Chapter 36
The sound of blades scraping ice echoes through the rink, sharp and rhythmic, like breathing. Controlled chaos. That’s what Coach calls it. The season doesn’t officially start for another few weeks, but we’re already grinding through drills like we’ve got a championship on the line.
I skate to a stop near the boards, breathing hard, my lungs burning. Sweat trickles down the back of my neck beneath my helmet. Coach blows the whistle.
The team sprawls out across the ice and benches, sucking water bottles dry, stretching, leaning against the rail. I’m half-bent over, catching my breath, when Silas elbows me.
“Check it out,” he says, nodding toward the far rink.
The second rink sits quiet, unused, separated by a low wall of Plexi. A Zamboni hums to life, but that’s not what grabs our attention. It’s the guy driving it.
The old guy—Mr. Cordy—retired last spring.
Nice enough. Moved slow as hell but he always got the job done.
The guy steering the Zamboni now? Young.
Maybe even our age. Black hoodie beneath the rink-issued jacket.
A beanie under his hood, and dirty blonde hair sticking out that looks like it hasn’t met a comb in a while.
His face is all sharp edges, almost like he hasn’t had much to eat.
Tattoos crawl out onto his hands and neck from the edges of his hoodie.
Definitely not Mr. Cordy.
“Who the hell is that?” Silas mutters.
“New janitor?” Archer offers.
“Looks like a walking truancy violation,” Bryce adds with a low whistle.
“He looks like trouble,” I murmur.
The guy doesn’t look at us. Doesn’t acknowledge anything but the ice in front of him. A few of the guys start cracking jokes under their breath. My eyes are still on him when the doors of the rink open. Liv walks in and just the sight of her is enough to make my spine stiffen.
She hesitates near the entrance, eyes sweeping over the rink. Her gaze lands on us, half the team lined up against the railing, still catching our breath. Her expression doesn’t change. She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even look surprised to see us.
She holds our collective stare for a moment longer than necessary. Then she turns and walks toward the bleachers by the other rink and sits down on the second row.
“She didn’t even wave.” Silas says, deflated.
“Why’d she go over there?” I ask.
“Still pissed about Halloween probably,” Archer answers.
Silas shifts uncomfortably. “I should go talk to her. Like, now. Before she leaves.”
“Practice isn’t over,” Archer reminds him, slapping hand on Silas’ chest to stop him.
“Yeah, well, I need to talk to her.” Silas shoots back.
The whistle blows again before anyone can say more. Coach is already waving us back into formation.
Silas groans. “God, I hate character-building drills.”
Practice finally ends. My legs are dead, my lungs are tight, and the entire team is covered in sweat and frost. Coach blows the whistle for the final time, and we all skate toward the bench.
On the far side of the second rink, the Zamboni finishes its slow crawl across the ice. The janitor is pulling it off the rink.
We unlace skates and peel off gear while Silas leans against the boards, eyes flicking to the empty bleachers.
“Damn it,” he mutters. “She’s gone.”
“Who?” Archer asks flatly.
“Liv. I didn’t get to talk to her.”
I grab my stick and sling my gloves over my shoulder. “She’s probably in the girls’ locker room. You can look for her after we shower.”
“Or now,” Silas says.
“Or shower. Cause you need it.”
Silas grumbles but doesn’t argue.
When we’re dressed we finally make our way out of the locker room. We hit the main walkway that splits into two paths: one that leads to the double doors and the lobby, and the other that curves around the rink to the bleachers.
We pause at the fork.
“She’s still here somewhere,” Silas says, already glancing around.
She steps out of the locker room across the rink. She's in different clothes now. Spandex shorts and a body suit.
“There she is,” I murmur, already starting toward her.
But before we can take two steps, someone in the bleachers stands.
The janitor. Liv sees him and she smiles at him. Not just any smile either. Not the one she gives teachers or classmates or even Morella. This one is bright and real and wide, like sunlight breaking through clouds on a foggy morning.
Then she runs to him. When she reaches him, she jumps. Arms around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist. A little laugh. He catches her like he’s done it a million times before.
“Is she? Hugging him?” Silas asks.
“He’s holding her hand,” I snap. “She’s letting him hold her damn hand.” We’re all frozen where we stand.
The janitor leads her to the ice. Liv grabs skates from her duffel bag and he grabs a pair from a bench near the boards. They sit side by side, tying laces. Talking and smiling, heads bowed.
Then they step onto the ice. At first, it’s nothing flashy.
Just warm-up moves. Gliding backward, forward crossovers, side-by-side like they’re syncing muscle memory.
She spins into a deep inside edge, hair catching the air.
He mirrors her effortlessly. They’re laughing. Confident and totally in sync.
“She can skate?” Silas whispers.
“She can really skate,” I say, not even trying to hide the disbelief.
Liv pushes into a single axel. One full rotation, landing light, blades carving clean. He joins her and adds a loop jump. They pick up speed, weaving into an outside edge spiral, both of them bent low, fingertips trailing just above the ice.
They launch into a sequence. He lifts her by the waist and tosses her into a split twist. Her legs flying open midair before she lands like gravity doesn’t apply.
She grips his hands, they spin in a death spiral, her body low to the ice, head tilted back, hair grazing the surface, the centrifugal force pulling her wide while he rotates them both in perfect balance.
Silas doesn’t blink, mouth hanging wide open. Archer stays quiet, arms crossed, his jaw tight.
They hit a final sequence, a synchronized step pattern, then he swings her into an over-the-knee lift, one hand under her thigh, the other at her back, and spins. Fast, controlled and dizzying. Her face is calm, trusting, eyes closed like she’s flying.
They skate faster, laughing as they push each other into speed-driven glides. When they finally collapse near the center of the rink, they’re breathless and giggling. He’s laying beside her, face turned toward hers.
And it looks, intimate. Too intimate.
“Are they…?” Silas trails off.
The janitor sits up and says something to her. She nods, still catching her breath. He helps her up, hand strong under her elbow, then guides her toward the exit near the girls’ locker room. She gives him a soft smile as she disappears inside.
He skates to the other side and for the first time, he notices us. He nods. Cool and unbothered. Not a smirk, not a challenge. Just a nod. Then he’s gone, slipping into the same locker room we just left.
The silence between us is heavy.
“What the hell just happened?” Silas says.
“She didn’t even look at us,” I mutter.
We wait, and wait. Finally, Liv emerges again, her duffel over her shoulder, hair damp from the locker room showers. Her eyes sweep the rink and land on us. I swear to God, she winces.
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. Just keeps walking. She walks into the lobby and pauses. The janitor is already there, waiting by the doors. He’s changed out of his uniform. Flannel and jeans but no beanie. His hair is damp from the shower.
She walks straight to him and he opens the door for her. She steps outside and an Uber idles at the curb. He holds the door open for her like a fucking gentleman. She climbs in and he climbs in after her.
None of us move.
“She didn’t even speak to us,” Silas whispers.
“Yeah,” I say, voice hollow. “I noticed.”