(Kane)
The ice felt colder than usual tonight.
I stood at center ice during warm-ups, stick in hand, watching Harrison’s side of the rink like a man possessed. The crowd was loud, the lights bright, the usual pre-game energy crackling through the arena. But all I could focus on was her.
Danica Jones.
She glided across the ice with that same fierce grace that had haunted me since the first time I saw her. The way she moved — low, powerful, refusing to yield an inch — made something twist deep in my chest. I told myself it was anger. Contempt. The righteous fury I had carried since the day they carried Lila off on a stretcher. But the truth was getting harder to bury.
She reminded me of Lila.
Same fire. Same refusal to break. Same stupid, beautiful courage that had cost my sister every
