Chapter 25
Gio
The first light of dawn filters through the cheap blinds of my dorm room, painting stripes on the wall. My bed beside me is cold. Zoe is gone. She always leaves before the sun comes up, like a vampire who can't stand the light of day.
The silence in the room is a physical weight.
Last night, it was a balm. Her breathing, the rustle of the sheets, the warmth of her skin—it was the only thing that could drown out the static in my head.
Now, the silence is just an amplifier. The hum of the mini-fridge is a jackhammer.
A drip from the leaky faucet in the bathroom is a waterfall.
I can still smell her on the pillow. Vanilla and something sharp, like ozone. The scent is a ghost, and it's haunting me already.
I get up, pulling on jeans and a hoodie. Getting out is what I need. The one place that's ever made sense is where I'm headed. The rink.
The campus is deserted at this hour. The air is crisp and cold, biting at my exposed skin.
I don't go back to my dorm. I walk straight to the arena.
The side door is always unlocked for the early morning maintenance crew.
I slip inside, the familiar smell of ice and Zamboni fluid hitting me like a punch.
It's supposed to smell like home. Today, that smell just resembles a tomb.
The lights are left off as I step onto the ice, my sneakers squeaking against the hard, frozen surface. It's vast and empty. A white desert under the dim glow of the emergency exit signs. This is my church. Here, the rules are simple and the effort is honest. Skate fast, hit hard, don't fuck up.
But the ghosts are here, too. I can see the flash of a dark jacket in section 112.
I can feel the phantom impact of Dante's body against mine.
I can hear Coach's voice, not from yesterday, but from a dozen other practices, a dozen other film sessions.
Fix it. The words are an order. They're a diagnosis.
He sees the fracture. He sees the liability. And he's right.
My eyes close as I try to find the quiet zone, the place where it's just me and the ice and the puck.
But all I can see is Zoe's face when I told her Jessica was gone.
A flash of cold fury in her eyes before it iced over completely.
I erased her agency. I took her power, just like my father took mine.
The thought is so repulsive it makes me sick.
A sharp scrape of a blade on ice echoes through the arena.
My eyes snap open. I'm not alone. A figure is gliding smoothly from the far end of the rink, not in full gear, but in sweats and a beanie, a stick in his hands.
He moves with an economy of motion that's instantly recognizable. Coach Addison.
He stops a few feet from me, the spray of ice shavings a soft cloud in the dim light. For a long moment, he doesn't say anything, just looks at me. His gaze is assessing.
"Couldn't sleep, Rossi?" he asks, his voice quiet in the cavernous space.
"Something like that," I mutter, staring down at my sneakers.
He nods, like he expected that answer. He taps his stick on the ice, a sharp, clean sound. "This ice doesn't lie. It tells you exactly who you are. Right now, it's telling me you're a guy who'd rather stand in the dark than face the light."
My body flinches at his words. "I'm facing it."
"Or are you just hiding from it?" He skates a slow circle around me.
"You're hiding in the dark. You're hiding in a girl's bed.
You're hiding behind a reputation you think makes you tough.
" He stops in front of me again. "None of that is going to help you when the puck is dropped and the other team is coming for your head. "
"I can handle it," I say, the words automatic. A lie I've been telling myself for years.
"Your father is a powerful man, Gio," he says, and the mention of him makes my whole body tense.
"He's built an empire on the idea that image is everything.
That you can erase a mistake if you have enough money and enough influence.
" He knows. Of course, he knows. "He taught you that your worth is tied to what you can do for the name.
What you can cover up. What you can sacrifice. "
Coach leans on his stick, his eyes locking onto mine. "He's wrong."
I just stare at him, my throat tight. No one has ever said that to me. Not like this.
"I don't give a damn about your father's empire," he continues, his voice dropping, becoming more intense.
"And I don't give a damn about the Briarcliff Whisper.
I care about the kid who stood in my office three years ago and told me he wanted to win a national championship.
I care about the player I see when he's not looking over his shoulder. "
He gestures around the empty rink. "This is your legacy, Gio. This. The work. The game. The brothers you bleed with on this ice." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "You can't let him turn this into a cage for you."
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat feeling like a block of ice. "What do I do?"
"You stop hiding," he says simply. "You look the noise in the eye and you tell it to fuck off. You play your game. Not his. Not theirs. Yours."
He pushes off, skating backward toward the exit. "Fix it, Gio. But don't fix it for him. Fix it for you."
He disappears into the tunnel, leaving me alone on the ice. The silence is still there, but it's different now. It's a blank page. And for the first time in a long time, I think I might be ready to write my own story.