Cole POV
Crestline Rink at ten-fifteen was quiet. Only the humming lights and the smell of cold rubber remained. I had the door code, my stick in the truck, and a habit of coming here late that started when I was sixteen.
I laced my skates on the bench in the dark. The ice took a blue-white glow from the emergency exits and the Zamboni station. I stepped onto the surface, felt the blade's grip, and started moving.
The drill was simple: carry the puck from the blue line, cut left, and shoot. Retrieve the puck. Repeat. It was the kind of repetitive task that forces your brain to shut off until you stop thinking and just move.
I ran the left cut forty-seven times. I counted without meaning to.
My mind kept going back to the dinner. Nadia had relaxed exactly once at the table. Not during
