Chapter 13
GRACE
My chest is killing me this morning, metaphorically and literally.
Metaphorical chest-pain because after last night’s article, I’m now the tragic omega centerpiece of a viral clickbait about “toxic hockey culture and pack dynamics.” The literal pain comes from the fact Reverie Ice Arena is kept at the temperature of a meat locker.
Three more warm-up laps, then I’ll run the opening sequence twice. When I’m skating, nothing can touch me, not even the persistent ache of humiliation.
I reach the far end of the rink, slam on the brakes, and for a blessed two seconds, stand in absolute silence. That’s when Connor slides up beside me with his hands jammed into the pockets of his training jacket.
“So,” he says, drawing the word out. “You’re doing extra laps. I hope that means your hip is better?”
I grunt. “Just burning off some nerves. But yes, it’s also nearly back to one-hundred-percent.”
“Good.”
Connor keeps pace as I set off again, this time with company whether I want it or not. We skate in tandem, synchronized like an old pair that can’t help but fall into step. His alpha presence makes the air vibrate and my body be drawn naturally closer to him than I’d like.
We finish the lap in silence. I let my muscles remember what working together feels like, even if the context is all wrong. He doesn’t talk or even look over, but I can tell he’s thinking about how things used to be. For a fleeting second, it almost feels normal.
At the end of the lap, Connor brakes, spraying up a miniature snowstorm, and faces me. “Listen, this is the last time I’ll bring any of it up. Just wanted to say that if you ever want to talk about it—like, actually talk, without the rest of them—I’m here.”
I roll my eyes, but the gesture doesn’t land as harsh as I want it to. “You’re not my therapist.”
He grins, then immediately sobers. “No, but I could be your friend. Or just your lead, if that’s all you want.”
I let that hang for a moment, watching his breath fog in the air. “I want to get through the summer without drama.”
He nods. “Me too.”
Director Hannah’s voice thunders over the ice. “Grace! Connor! This is not a private rink!”
We both laugh and my ears go hot. I push off toward the center. He falls in step a half-beat behind. He’s intentionally giving me the lead this time. It’s… nice.
Hannah waits with her clipboard and her usual air of exasperation. “Glad you two could make it. There’s a full cast meeting in ten. Don’t be late.”
Connor gives a little salute, then turns to me. “Thanks for hearing me out.”
“Thanks for saying something.” I do hope it’s the last time any of the three alphas who rejected me bring that fact up. But I can’t deny that being at this reset point with Connor feels nice. Right, even.
He winks. “See you at call.”
Connor skates off. His shoulders loosen now that the air’s been cleared. I watch him for a second, then turn back to my own warm-up, but it feels less like an escape.
I didn’t think Zev, Connor, and Fowler would talk to me once the season started, let alone apologize. I didn’t think I’d ever want them to. But something about the way Connor’s voice broke just a little when he did makes it hard to keep the old anger burning as brightly as before.
I’m not ready to trust any of them. Not yet. But hope, like pain, is a thing that grows if you let it.
I hesitate at the edge of the rink, then glide over to the cluster of cast members, chin held high, ready for whatever comes next.
There’s a particular kind of high that only comes after a perfect performance. It’s a private sort, a bright thrum just below your skin, like you’ve swallowed a lightning bug. I’m still buzzing as I leave the arena, hair damp and cheeks numb from grinning through the entire finale.
I walk slowly back to my apartment, letting my body reprocess the last few hours. I savor every micro-memory. My flawless landings. The way the crowd roared on the triple twist.
The absurdly perfect chemistry with Connor as we hit our closing pose.
Connor was right there every single time I needed him, with steady hands and arms sure. Neither of us came close to falling.
We’re good together. Which is infuriating and history-soaked, but no less true.
My phone vibrates as I pass Reverie’s parking lot. There’s a missed call from Mom, who will want a full debrief with Olympic-level commentary later. For now, I pick up Briar’s call.
“Holy shit, Grace. That show? I thought they were going to carry you out on their shoulders. You looked like you belonged on a cereal box.”
I snort, the warmth in my chest doubling. “You weren’t even here.”
“I have internet, you moron. Got streaming tickets for tonight.” There’s clatter in the background—Briar’s new pack of alphas, I’d bet. “You went full princess. How does it feel to be the face of Reverie?”
“I’m not the face. Maybe the kneecaps.” I laugh. “My legs are still shaking.”
Briar hums. “You seem slightly off. Are you going to tell me what’s up, or do I have to drag it out of you?”
I consider deflecting. What’s the point? She knows me too well. “Zev, Connor, and Fowler have all talked to me. Apologized, actually. Individually.”
The line goes quiet except for Briar’s breath. “Huh. Didn’t see that coming.”
“Yeah. And it was less cringey than I thought it might be.”
Briar whistles. “Do you believe them?”
That’s the million-dollar question. “I don’t know. Maybe.” I picture Connor’s face from this afternoon. “Part of me wants to hate them forever, you know?”
“And the other part?”
“Would settle for just nailing the next show, and maybe not being a public embarrassment.”
Briar laughs. “Grace. You could never be an embarrassment. You’re like, annoyingly unflappable. I wish I had an ounce of your confidence.”
“Is that what this is? Confidence?” I wrinkle my nose. “Feels more like survival.”
“Same thing,” she says. “Listen, I get why you’re cautious. But also, maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to give them a second chance. Even if it’s just for the show. But like, a cautious second chance.”
I mull this over as I cross toward the apartment building. “Maybe. Don’t get your hopes up, though. I’m still emotionally in witness protection.”
Briar cackles. “Text me when you’re home, you shut-in.”
“Will do.” I pause, then add, “Hey. I’m glad you’re there for me. Even if you’re busy with your own circus.”
There’s a brief hush. “Always, Grace. You know that.”
“I do.” I hang up and make my way back to my apartment.
Maybe things are finally looking up.