Cole’s POV
Coach Harrow didn’t wait for me to grab anything. He just pointed at the hallway like I was already guilty.
I stepped off the ice on autopilot, legs still buzzing from the way Aria had felt in my hands. Warm. Light. Too perfect. My palms burned like they’d committed a crime. I could still smell her shampoo on my hoodie—something clean and sweet that didn’t belong anywhere near me.
She stood frozen at center ice, lips parted, eyes wide. I couldn’t look at her.
The walk to Coach’s office felt longer than any penalty box session. Every fluorescent light hummed too loud. My hockey skates clacked against the rubber flooring and I hated how heavy they suddenly felt.
He shoved the door open and waited until I was inside before slamming it shut.
“Sit.”
I didn’t.
Coach Harrow leaned against his desk, arms crossed. The man looked like he hadn’t slept since the nineties. Whistle still around his neck at 5:20 in the morning. Eyes sharp enough to cut.
“I got a call last night,” he said. “From someone who used to work at your old rink upstate.”
My blood turned to actual ice.
“They saw the roster photos. Recognized your name. Asked if you were the same Cole Brennan who used to pairs skate.”
I kept my face blank. Years of practice.
Coach continued, voice low. “I told them they were mistaken. Then I went through the storage closet this morning. Found a bag that didn’t belong to any current player.”
He reached behind the desk and dropped it on the metal surface between us.
I knew the sound of that zipper by heart.
White skates.
My old ones.
The ones I had buried in the garage under Christmas lights and broken hockey sticks so I wouldn’t have to look at them. Someone had moved them. Someone had brought them here.
Coach flipped the bag open. The leather was still scuffed from the last time I wore them—three years ago, the night everything ended. The laces were yellowed. My initials were written in fading black marker inside the tongue.
“Want to explain why these were in my rink?”
I stared at a crack in the wall above his head. “They’re not mine.”
“Don’t insult me, Brennan.”
“I don’t skate pairs.”
“You did.” He pushed the skates closer. “And from what I just saw on the ice with Lang, your body hasn’t forgotten.”
My jaw ached from clenching. Images slammed into me without permission, music, the smell of hairspray, small hands in mine, the sound of a body hitting ice too hard, screaming, blood on white boots. I shoved it all back into the black box where it belonged.
“I’m a hockey player,” I said, voice flat. “That’s it.”
Coach sighed like he was disappointed in a son he never wanted. “You’re also one suspension away from losing every scout who’s been watching you. Fighting, attitude, now this. I don’t care what you used to be. I care that you’re distracted. And that girl out there is a distraction.”
“She’s nothing.”
The lie tasted like metal.
He studied me for a long second. “Then prove it. You’re going to keep sharing that dawn ice. You’re going to stay away from her off the ice. And you’re going to take these home tonight and get rid of them for good. Understand?”
I nodded once. Anything to end this.
Coach shoved the bag into my chest. “Get out of my sight. And Brennan? If I find out you’re skating pairs again—with her or anyone—I’ll bury your scholarship papers myself.”
I left before I said something I couldn’t take back.
The hallway was empty. Aria was gone from the ice. Only the faint marks of our blades remained where I had caught her. I hated that I could still feel the exact shape of her waist under my gloves.
I shoved through the side door into the parking lot. The sky was just starting to lighten, ugly gray. My truck sat alone under the flickering light. I threw the bag of white skates onto the passenger seat like it was on fire and climbed in.
My hands were shaking.
I locked the doors, gripped the steering wheel, and tried to breathe in, out. Don’t think about the catch. Don’t think about how easy it was. Don’t think about her whisper against my skin *Who did you skate with?*
My phone lit up in the cup holder.
One new message from a number I didn’t have saved.
Aria: *We need to talk. I won’t say anything. But I need a partner for the showcase and you just proved you’re the only one who can do it. Meet me behind the rink after your practice. Please.*
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Another bubble appeared.
Aria: *I felt it, Cole. You can’t pretend I didn’t.*
I looked over at the bag of white skates on the seat. One lace had spilled out like a vein.
My thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Behind the building a shadow moved near the dumpsters.
Someone was standing there watching my truck.
The figure stepped into the weak light just far enough for me to see the Northridge hockey jacket… and the phone raised, recording.