Ice Between Us

Fault Lines

Sleep doesn’t come.

It circles, hovers, watches me like a wary animal and then disappears the second I close my eyes. Every time I drift, the same voices return, replaying that video in perfect, merciless clarity. Daniel’s tone. Ethan’s restraint. The moment everything tilted and never quite righted itself again.

By morning, the city looks the same.

I don’t.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror is a stranger with familiar features. Same eyes, different weight behind them. I splash cold water across my face, hoping it will shock something back into place.

It doesn’t.

Truth doesn’t rearrange itself just because you wish it would.

My phone buzzes on the counter.

Editor: Big response to last night. We want more Volkov. Deeper angle. You’re on him full-time.

Of course.

The universe doesn’t slow down for personal disasters.

On it, I type back, my thumbs steady even if everything else isn’t.

Professional. Detached. Focused.

The words feel like armor I’m not sure still fits.

By the time I reach the training facility, the air inside hums with controlled energy. Sticks against ice, skates cutting sharp arcs, coaches barking instructions. It’s a different world than the roaring arena, quieter but no less intense. Everything here is about precision. Discipline. Control.

Things I’m suddenly not so good at.

I sign in at the front desk, nodding politely, ignoring the way my chest tightens as I step closer to the rink.

He’s already there.

Of course he is.

Ethan moves across the ice like he belongs to it, every motion deliberate, every turn sharp. There’s a rhythm to him, something almost hypnotic. He doesn’t look toward the stands. Doesn’t acknowledge the few reporters gathered behind the glass.

Until

He does.

Just for a second.

His gaze flicks up, finds me, holds.

Then he looks away.

But the damage is done.

My pulse trips over itself.

“Didn’t think you’d show up this early,” a voice says beside me.

I turn.

The woman from last night stands there, arms crossed, expression calm but observant.

Up close, she’s even more composed. Not intimidating, exactly. Just… aware.

“I have a job to do,” I reply.

“So do I,” she says. “Which is why I’m curious what kind of story you’re chasing.”

There’s no hostility in her tone.

But there’s no softness either.

“Depends on what I find,” I say carefully.

Her lips press together briefly, like she’s considering that.

“Just make sure you’re not digging in the wrong place,” she says. “Sometimes the truth isn’t where you think it is.”

The words land heavier than they should.

“Who are you?” I ask.

A small pause.

Then

“Lena,” she says. “Team physiotherapist.”

Something about the way she says it feels… incomplete.

But before I can press further, a whistle blows, sharp and commanding.

Practice ends.

Players begin skating off, laughter and conversation filling the air. The energy shifts, loosens.

Ethan is one of the last to leave the ice.

Of course he is.

He always was.

I don’t move as he approaches the exit. Don’t pretend I’m not waiting.

He knows.

He always knows.

When he finally steps off the ice, his gaze lifts again, locking onto mine like there’s no one else in the room.

“Interview?” he asks, voice even.

“Conversation,” I correct.

A flicker of something crosses his expression.

“Those are usually worse.”

“Only if you’re hiding something.”

His mouth curves slightly.

Not quite a smile.

“Walk with me.”

It’s not a request.

I follow anyway.

The hallway is quieter than yesterday. The noise from the rink fades behind us, replaced by something more contained. More private.

Dangerous, in a different way.

“You look like you didn’t sleep,” he says without looking at me.

“You look like you did,” I reply.

“I don’t need much.”

“I used to know that.”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

He slows slightly.

Then continues walking.

“That was before,” he says.

Before.

The word hangs there, heavy with everything we’re not saying.

“I watched the video again,” I say, forcing us back to safer ground. “More than once.”

“I figured.”

“I need more,” I add. “That proves he threatened you. Not that he fed me everything.”

Ethan stops.

Turns.

Faces me fully.

“You really think I’d come to you with half the truth?” he asks.

“I think you came to me with the part that hurts the most,” I say. “That’s not the same as everything.”

His gaze sharpens.

“Fair.”

A beat.

Then

“There’s more,” he admits.

My breath catches.

“Of course there is.”

“Not here,” he says. “Not like this.”

“Then where?”

A pause.

He studies me like he’s measuring something invisible.

“Tonight,” he says finally. “Eight. I’ll text you.”

“You assume I’ll come.”

“I know you will.”

Confidence.

Not arrogance.

Something steadier.

Something that unsettles me more than it should.

“Why?” I ask.

His eyes hold mine.

“Because you need the truth more than you hate me.”

The words land clean.

Accurate.

I don’t answer.

I don’t need to.

He walks away first.

He always does.

And I’m left standing there, caught between what I thought I knew and what I’m starting to understand.

Again.

Eight o’clock arrives faster than it should.

Or maybe I just spend the entire day circling it.

Every thought, every distraction, every attempt to focus on work pulls back to the same point.

Tonight.

Answers.

Or something close to them.

My phone buzzes at 7:42 PM.

A message.

Ethan: Parking level B. Come alone.

Simple.

Direct.

Unnerving.

I stare at it longer than necessary, my thumb hovering over the screen.

Then I grab my jacket and leave.

The parking garage is dim, the fluorescent lights casting uneven shadows across concrete and steel. My footsteps echo as I descend, each one louder than it should be.

Level B

I spot him immediately.

Leaning against his car, hands in his pockets, head slightly lowered like he’s been waiting a while.

When he looks up, something in his expression shifts.

Not surprise.

Not relief.

Recognition.

Like this moment was inevitable.

“You came,” he says.

“You knew I would.”

A faint exhale leaves him.

“Yeah.”

Silence stretches.

Not uncomfortable.

Just… heavy.

“You said you had more,” I remind him.

“I do.”

He straightens, pushing away from the car, and for a second I think he’s going to hand me something.

Another video.

Another piece of proof.

Instead

“You remember the night before your article went live?” he asks.

The question catches me off guard.

“Yes.”

“Everything about it?”

“I think so.”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Think harder.”

Something in his tone makes my chest tighten.

“I remember finishing the draft,” I say slowly. “I remember sending it to my editor. I remember”

I stop.

Because there’s a gap.

A small one.

But it’s there.

“What?” he asks quietly.

“I…” I frown slightly. “I remember going out after. With Daniel.”

“And?”

I search my memory.

“It’s blurry.”

“How blurry?”

The question presses.

Uncomfortable.

“I don’t know. I wasn’t drunk enough to forget everything.”

“But you forgot something,” he says.

It’s not a question.

I swallow.

“Yes.”

He nods once, like that confirms something for him.

“Come with me,” he says.

He opens the passenger door.

I hesitate.

Not because I don’t trust him.

But because I’m starting to realize

This isn’t just about the past anymore.

This is about what I don’t remember.

And that might be worse.

“Alina,” he says, softer now. “If you want the truth, this is part of it.”

I slide into the car.

The door shuts with a solid click.

Final.

The drive is quiet.

Not tense.

Just focused.

Like we’re both aware that whatever comes next is going to matter.

A lot.

We stop outside a small building on the edge of the city. Nothing remarkable about it. Just another place you wouldn’t look twice at.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Somewhere you’ve been before,” he says.

That doesn’t help.

We step inside.

The interior is dim, warm lighting replacing the harsh glow of the parking garage. A bar lines one side, tables scattered across the space.

It feels familiar.

Too familiar.

And then it hits me.

“This is”

“The place you came that night,” Ethan finishes.

My chest tightens.

“I haven’t been back here since.”

“I know.”

Of course he does.

He walks toward the back.

I follow.

Each step feels heavier.

Like I’m walking into something I left unfinished.

Or something I never fully understood.

We stop near a corner table.

Empty now.

But it doesn’t feel empty.

“You sat here,” he says.

I look at the chair.

And suddenly

A flicker.

A memory.

Daniel across from me.

A drink in my hand.

His voice low, convincing.

“You were upset,” Ethan continues. “About me. About what you thought I did.”

I nod slowly.

“I remember that part.”

“You left early.”

“I did?”

He watches me carefully.

“You don’t remember?”

I shake my head.

“No.”

Silence.

Then

“You didn’t go home,” he says.

A chill runs through me.

“Then where did I go?”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“That’s the part you’re missing.”

My pulse spikes.

“What do you mean?”

He reaches into his pocket again.

Pulls out his phone.

Not a video this time.

A photo.

He hands it to me.

“Look.”

My fingers feel colder as I take it.

The screen lights up.

And everything inside me

Stops.

Because the person in that photo…

Is me.

Outside a building I don’t recognize.

With someone I never expected to see.

And the timestamp?

Hours after I thought I went home.

My breath catches.

“Ethan…” I whisper. “What is this?”

His voice is quiet.

Careful.

“Proof,” he says, “that your brother didn’t just give you a story.”

A pause.

Long enough for the weight of it to settle.

“He made sure you believed it.”

The room feels like it’s tilting again.

But this time

It’s not just the past breaking apart.

It’s my memory.

And the terrifying part?

I don’t know how much of it is real anymore.