The Rules
734 Words
Noelle's PoV:
That sounds lonely, I typed.
Cole: Maybe. Or maybe it sounds like freedom.
I put the phone down.
But I couldn't stop thinking about what he'd said.
The ice at night. Empty. Quiet.
No expectations. No name.
I knew exactly what that felt like.
And that terrified me more than any lawsuit ever could.
Because Cole Whitmore and I weren't so different after all.
And if that was true…
Then maybe the enemy wasn't him.
Maybe the enemy was the name we both couldn't escape.
---
The first rule of working at the Harlow ice rink is that I don't get involved with the players. I broke it before I even clocked in.
Diane, my supervisor, was a woman in her fifties with short grey hair and eyes that had seen everything. She walked me through the equipment room on my third shift, pointing out sharpening machines, rental logs, and the emergency exit no one used.
"Rule one," she said, not looking up from her clipboard. "No fraternizing with the athletes."
I kept my face neutral. "Understood."
"Rule two. Don't let them charm you. They're trained to be charming. It's not real."
What if it is? I almost asked. But I just nodded.
Diane finally looked at me. Her gaze was sharp, assessing. "You're quiet. That's good. Quiet girls last longer here."
She walked away.
I stood in the equipment room, the hum of the ice machine vibrating through the walls. Quiet. Invisible. That was the plan.
But Cole Whitmore had already said my name twice. Already texted me at 1 a.m.
I wasn't invisible to him.
And that was becoming a problem.
---
Practice started an hour later. I was behind the desk, logging rental skates, when I felt someone watching me.
I looked up.
Cole was at the boards, helmet off, stick resting across his thighs. He wasn't looking at the ice. He was looking at me.
Our eyes met.
He smiled. Small. Private. Like we shared a secret no one else knew.
I looked away first.
But my hands were shaking when I picked up the next pair of skates.
That was when I noticed something odd. Cole's equipment bag was sitting on the bench near the door — unzipped, half-open. Inside, visible through the gap, it was a manila folder.
Whitmore Industries logo. Same as the one on the document I'd found in the donated equipment bag last week.
My heart stopped.
I glanced around. Diane was in the back office. The other players were focused on drills.
I could walk over. Look inside. No one would notice.
No, I told myself. Not yet. Too soon. Too risky.
But I took a photo with my phone anyway. Zoomed in on the folder. The label read: Mercer vs. Whitmore — Archival.
Archival.
They had a file. On my father. In Cole's equipment bag.
Why?
---
Practice ended. The players filed off the ice. Cole was the last to leave. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and walked past the desk.
"Hey, Noelle."
"Hey."
He paused. "You looked distracted today. Everything okay?"
Your family has a file on mine in your hockey bag. No, everything is not okay.
"Fine," I said. "Just tired."
Cole nodded slowly. Then he reached into his bag and pulled out a water bottle. Mine. The one I'd "forgotten" last week.
"You never picked this up from lost and found," he said, setting it on the counter. "So I brought it to you."
Our fingers brushed. I pulled back.
"Thanks," I said.
He smiled again — that same private smile. "See you tomorrow, Noelle."
He walked away.
I stared at the water bottle.
Then I looked at the photo on my phone.
The Whitmore file on my father was in Cole's bag.
And Cole had just given me a reason to get closer to him.
The plan was working.
So why did I feel like I was the one being played?
---
As I walked back to my dorm that night, I saw him.
Walking across the quad, alone, a briefcase in his hand.
He was supposed to be in his office until 7 p.m. It was 9 p.m.
Why was he still on campus?
He stopped under a streetlight, pulled out his phone, and looked directly at me.
Not past me. At me.
For a frozen second, we stared at each other.
- Writer
