, like she’s an anchor disguised as a five-foot-nothing woman in a hoodie.
“You ok?” she asks again, quietly, like she already knows the answer but wants to give me the dignity of deciding how honest I want to be.
I open my mouth.
What comes out is, “If anyone needs tips on how to meet the ice up close and personal, I’m basically a consultant now.”
Tess’s eyes narrow. That look means she’s about to do that thing where she doesn’t let me joke my way out of my own feelings. Tess is very supportive. Tess is also allergic to avoidance. Owning a bakery for a decade will do that to a person.
“Gwen,” she says, voice gentle but firm. “Are you ok?”
I blink at her.
My brain scrambles for something clever.
Something deflective. Something that keeps the moment light and breezy, like I am a woman who did not fall in front of half of Chicago only minutes ago, only to be pulled to her feet by a Grizzlies player with kind eyes and a hand that felt like the opposite of panic.
“I’m good,” I say, and the lie comes out smooth. Practiced. A little unsettling.
Tess holds my gaze.
“Mm,” she hums.
That’s it. Just mm. A single syllable that contains an entire dissertation on emotional repression.
Behind us, Leo appears like a summoned demon.
Leo’s grin widens. “I’m proud of you.”
The sincerity underneath it hits me like a small, unexpected shove.
I pause. My throat tightens for half a second, which is unacceptable, so I immediately say, “Don’t get emotional. You’ll ruin your brand.”
Leo laughs. Tess rolls her eyes. And just like that, the moment relaxes.
See? Humor works. Humor keeps everything from getting too close.
We move toward the seating area because Tess is still lightly guiding me, and Leo is still hovering like a meddling guardian angel who cannot be trusted. People keep passing, tossing glances at me like they recognize me not as me, but as The Girl Who Fell.
A woman in a puffy coat smiles brightly as she walks by. “You were so cute out there! I love your dress!”
“Thank you,” I say automatically, my voice high and cheerful. “I did my signature move.”
The woman laughs and keeps walking.
Tess hands me a cup of hot chocolate she somehow procured. She has the survival instincts of a woman who has run out of butter during a Saturday rush, and I clutch it like it’s medicine.
The warmth sinks into my gloves. My fingers uncoil slightly.
I take a sip and glance toward the ice, mostly to prove to myself I’m fine. To prove this was ok. That nothing strange happened.
The Grizzlies players are still out there, skating in lazy loops, interacting with fans between segments. They look like they belong to the rink the way some people belong to sunlight. Effortless. Inevitable.
I spot the guy who helped me almost immediately. Not because he’s doing anything flashy, he isn’t. He’s not waving dramatically or posing for photos. He’s just… there. Present. Talking to a kid at the boards, leaning down slightly so the kid can hear him through the glass.
He smiles at the kid, small and real, and something in my stomach flips, sharp and confusing.
I look away quickly.
I do not have time in my life to think about a mysterious hockey player with kind eyes and quiet competence. I have dough to laminate. Sheet pans to scrub. My car’s check engine light has been on since Thanksgiving.
Also, he’s a professional athlete. He’s a walking red flag in a jersey. Plus, I’m not his type. I’m not a type in general.
I take another sip of hot chocolate and stare resolutely at the cookie tray.
Leo leans in. “I think Zane liked you.”
“His name is Zane?” I ask, surprised. I’ve heard of Zane Miller on the Grizzlies before. He’s one of their star players. This can’t be him, right? I’ve never been that into ice hockey, so I didn’t recognize his face.
Leo grins. “It is. We met at a game my company sponsored.”
Tess’s gaze flicks to Leo. “Since when do you have hockey player friends?”
Leo’s grin doesn’t falter. “Since I learned how to make friends who can body-check people.”
Tess’s expression goes flat. “That’s not how friendship works.”
Leo shrugs. “It is for me.”
Tess takes my hot chocolate away gently before I can throw it at anyone.
Leo continues, apparently determined to dig his own grave. “I told Zane you were nervous. I told him to be nice. That’s all.”
“That’s all,” I repeat, my voice rising. Of course, he was nice because Leo told him to be.
“Yes,” Leo says, innocent.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You realize this is humiliating, right?”
Leo’s grin softens, just a fraction. “It’s not humiliating. He was kind. You did great.”
“I fell.”
“You fell and got back up,” Tess says, like it’s some kind of achievement. Like I’m supposed to get a sticker.
I open my mouth to argue. I can feel the bruise forming not just on my knee, but in my chest. That old, familiar ache of being seen at my worst and waiting for the laugh.
“Whatever,” I say, too quickly. “It’s done. I survived.”
Zane is skating away from the boards now, gliding backward as he talks to another player. His movements are easy, economical. He looks like he belongs to the rink in a way I will never belong to anything that requires balance.
He laughs at something the other player says, his head tipping back slightly. The sound doesn’t reach me, but I can see it in the way his shoulders loosen.
I wonder, suddenly, what it would feel like to be that comfortable in your body.
To not be bracing for impact all the time.
I focus on the rink, on the noise, on the warmth of the cup in my hands. I can do this. I can stand here. I can be perceived for another hour. I can survive.
I last exactly forty-seven more minutes at the rink.
Which is impressive, considering my body is still vibrating with a mix of adrenaline, humiliation, and that particular brand of social exhaustion that comes from being watched.
The next part of the charity event is an auction.
Silent auction tables line the concourse, covered in clipboards and display cards that scream wholesome fundraising: spa packages, restaurant gift cards, and a signed Grizzlies stick that has a group of dads hovering around it like moths to a porch light.
Leo hovers too, because Leo is never not hovering. At one point, he points at the Grizzlies’ stick and says, “I should bid on that.”
Tess doesn’t even look up from the clipboard she’s reviewing. “You don’t need a stick.”
“It’s not about need,” Leo says solemnly. “It’s about dominance.”
“Leo.”
He smiles sweetly at her. “Yes, my love?”
Tess closes her eyes like she’s counting to ten. “Do not start a charity bidding war with Rex Chen.”
Leo perks up. “He’s here?”
Tess’s eyes open. “Yes. You didn’t see him?”
Leo’s gaze scans the crowd with the intensity of a man hunting for sport. “Where?”
“Oh my God,” I mutter into my hot chocolate.
I follow their line of sight and spot Rex Chen about fifteen feet away, immaculate as always, like he was poured into a coat that costs more than my monthly groceries. He’s standing beside Leo’s friend Julian, the one from their Midnight Mavericks crew.
Julian is animated, gesturing with one hand as he talks, his expression bright and sharp. Rex looks like he wants to throw Julian into Lake Michigan.
Enemies. Noted. Filed away for later gossip consumption.
Leo spots them too, and his whole face lights up like Christmas came early.
Tess catches his sleeve. “No.”
Leo turns to her, scandalized. “Yes.”
“No,” she repeats, firmer.
Leo looks at me, pleading. “Gwen.”
I take a slow sip of hot chocolate. “I am neutral. Like a cat. Watching. Judging.”
Tess shoots me a look. “Do not encourage him.”
I shrug. “I’m not encouraging. I’m supporting his journey.”
Leo beams. “Thank you.”
Tess mutters, “I’m surrounded by chaos goblins,” and tightens her grip on Leo’s sleeve.
I do a lap around the concourse to make myself feel like I’m doing something other than spiraling. I stop at a table with hockey-puck-shaped cookies and pretend my interest is purely culinary.
Tess appears at my side like she sensed the shift in my mood from across the room. “Ready to leave?” she asks.
“So ready,” I say immediately.
Leo is ten feet away, trying to make eye contact with Rex Chen like a man picking a fight at a dog park.
“Leo!” Tess calls.
Leo turns, already smiling. “What?”
“We’re leaving,” Tess says.
Leo blinks. “But…”
Tess’s expression is calm and deadly. “We’re leaving.”
Leo’s mouth opens, then closes. He looks at me, and something shifts in his face, concern sliding in beneath the mischief.
I look away quickly and say, “Let’s go before you decide to start a war.”
Leo sighs dramatically. “Fine. But Rex is lucky.”
Tess mutters, “Rex is not lucky. Rex is exhausting and is going to get karma someday. Just not today.”
We walk out together, the cold night air hitting me in the face the second the doors open. My breath fogs in front of me. The city feels quieter out here, less amplified, less echo.
My shoulders drop a fraction.
In the parking lot, Leo peels away to charm a valet situation into submission. Tess turns to me.
“Talk to me,” she says gently.
I blink at her. “About what?”
“Anything,” she says.
I open my mouth to make a joke.
Then I close it.
Because Tess is looking at me like she’ll accept the joke and still wait for the truth afterward. Like she has time.
Like I’m worth it.
“I don’t like being… noticed,” I admit, my voice low.
Tess nods slowly. “Ok.”
“I know that sounds pathetic,” I rush, reflexive shame rising. “I’m fine. I’m not, I mean, I talk to customers all day. I can do people. But this was different.”
“Because it was about you,” Tess says quietly.
I swallow hard.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Because it was about me.”
Tess’s face softens. “You did it anyway.”
I shrug, attempting casual. “I didn’t have a choice. Leo rigged the…”
Tess’s eyes narrow slightly, but not at Leo. At me. “You had a choice,” she corrects. “You could’ve said no and walked off. You didn’t. I’m proud of you, Gwen.”
My chest tightens again. Annoying.
“I hate that you’re right,” I mutter.
“I know,” Tess says, her smile small but warm. “It’s my best quality.”
I snort. “Your best quality is bullying me into emotional growth.”
“Someone has to,” she says. Then, gently, “You were not a joke out there.”
I blink. “I fell.”
“You fell,” she agrees. “And you got up. And you didn’t freeze. And you didn’t laugh like you were begging people to laugh with you.”
That makes my stomach flip.
I look away. “I always laugh.”
“I know,” Tess says. “But tonight… it wasn’t that laugh.”
I swallow, my throat burning a little. “What laugh was it?”
Tess studies me. “The one that’s actually you. Not the one you put on, so no one can hurt you first.”
My chest tightens painfully.
I manage, “Ok, therapist.”
Tess smiles. “I’m not a therapist. I’m a baker. We have good instincts because dough doesn’t lie.”
I laugh quietly because that’s Tess; she makes sincerity sound like a fact.
Leo returns then, keys in hand, smug again. “My chariot awaits,” he announces, gesturing to his car like he’s a prince.
Tess rolls her eyes. “Get in, Your Majesty.”
As we drive, the city lights blur past the windows, streaks of gold and white against the dark.
The heater blasts, thawing my fingers and my cheeks.
Tess sits in the passenger seat, scrolling through something on her phone, probably bakery-related, because Tess’s brain is basically a spreadsheet with a soul.
Leo drives like he owns the road.
I sit in the back and press my forehead to the cool glass for half a second, letting the car’s vibration ground me.
I tell myself to stop thinking. It doesn’t work. Because the moment my eyes close, I see the ice again. Not the fall. His hand. The way he offered it was like a question, not a demand. The way his eyes stayed on mine instead of flicking toward the crowd, like he was checking who was watching.
By the time I get home, my knee is stiff, my cheeks are warm from the car heat, and my brain is exhausted from trying to process a human interaction that shouldn’t matter and absolutely does.
I kick off my shoes at the door and hobble toward my couch like an elderly woman with opinions.
My apartment is small, warm, and quiet. It smells faintly of vanilla because I used a candle last week to make myself feel like I have my life together.
It did not work.
I collapse onto the couch and stare at the ceiling.
My phone buzzes.
LEO: Is your knee ok?
ME: Barely. Tell my story.
LEO: You impressed me, Gwen. Also, you owe me $4 for fries.
I smile despite myself. Idiot.
I toss the phone onto the cushion beside me and close my eyes.
After what feels like an hour, I limp toward my freezer for an ice pack. I press it to my knee and wince.
“Ok,” I tell myself. “We’re done. We’re going to sleep.”
I sink back onto the couch, the ice pack balanced on my knee, and let my eyes close again.
I fall asleep sometime after midnight, with the ice pack melted and my phone face down beside me.
When I wake up at 5:12 a.m. for no reason other than my body hates peace, I have one new message.
I squint at it, half-asleep, and my stomach drops awake instantly.
LEO: Btw, Zane asked if you were ok.
I stare at the screen.
Nothing after that. Just Leo, casually informing me that his famous hockey player friend asked about me like this is a normal, low-stakes detail.
Somewhere, deep down, a very small part of me whispers:
Oh no.