Aria’s POV

I waited behind the rink like an idiot.

The dumpsters smelled like old coffee, wet cardboard, and something sour that clung to the back of my throat. My breath came out in shaky white clouds that disappeared too fast. I had changed into black leggings and the lavender jacket Mom got me two birthdays ago because it was the warmest thing I owned and right now I needed armor. My hair was still in its bun, too tight, giving me a headache that matched the one in my chest. My phone felt like a brick in my hand. He still hadn’t replied to either text.

I shouldn’t have sent the second one. It felt too raw, too revealing. Like I had handed him a knife and pointed at my throat.

Eleven weeks.

That was all I had until the Eastern Showcase. Eleven weeks to find a partner, build a program, and convince scouts I was worth a scholarship. Without it, Mom would keep working nights until her body gave out, and I would end up in the same fluorescent-lit hospital corridors handing out juice boxes instead of flying across the ice. I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t.

The side door finally screeched open twenty-three minutes after hockey practice ended. Cole stepped out like he was walking to his own execution. Hoodie up, jaw locked so tight I could see the muscle jumping, black bag slung over one shoulder like it contained a body. He stopped dead when he saw me. The parking lot light flickered above him, turning his eyes silver for a second.

“You actually came,” I said. My voice sounded calmer than I felt.

“You threatened me.”

“I said please.”

He laughed once, cold and short. “Same thing with you.”

I pushed off the rough brick wall. My legs still felt unsteady from the catch earlier. Every time I closed my eyes I felt his hands on my waist again—sure, strong, terrifyingly gentle—like he had done it a thousand times before. The ghost of that touch had lived under my skin all through school and the afternoon session I barely survived.

“I’m not going to tell anyone,” I said.

His eyes flicked to mine, wary, tired. “How generous.”

“On one condition.”

There it was. The air changed. It grew heavier, colder, charged.

Cole’s grip tightened on the strap of the bag until his knuckles went white. “Of course there’s a condition.”

I took a step closer, then another until I had to tip my head back to keep his gaze. He was so much taller this close. He smelled like cold air and locker-room soap and something darker underneath—cedar and secrets and the mint gum he always chewed. It made my stomach flip in a way I hated.

“Be my pairs partner for the Eastern Showcase.”

Silence.

It stretched so long I heard the highway in the distance and the drip of melting ice somewhere behind the building. Then he did something I didn’t expect. He smiled. It was sharp and humorless and a little cruel.

“No.”

“Cole—”

“I said no.” He tried to step around me. I blocked him with my body, heart slamming so hard I was sure he could hear it.

“You caught me like it was nothing. You moved with me like your body still remembers the counts. The way you took my weight, the way you turned in the air with me—that isn’t something you fake. You are the only person in this entire town who can get me to that showcase level in eleven weeks.”

“I don’t skate pairs anymore.”

“Liar.”

His eyes flashed, winter-storm gray turning almost black. “Watch it, Lang.”

“Or what? You’ll body-check me into the dumpster?” I moved even closer, close enough that the clouds of our breath mixed and I could see the scar through his eyebrow in perfect detail. “I felt it. You felt it. For three seconds you forgot to hate the part of yourself that knows how to fly. And I need that part. Desperately.”

He stared down at me, chest rising too fast. The bag slipped off his shoulder and hit the ground with a heavy, final thud. Something white peeked out from the half-open zipper.

Skates.

White ones.

My heart slammed against my ribs so hard it hurt.

Cole followed my gaze. Color drained from his face so fast I thought he might actually pass out. He snatched the bag up like it was on fire, but it was too late. I had seen them. The same white skates Coach had demanded he bring to the office this morning. The ones that didn’t belong in a hockey player’s world.

“You’re still lying to yourself,” I whispered.

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Then tell me.”

“No.”

I hated the desperate sound that left my throat. It scraped raw. “I will keep your secret. I will help you look reformed for the scouts. I’ll show up at your games, smile for the cameras, pretend to be whatever good influence Coach thinks you need. I’ll do whatever it takes. But you have to partner me. Please.”

Cole’s control snapped like a blade under too much pressure.

One second I was standing in front of him. The next my back hit the cold brick wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs, and his hands were braced on either side of my head, caging me in completely. He wasn’t quite touching me, but the heat of his body poured into mine anyway, burning through my jacket, my leggings, my skin. His voice came out low and rough, almost broken, vibrating against my mouth.

“You have no idea what you’re asking for.”

“Then show me.”

His eyes dropped to my mouth. For one heart-stopping second I thought he was actually going to close the last inch between us. My fingers curled into the front of his hoodie the same way they had on the ice this morning, gripping like I was still falling. I felt the exact moment his breathing changed—sharper, shakier. The tip of his nose brushed mine. I stopped breathing entirely.

Then his phone started vibrating between us like a warning siren.

He ignored it the first time, second time. Third time he cursed under his breath, low and vicious, and yanked it out of his pocket, still trapping me against the wall with the entire length of his body.

The screen lit up both our faces in cold white light.

Unknown number.

A video.

He hit play without thinking.

It was us, this morning. Me falling. Him catching me in that perfect, impossible pairs hold, hands locked around my waist like they belonged there. The camera zoomed in on his face when he set me down—raw, open, terrified, soft in a way Cole Brennan was never supposed to look. Then the text appeared over the footage in bright, cruel white letters.

*Cute catch, Brennan. Wonder how the scouts will feel about their favorite enforcer doing figure skating. End the little partnership… or I send this to every college on your list. And to your mother.*

Cole’s entire body went rigid against mine. I felt the moment the panic hit him, electric and total.

Behind us, gravel crunched—slow, deliberate, too close.

Someone was still here.