Aria’s POV

The digital clock above the Northridge Arena ticket window clicked over to 5:52 a.m.

Outside the heavy glass lobby doors, a brutal northern blizzard was burying the parking lot under three fresh inches of white powder. Inside, the arena was a freezing, silent cavern, lit only by the flickering yellow buzz of two emergency overhead floods. The air smelled of old floor wax, burnt radiator dust, and the damp wool coat wrapped tightly around my shoulders.

I sat on the cold wooden bench near the rink office, my aluminum crutches resting against my knee. My right ankle felt sturdier today—the swelling had dropped significantly, though a deep, dull...