12. Chapter 13
Mara
I take my hands off the doorknob.
I pressed against Dane's chest, my hand gripping his like it's the only thing keeping me upright. His heartbeat pounds against my palm. Fast, uneven, matching mine.
Evan's voice carries through the door. "Thought I saw them two head this way."
A pause. Long enough that I stop breathing.
"Must've been mistaken."
Footsteps retreat down the hallway. Like he wants us to hear him leave.
Dane's exhale is warm against my temple. "He knows. He said all that on purpose."
"Yeah." My voice doesn't shake. That surprises me. "He knows."
Evan doesn't come at me directly.
That's the thing about him. He never does.
He's too smart for that. Too aware of how it would look. So he doesn't. He just smiles at me in the hallway, and then he turns to whoever is standing next to him and says something I can't quite hear.
The other person glances at me.
That's all it takes.
I notice it Monday morning when two of the players stop talking the moment I walk into the conditioning room. One of them looks at the floor. The other gives me a careful smile, like he's already chosen a side and feels mildly guilty about it.
I set my bag down and pull out my session notes. My hands are certain. My face gives nothing away.
That's the only move I have.
I run the session. I cue breathing and transitions and form corrections with the same calm I bring every single time. Nobody says anything out of line. Nobody has to. The air already says it for them.
After the players file out, I catch Evan lingering near the door.
He's not doing anything wrong. Just standing there, rolling his water bottle between his palms. Waiting.
"Good session," he says.
"Thanks."
"You doing okay?" He tilts his head. Genuine concern, perfectly performed. "Heard things have been a little tense."
I pick up my notes. "I'm fine."
"Right." He nods slowly. "It's just, people talk. You know how it gets. I'd hate for your reputation to take a hit over something that could've been handled better."
He leaves before I can respond.
I stand there for a second and think about exactly what he just did. Not a threat. Not an accusation. Just a little nudge. A reminder that he knows, and that other people are starting to know, and that my reputation is fragile in a way his isn't.
The rage is quiet and very cold.
I swallow it down and go find Tessa.
My dad calls Tuesday after the morning skate.
He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't bring up Dane's name. He just talks about my schedule, my contract hours, the rink calendar for next week. Practical. Measured. Every word doing exactly what he intends it to do.
He's not angry. I almost wish he were.
Anger would be easier to push back against. This is colder than anger. This is him going through the motions of a conversation with someone he doesn't fully trust anymore.
"I'll check the calendar tonight," I say.
"Good."
A moment of silence.
"Dad."
"I'll talk to you Thursday." He hangs up.
I set the phone face-down on the bench outside the rink and sit there for a minute. He doesn't look up when he answers these days. One-word replies. The distance is specific and physical, and I know exactly what it cost him to build it.
Dane is waiting by the side exit after Wednesday's practice.
Not blocking the door. Not making it a thing. Just standing against the wall and his eyes on his phone, like he happened to end up there and isn't doing anything about it.
I know better.
He looks up when he hears my footsteps. Something in his face settles, just slightly. He doesn't say anything. He just falls into step beside me like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"I don't need a walk to my car," I say.
"I know."
He keeps walking.
"Dane."
"I'm just walking. I'm going the same way you are."
I glance at him. The corner of his mouth doesn't quite move, but it almost does.
"That's a lie."
"It's a gray area."
He walks me to my car. He doesn't touch me. Doesn't say anything particularly meaningful. Just exists in the space beside me until I reach the driver's side door, and then he stops, hands in his pockets, looking at me with that patient, unhurried look I've started recognizing as specifically his.
"I'm fine," I say, before he can ask.
"I know." He says it like he means the opposite. "I'm still going to be here tomorrow."
"That's the problem."
He files it away. I can see him do it. The slight pull at the corner of his jaw.
"You want me to disappear," he says.
"I want you to understand what visibility costs me."
"I do understand." His voice is certain and even. "I also don't think you should have to be invisible."
I get in the car.
He steps back. Doesn't argue. Doesn't push.
On the drive home I keep both hands on the wheel. I don't think you should have to be invisible. I think about it the rest of the night.
Thursday morning, I run Tessa's session, correct her back edge on the combination spin, and send her off with a revised drill sequence and a granola bar from my bag because she mentioned she skipped breakfast.
Julie corners me in the lobby as I walk Tessa out.
"I heard there's been some disruption," she says. A careful question asked to exactly the right person.
"Nothing that affects Tessa's training."
"Right." Julie tilts her head. "I just want to make sure she's getting your full attention. She's got regionals in three weeks. This is not the time for distractions."
"Tessa has my full attention." I keep my voice even. "She always does."
Julie looks at me for a moment longer than she needs to. Then she smiles, nods, and walks away.
I watch her go. Even Tessa's mother has heard something about Dane. Whatever Evan is feeding into the rink’s ecosystem, it is moving faster than I thought.
That night I'm on my couch with a cup of tea going cold on the coffee table, running Tessa's split-jump breakdown on my laptop, when my phone lights up.
Not a call. A notification.
A hockey fan account I follow for rink schedule updates has shared a link. Local sports blog. The kind that runs on fan tips and blurry phone photos and just enough real information to be believed.
I tap the notification.
The headline sits at the top of the screen in bold.
Kincaid's New "Conditioning Coach" — More Than Yoga?
Below it is a photo. Blurry, taken from a distance. Dane and me walking through the side parking lot. His head angled toward mine. My arms crossed, my face down. We're not touching. We're not even that close.
But we look like a secret.
I read the first paragraph. Unnamed sources. Team insiders. Speculation about the coach's daughter and the traded star with a reputation. Words like complicated and unprofessional and sources say.
I close the app.
I sit in the quiet for a long moment. Then I set the laptop on the coffee table and press both hands flat against my thighs, just to feel them steady.
Then I open my contacts and scroll to my dad's name, and I stop.