Baylen’s voice hangs between us like a thread about to snap. His eyes are too wet, too young, and I know if I speak again, if I press him harder, he’ll fall apart on the ice. Before I can answer, though, he looks away—toward the locker hall, toward escape—and mutters something about “needing air.” His skates clatter against the boards, sharp and hurried, and then he’s gone, swallowed by fluorescent light.

The silence he leaves behind is merciless.

Brody leans against the rail, jaw set, phone gripped like it’s the only anchor he has. I can see in his face that he wants to chase Baylen, or erase what I just saw, or both. Instead, he stays. With me.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he says finally, low, almost dangerous.

“You shouldn’t be hiding it,” I fire back. My pulse is still racing from the messages, from Baylen’s voice cracking in the dark. “That wasn’t just gossip. That was—”

“Complicated,” he cuts in. His eyes lift, sharp and burning. “More complicated than you think.”

“I don’t care how complicated it is.” My voice shakes, but I hold his stare. “Secrets like that destroy people. Ronald deserves to know. Baylen deserves—”

“You don’t get it, Em.” Brody’s hand hits the rail, the sound ricocheting in the rink like a gunshot. “This team doesn’t survive if all the truths come spilling out. Ronald doesn’t survive it. And neither do I.”

The air between us is jagged, charged, like static before a storm. I should step back. Instead, I step closer.

“You think burying it is survival?” I whisper. “That’s just another way of dying.”

His eyes flash, and something in him cracks. One second he’s glaring, the next his hand is in my hair, rough and desperate, pulling me in. His mouth finds mine, hard enough to bruise, as if anger and desire are the same thing.

The shock hits me like a rush of ice water—and then I’m burning. I fist his jacket, dragging him against me, and his other hand cages me against the boards. His kiss is nothing like I expected: wild, punishing, a confession in itself.

“Fuck,” he breathes against my lips, forehead pressed to mine. “You’re the last person I should touch.”

“Then don’t stop,” I whisper back.

That undoes him. His hands are everywhere—sliding down my spine, gripping my hips, lifting me onto the cold ledge of the rink barrier. My legs wrap around him instinctively, pulling him closer, until I can feel every line of muscle, every ounce of restraint he’s trying to hold on to.

The floodlights bleach us into silhouettes, exposed and hidden at once. His mouth trails down my jaw, to my throat, biting just enough to make me gasp. The sting blends with the cold air, and my body arches into his, shameless.

“Emilia…” My name is a growl against my skin, torn between warning and worship. “If Ron ever finds out—”

“He won’t,” I cut in, tugging his hair, daring him. “Not unless you scream it.”

His laugh is low, ragged, disbelieving. And then he claims my mouth again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes every thought scatter. His hands push under my shirt, fingers rough on bare skin, and I shiver—not from the cold, but from him.

For a moment, the world shrinks to just this: his body pinning mine, his breath hot against my neck, my heartbeat syncing to his. Secrets and scandals blur into background noise.

Then—buzz. His phone. The vibration rattles on the bench, insistent, ugly, breaking the spell.

Brody freezes, forehead still pressed to mine, chest heaving.

Neither of us move. The phone keeps buzzing.

Finally, he pulls back, jaw clenched, and grabs it. The screen lights his face, harsh and pale, and whatever he reads there makes his expression darken into something that chills me more than the ice ever could.

“What?” I ask, breathless.

His eyes lift to mine, and in them I see the warning of another storm.

“It’s Coach,” he says. “He knows we were here.”

The phone screen still glowed in Brody’s hand, a small square of light that felt like a gun pressed between us.

“Coach knows,” he repeated, voice flat and grim.

The words made the rink colder. My throat worked, but no sound came out at first. “Knows what? That we’re here? That Baylen—”

Brody’s eyes flicked toward the locker room doors, the faint echo of Baylen’s retreat still clinging to the air. “Doesn’t matter how much. With him, knowing is always enough.”

“That’s not an answer,” I snapped, because fear made me sharp. “You’re telling me he knows, but you won’t tell me what it means. Is he coming? Is he—”

“He’s already here.”

The words cut me off, and Brody’s whole body shifted—like a soldier who hears the enemy’s boots on stone. His hand tightened around my wrist, pulling me closer to him, away from the open stretch of ice.

The door at the far end creaked. Heavy, deliberate footsteps carried across the rink, slow and steady. They didn’t echo like Baylen’s had; they absorbed sound, like each one was rehearsed to say I own this place.

Coach Ellis stepped into the halo of fluorescent light, his figure broad, his jacket unzipped just enough to show a tie loosened at the throat. His face wasn’t flushed from effort, wasn’t sweaty from rushing. He looked like a man who had planned this.

“Well,” he said, voice carrying too easily in the hollow of the rink. “What a charming little midnight gathering.”

I felt Brody go rigid beside me. His grip on my wrist shifted—no longer pulling me back, but anchoring himself, like he might launch forward.

“Practice ended six hours ago,” Coach went on. “Yet here you are. Brody, I expected better from you.” His gaze flicked to me, slow, measuring. “And Ronald’s sister… what a disappointment.”

The words were mild. The tone was venom.

My stomach flipped, but I straightened, meeting his eyes. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

Coach’s mouth tilted. Not quite a smile. “There’s wrong, and then there’s… unwise.” His gaze slid between Brody and me, deliberate. “I know which one you were.”

Heat crawled up my throat. He wasn’t yelling, wasn’t accusing. He didn’t need to. His insinuations were worse than shouting—because they were built like traps.

Brody finally spoke, his voice low and tight. “If you came here to intimidate, don’t bother. We’re done with this conversation.”

“Oh no,” Coach said, stepping closer, hands in his pockets. “This is where the conversation begins.”

The way he moved reminded me of how predators circled prey—not rushing, not lunging, just closing the gap until the prey realized escape was already impossible.

“You’ve been snooping,” Coach said, and his eyes locked on me. Not Brody. Me. “In messages, in whispers. That’s a dangerous hobby. You think truth sets people free, but truth ruins them, Miss Hart. Your brother most of all.”

The sound of Ronald’s name made my skin prickle. “So you admit it,” I said, pushing the words out even though my voice threatened to shake. “You admit there’s something you’re hiding.”

His laugh was soft, ugly. “I admit nothing. I simply point out that you’re in way over your head.”

I opened my mouth to snap back, but Brody’s hand brushed my arm—warning, restraint. Coach saw it and smiled like he’d won something.

“Baylen,” Coach continued, and just saying the name made me flinch. “A fragile boy. Too eager to please. He should’ve been handled more carefully.” His eyes narrowed at me. “You could destroy him without meaning to. That would be a shame.”

My jaw clenched. “You’re the one destroying him.”

The smile slipped. For a second, his eyes went cold and flat, and I felt like I was staring into a well with no bottom. “Careful,” he said softly. “You don’t know what kind of leash I keep on this team.”

Brody stepped forward, fury in every line of him. “Don’t talk to her like that.”