Theo's pov
"Theo, you gotta work hard, man."
Coach's voice echoed off the rink walls like a slap. I nodded, breath heavy, sweat stinging my eyes. My legs ached. My shoulders were tight. But I nodded anyway.
"Yeah. Got it."
He looked at me with that frustrated father-energy he'd perfected this season, arms crossed over his clipboard. "You've got raw power, Dodge, but you gotta start focusing. If you want the scouts to notice, you need to start acting like you give a damn."
He skated off, probably to yell at someone else. I peeled off my gloves, chest heaving. My hands were cold even though my body was burning.
Focus. Give a damn.
I gave a damn. That was the problem. I cared too much, and not enough about the right things.
I skated off the ice, tugging my helmet off, wiping my face with the sleeve of my shirt. The second I stepped off the rink, I spotted her.
Val.
She was standing near the doors, talking to someone—probably one of her figure skating friends, maybe her coach. Her cheeks were flushed, the tip of her nose a little pink, hair tied up in a messy bun that was definitely not regulation neat. But it worked on her. She looked like she belonged here, like the cold and the ice and the shine of it all adored her.
And yeah, okay. She looked good. Really good.
I don't even think she saw me. Or if she did, she didn't show it.
I slowed down for half a second—just long enough to look—but she didn't glance my way. Her expression didn't shift. It was like I didn't exist, like she hadn't been laughing with me the day before, cheeks pink for a different reason, eyes sparkling when we bickered over The Summer I Turned Pretty like two idiots with too much pride and too many feelings under the surface.
I kept walking.
---
The penthouse was too quiet.
High ceilings. White floors. Stainless steel everything. It looked like one of those magazine photoshoots where people pretend they live clean, curated lives with no mess and no memories.
But this place? This wasn't a home. It was a gallery. Something for show.
I threw my duffel bag near the wall and collapsed onto the leather couch. The silence buzzed in my ears louder than the rink ever could. I could still hear the scraping of blades, Val's laugh, the way she rolled her eyes like she had me all figured out.
I stared up at the ceiling. Nothing.
It was too big. Too clean. Too fake.
I missed the old place sometimes. The one-bedroom flat where the heater barely worked and the windows were cracked. My mum's music played in the background. Her laughter echoing down the hallway. Her cooking always smelling like garlic and love.
We were broke, but we were us.
And then my stepdad struck gold—or bitcoin, technically. Got rich off crypto, moved us into this place like we were supposed to start pretending we'd always belonged here.
Then he left.
Said he needed time to "figure things out." Said he'd still be around, still help with school and scouts and gear and everything in between. And sure, he sends money. Shows up once every month or two to take me to some overpriced dinner and ask about "the game."
But he's not here. And honestly, I don't miss him.
Because he was never really here when it mattered.
---
Mum deserves better.
She built this life. This entire company—the one my name is tied to, the one people think I'm spoiled by—it's hers. Not my real dad's , he stole it
She worked two jobs when I was a kid. She stitched together the money for my first pair of skates. She was the one who convinced the rink to give me extra ice time for free. She was the one who cheered in a way that made people turn heads, clapped until her hands went red. She's the reason I even made it to this level.
Not him. Not his money. Not his bullshit.
But she doesn't complain. She never does. She smiles and says, "We're lucky, Theo," even though I know she's tired, even though I see her eyes linger on the couch like it reminds her of the one-bedroom flat too.
I told her I want to move out. Not far. Just… away. Maybe get an apartment together. Something small. Something real. She said we'll talk about it after the season.
After the scouts. After the scholarship interviews.
After. Always after.
And Val?
I don't know what the hell is happening with her.
One minute we're yelling at each other about book characters like we're married and miserable. The next we're running out of detention like partners in crime, breathless and laughing, hiding at the rink like we belong there together.
She's chaos. Fire and ice. That look she gave me when she said, "What are you doing?"—that voice in the detention room before we ran—it stuck with me.
The way her fingers felt in mine.
God, I can still feel it. Her hand fit perfectly.
We laughed. We skated. We pretended like we weren't completely freaking out over the project we ditched or the teacher we bailed on. But in that moment, none of it mattered.
It was just us. Just breath and blades and heartbeats.
But then today?
Nothing.
She looked right through me.
And maybe I deserved it.
Maybe I pushed too far. Maybe I joke too much. Maybe I flirt like an idiot just to keep myself from saying something real.
Or maybe I just wanted her to look at me the way she did yesterday. Like she saw me.
Not the hockey player. Not the guy with the penthouse. Just… me.
I picked up my phone. Hovered over her contact.
Didn't text.
Didn't call.
Just put it down and stared out the window at the city lights.
I play for me. For the scouts. For the scholarships. For the future that doesn't involve me crashing on my mum's tiny sofa in the council flat we used to live in before my stepdad cashed out on crypto and decided to play "Weekend Dad" every other month.
But maybe—just maybe—I also play for something else now.
For the girl with the flushed cheeks who mouthed "sorry" at the rink.
For the way her laugh echoes louder than Coach's lectures in my memory.
For the hand that fit perfectly in mine.