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The chillfrom the ice seeps through my skates, but it's London's blank stare that sends a shiver down my spine. He's huddled with the guys across the rink, not even tossing me a glance. It’s like he’s empty. The cold shoulder would hurt less if his dismissal didn't slice so deep.
Things have been fucked between us since he realized I'm FrozenFire. That I kept the truth from him once I suspected. He needs time to wrap his head around it; I get that. But his withdrawal leaves me unsteady, like losing an edge at high speed.
Doesn’t he realize I depended on him, too? That losing FallingDown is about as fucking bad as it gets for me?
That I’m hurting, too?
I pound a slapshot into the open net. The satisfying smack of the puck finding twine echoes through the empty rink. But it doesn't fill the pit in my stomach or the London-shaped hole next to me on the ice.
The buzzer blares, shaking me from my broody thoughts. Pinehurst is notorious for getting nasty. We need to be ready.
If only I felt ready in my own heart.
We line up, sticks clashing like swords. No more time for distractions. The game is on.
We control the puck early but can't convert. Each glance at London is a gut punch. We're out of sync in a way I've never experienced before. My passes hit his stick a split second too late. The absence of our shared instinctive rhythm causes our movements on the ice to become disjointed.
The distance between us feels like a gaping void, throwing everything out of whack. I grit my teeth in frustration as another setup goes awry; the puck sliding just out of London's reach. We play on, but there's no flow, no electricity between us. Just frayed wires where a connection used to hum.
Ten minutes in, Pinehurst gets chippy. They land some ugly checks, trying to throw us off our deteriorating game. We manage some tape-to-tape passes that leave them spinning, but our hearts aren't in it. The lack of unity shows.
But the cheap shots keep coming. I spit blood when an elbow catches my mouth. The refs turn a blind eye, letting the game flow. Frustration mounts at the lack of calls.
I dish a sweet saucer pass to Mateo, muscles coiled tight. We just need to out skate these aggressive bastards.
Number nineteen barrels towards London with violence in his eyes. Before anyone reacts, he crushes London into the boards with a hit so far outside the rules it's criminal. London crumples like a rag doll, his pained grunt echoing through the suddenly silent arena.
Rage whites out my vision. With a primal yell, I charge the Pinehurst asshole, fists swinging wildly. The refs shout as I tackle him, stars exploding behind my eyes as we crash onto the ice. I don't stop pummeling every inch I can reach, consumed by fury. He deserves this pain for hurting London.
MyLondon.
My teammates finally rip me away, Luc and Teo restraining me. I fight their hold, straining towards the bloody mess I've left the bastard in. The refs look disgusted by both of us.
"Enough, Riot! You made your point," Teo grits out near my ear.
Chest heaving, I stop resisting long enough for my teammates to steer me away before I do any more damage. I fix the bastard with a searing glare, promising brutal retribution next time we meet on the ice, before letting myself be led away.
Coach storms over, beet red and shouting threats about suspensions. But his voice fades to background static when I see London still motionless on the ice, medical staff gathered around him.
It's like the world narrows to a pinpoint—all I see is London’s crumpled form surrounded by medics, their mouths moving but no sound reaching my ears over the frantic pounding of my heart.
I rip off my helmet, the clatter of it hitting the ice barely registering. I'm deaf and blind to everything but the need to get to London. I'm dimly aware of my skates cutting furrows in the ice as I carve my way to him. My future, consequences, the goddamn game—none of it matters if he's not okay.
Coach grabs my jersey, bellowing in my face, but I shake him off and keep going. Let him scream. Let him bench me. Let him kick me off the fucking team. None of it will stop me from getting to London's side.
I'm deaf to the warnings pursuing me as I crash through the locker room doors. The only sound ringing through my head is the sickening crack of London's body against the boards. I shed my gear without bothering to undo the straps, desperate to get back to him.
In street clothes and still sweaty, I sprint back just as they load London's disturbingly lifeless form into the ambulance.
"I'm riding with him," I state, daring the EMT to argue. She takes one look at my thunderous expression and bloody knuckles and nods, closing the doors behind us.
As the vehicle lurches into motion, I grasp London's limp hand. "You're gonna be okay," I rasp. After everything between us, I'd give anything to undo the damage my secrets caused. To go back and choose openness over festering lies.
Sirens wailing, I cling to him, praying to anyone who might be listening for the chance to make this right. To make him love me.
Halfway there London stirs, face contorted in pain. I lean closer as his eyes flutter open, glazed with confusion.
"Riot?" His voice is hoarse and quiet, but he clutches my hand like a lifeline. Like I'm his anchor.
