Coach always says the ice doesn’t lie. You fall, you fall. You miss a shot, it doesn’t matter why. You either score or you don’t.

But today, the ice feels… off. Too quiet. Too sharp.

Just like my head.

“You good, man?” Caleb asks between drills.

“Yeah.”

“Then stop flinching like you’re waiting to get hit. You’re making the new goalie nervous.”

I nod, but I don’t explain.

How do I say a girl with tired eyes and secrets in her voice has taken over my brain?

Or that I haven’t slept right since I saw Lena under the bleachers?

Or that someone’s leaving notes that sound more like warnings than gossip?

Yeah. Better to just keep skating.

By lunch, the knot in my stomach has turned into something worse.

I don’t see Lena in the cafeteria.

She’s not in the library either.

I check the back hallway by the music room. The art wing. Nothing.

I should let it go. Maybe she went home early.

But something tells me she didn’t.

When I finally spot her, she’s by the side doors—alone, staring out the window like the storm clouds are whispering to her.

I move closer, and her shoulders tense.

“You always sneak up on people?” she asks without turning.

“You always disappear?”

She sighs. “Sometimes it’s easier to be where no one expects you.”

“I expected you at lunch.”

She looks over her shoulder, eyes a little red around the edges. “Why?”

“Because…” I hesitate. “You’ve been in my head all day.”

She blinks like she doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I’m not trying to be in your head,” she finally says. “You should focus on your team. On your future.”

“I am.”

“Then stop following shadows.”

I lean against the wall beside her. “I’m not following shadows. I’m following you.”

A silence falls. Not awkward—just… full.

Then she speaks, softer than before. “Someone’s watching me.”

My chest tightens. “What do you mean?”

She pulls a folded note from her pocket and hands it to me.

I read the words slowly.

“Stop talking to Jace Morgan. Some people disappear for less.”

I feel heat rise in my face. “What the hell is this?”

“I found it near the woods.”

“You went into the woods alone?”

She doesn’t answer.

“I can’t—Lena, that’s not safe.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“Everyone needs protecting sometimes.”

“Even you?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

I grin, despite everything. “Especially me.”

She looks away like she’s trying not to smile.

But the weight of the note is still in my hand, and it’s heavier than paper should be.

That evening, I text her.

Me: Did you tell anyone else about the note?

No reply.

Twenty minutes pass. Then:

Lena: No. Should I have?

Me: No. I just wanted to know if anyone else knew.

Lena: Are you scared?

Me: Not for me.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.

Lena: I don’t want to ruin your life, Jace.

Me: You’re not.

Lena: You don’t know that.

Me: I’m sure of it anyway.

No response after that.

And still, I can’t stop staring at the screen, like she might type one more thing that changes everything.

The next day, someone slashed my tire.

Just one. Back left. Clean slice, like they knew what they were doing.

I stand in the parking lot, staring at it while the rest of the hockey guys laugh and head to their cars.

“Looks like someone’s got a secret admirer,” Caleb jokes.

I try to laugh, but it comes out wrong.

It’s not random. It’s a message.

I call my dad, tell him I’ll be late.

As I hang up, I notice a slip of paper stuck under my windshield wiper.

I don’t touch it at first. I just stare.

Then I pull it free and unfold it.

“You’ve been warned.”

No name. Same handwriting.

This is no longer about Lena.

This is about control.

And someone’s trying to take it from me.

“You have to let this go,” Lena tells me the next morning.

“I can’t.”

She stops walking. “You think being near me is safe?”

“I don’t care if it’s safe.”

She sighs. “You should.”

“I’m not scared of notes or slashed tires.”

“What about what comes next?” she says, almost a whisper.

I reach for her hand. She doesn’t pull away. “Then tell me.”

“I can’t,” she says, voice shaking. “I can’t explain it, Jace.”

“Try.”

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she looks down, then says, “Sometimes, I hear things that aren’t there.”

My breath catches. “Like… what?”

“Like whispers. Footsteps. A voice I haven’t heard in years.”

I don’t know what to say to that.

Then she adds, “And sometimes, I think I’m losing my mind.”

“You’re not,” I say quickly.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

Her eyes lift to mine. “No. You want to know me.”

And that’s the thing—I do.

Even if it breaks me.

After school, I go back to the woods.

The place she mentioned. Just past the soccer field. Near the trail where students sneak off to vape or make out.

But I’m not here for that.

I’m looking for something—anything.

I check every tree trunk. Every low branch. My shoes are muddy, my hoodie soaked from the morning rain.

And then I see it.

A single white thread.

Tied low to a thorn bush.

Fresh. Thin. Like it was cut from something important.

I kneel and study the ground.

There are tracks.

Not animal.

Not bike.

Shoes. One set going in. A smaller pair behind them.

They don’t come out the same way.

I stand quickly, heart pounding.

And I hear it—

A branch snapping.

I spin around. Nothing but trees and shadows.

But the silence after is thick.

Like someone just stopped breathing.

I take one slow step back.

Then another.

My phone buzzes.

A text.

Lena: Are you in the woods?

I stare at it. Swallow hard.

And type:

Me: Yeah. How did you know?

Three dots appear.

Then vanish.

Then appear again.

Lena: Because I saw someone watching you.