Chapter 29
Billie
The rink was mine. Just me and the cold, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, and the crack of rubber on fiberglass echoing through empty stands. I'd been here since four—maybe earlier. Time didn't mean much when you'd stopped sleeping.
My legs burned. Shoulders ached. The bruise on my jaw throbbed with every hard turn, a reminder of Nate's thumb pressed too hard, too long. But I didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
I wound up for another shot, the puck singing off my blade and slamming into the top corner. The net shuddered. I circled back, grabbed another puck, lined it up. Again. And again.
No one was watching. No cameras. No reporters waiting to ask how it felt to ruin my life. No teammates whispering behind gloved hands. No coaches pretending they didn't see me bleed.
Just the ice.
And somehow, that made me lighter.
No hiding. No pretending. No one to lie to. And despite the cost, that feels like freedom.
I'd torched everything. My reputation. My future.
Maybe even the team. The headlines were brutal—Puck Bunny, Coach's Whore, The Girl Who Slept Her Way to the Top.
My phone had been a warzone of texts and calls and DMs I'd stopped reading after the first hundred.
Reese hadn't answered when I called. Kira had sent a single message:
I can't believe you did this to us.
But Hannah was still in my corner. Of course, she wanted the details, but…
And Calder...
I shoved the thought away, lined up another puck.
The social media live was my idea. But waiting meant letting them control the narrative. Letting them paint me as the victim or the villain while I sat silent.
Fuck that.
I'd stood in front of the rink, looked into my phone, and told the truth. All of it. That I'd chosen this. That I'd wanted him. That I wasn't sorry.
The fallout had been immediate. Vicious. But it was mine.
I fired another puck, harder this time. It ricocheted off the crossbar with a satisfying clang.
My stick stung in my hands, the tape fraying at the heel. I didn't care.
I kept skating.
The door to the rink opened.
I slowed, chest heaving, and spotted Nate stepping out from the shadows near the bench. Arms crossed. That same smug tilt to his jaw I'd memorized back when I thought it meant confidence instead of cruelty.
Fuck.
My pulse kicked, but not from fear. From rage so familiar it felt like muscle memory.
I didn't skate away. Didn't give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I glided to the boards and stepped off the ice, blades clicking against rubber as I planted myself in front of him. Close enough to see the cold calculation in his eyes. Far enough that he couldn't touch me without making it obvious.
"Didn't think you'd still be here," he said, voice smooth as glass over gravel. "Figured you'd crawl back to whatever hole you came from."
I pulled off my gloves, slow and deliberate, and tucked them under my arm.
"What do you want, Nate?"
He tilted his head, that smirk deepening. "I warned you."
The words landed soft. Poisonous.
I felt the ghost of his hand on my jaw again, the way he'd grabbed me in the locker room like I was still his to claim. The way he'd kissed me in front of cameras, knowing I couldn't fight back without breaking everything I'd built.
But I wasn't that girl anymore.
I met his gaze head-on, lips curving into something sharper than a smile.
"You did. And I'm so glad."
His smirk faltered. Just a flicker—but I caught it.
He raised an eyebrow, leaning in slightly like he was trying to read me. Trying to find the crack.
I didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Didn't give him a damn thing.
Because the truth was simple: he'd tried to ruin me, and I'd walked into the fire, anyway. I'd chosen Calder. I'd chosen honesty. I'd chosen myself.
Nate had nothing left to take.
I leaned in, close enough to smell the cologne he'd probably sprayed on before coming here—the same one he used to wear when he wanted to remind people he mattered.
My voice came out calm. Steady. Venom wrapped in silk.
"Now I don't have to pretend I was ever in love with you. Now everyone knows what a small, spineless prick you really are."
His jaw tightened. I kept going.
"And yeah, your dad? Bigger than you. Better than you. I came more times in four nights with him than I did in our entire relationship."
The crack of his hand across my face came so fast I barely registered it.
My head snapped to the side, pain blooming hot and sharp across my cheekbone. I stumbled back, catching myself against the boards. My lip split, copper flooding my tongue.
"You fucking slut."
He was breathing hard, fists still clenched, face twisted into something ugly and raw. The mask was gone. No charm. No polish. Just rage.
I touched my mouth, fingers coming away slick with blood.
And I laughed. A real, full-throated laugh that echoed through the empty rink like a victory bell.
Nate froze, confusion flashing across his face.
I straightened, wiping the blood on the back of my hand, and gestured lazily toward the corners of the rink.
"You know there are cameras, right? You just signed your own death warrant."
His eyes followed my hand. Found the small black domes mounted near the ceiling—security feeds that recorded everything. Every practice. Every late-night skate. Every moment some entitled NHL golden boy thought he could put his hands on someone and walk away clean.
The color drained from his face.
"You—"
"Yeah. Me." I stepped forward, closing the distance he'd just created. "You never took me seriously. You never really loved me. You cheated me who knows how many times. So honestly? Fuck you. And I'm so glad I never have to anymore. Do you know how exhausting it was to fake it with you?"
His mouth opened. Closed. No words came out.
I leaned in again, voice dropping to something quiet and deadly. "You wanted to ruin me, Nate. You tried. But all you did was hand me the match."
He stepped back, shoulders hitting the glass. For the first time since I'd known him, Nate Ransom looked small.
"They'll bury you," I continued, each word deliberate.
"Your PR team. Your sponsors. The league.
They'll cut you loose so fast you won't even have time to pack your locker.
And you know what the best part is?" I smiled, blood still staining my teeth.
"I didn't even have to lift a finger. You did it yourself. Because you're such a sensitive bitch."
His hands trembled. Rage or fear—I didn't care which.
"You're insane," he muttered.
"Maybe. But I'm free."
I turned, skates clicking against the floor as I walked toward the locker room.
"Billie—"
I didn't look back.
"Don't," I said, voice echoing off the concrete. "Don't say my name. Don't call. Don't text. Don't even think about me."
I paused at the door, glancing over my shoulder just long enough to catch his eyes one last time.
"Enjoy explaining that footage to the league. I hear they're real understanding about guys who hit women."
His fingers locked around my arm, hard enough to bite. The back of my shoulder hit the wall with a dull thud that echoed down the empty rink corridor. His face was inches from mine, breath sour, eyes wild. Somewhere, his perfect PR mask cracked right through the center.
“You think this is a game?” he hissed. “You think you can humiliate me?”
My pulse hammered, but not from fear. I met his stare until his grip tightened. The urge to hit back clawed through me, but I stayed still. I wanted him to see it, the calm. The part of me he couldn’t reach anymore.
“Let go,” I said. My voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
He didn’t. His jaw twitched. The boy who used to score goals with a grin looked like a cornered child now, all fury and panic.
“You ruined my career,” he spat.
I twisted my wrist, slow, deliberate, breaking his hold finger by finger. “No, Nate. You did that yourself.”
He blinked like he couldn’t process the words. I stepped closer, daring him to make another move. He didn’t. He just stood there, chest heaving, trying to turn himself back into the man everyone cheered for.
“You hit the wrong person,” I whispered. “Now the cameras have proof.”
Color flushed up his neck.
“I’ll fix it,” he said—more to himself than to me. “They’ll believe me. They always do.”
I smiled, small and deadly. “Not this time.”
He froze again, shoulders rigid, and I saw it—a flicker of something new. Fear.
“Get out of my way.”
His fingers dug into my arm, the pressure biting against bone. I twisted, but his grip only tightened. Something in his face—blank and manic—froze me for half a beat. Then a sound ripped down the hallway, low and guttural.
Shoes struck concrete.
Calder filled the doorway, shadow swallowing the pale rink light behind him. Shoulders squared, eyes locked on Nate.
“Let her fucking go,” he growled, voice low and steady enough to vibrate in my ribs. He took another step forward. “Or I’ll break every bone in your body.”
Nate’s hand twitched. For a second, I thought he might listen. Then something in his pride snapped. He shoved me away, hard enough that my spine hit cold glass. The air left my lungs in one short gasp.
And he lunged.
Calder met him halfway. The collision sounded like a car crash—flesh and anger and years of poison detonating in the same breath.
Nate swung first, wild and fast. Calder ducked it, answering with a fist to the ribs that cracked against bone.
Nate staggered but didn’t drop. He came back snarling, head down, driving into his father’s chest with the same reckless power he used on the ice.
They crashed against the boards, the echo rolling through the empty rink like thunder.
I tried to speak, to move, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. My heart rattled against my ribs. They didn’t even look human anymore—just motion, raw and animal.
Nate caught Calder across the jaw. Blood shone at the corner of his mouth; he wiped it away with the back of his hand and smiled, a sharp and humorless thing.