Ice Between Us

The Truth That Isn't Gentle

I don’t remember leaving the arena.

One moment I’m standing in that hallway, his words still echoing through me like a crack spreading across glass, and the next, I’m outside, the night swallowing me whole. The air is colder than it should be, sharp enough to sting, but it doesn’t compare to the chill settling under my skin.

I didn’t leave because of hockey.

I left because staying would’ve destroyed you.

The words refuse to make sense. They don’t fit into the version of the past I’ve been carrying for five years. They don’t belong in the story I built my life on.

I wrap my coat tighter around myself, like that might hold everything together. It doesn’t.

The street is alive with noise, people laughing, talking, replaying the game like nothing in the world has shifted. But something has shifted. Something big enough to make my thoughts feel unsteady, like the ground beneath me isn’t as solid as I believed.

I get into the first taxi I see.

The driver asks where to, and for a second I hesitate, because I don’t know where to take this kind of confusion. There’s no destination for something like this. No place where it neatly settles.

“My apartment,” I say finally.

The ride passes in fragments. Lights smear against the window, reflections bending and breaking as the car moves through the city. I watch them without really seeing, my mind stuck somewhere between what I knew and what I’m starting to question.

I did everything right.

I remember the nights I spent working on that article. The calls. The interviews. The way every detail felt like a piece of a puzzle falling perfectly into place. I remember believing I was uncovering something important. Something real.

I remember believing him when he said nothing.

That part hurts the most.

Because silence, back then, felt like guilt.

Now it feels like something else.

Something I don’t have a name for yet.

By the time I reach my building, my chest feels tight, like I’ve been holding my breath for too long. I pay the driver, barely noticing the exchange, and head inside.

The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. Every step echoes.

Inside my apartment, the silence wraps around me immediately. Familiar, but not comforting. Not tonight.

I drop my bag on the couch and stand still for a moment, trying to slow my breathing.

Then I move.

Because stopping means thinking, and thinking right now feels dangerous.

I grab my laptop and open it, fingers moving fast, almost frantic. The search takes seconds.

Of course it does.

The article is still there, sitting exactly where I left it, untouched and unchallenged.

“Rising Star or Hidden Scandal? The Truth Behind Ethan Volkov’s Sudden Ascent.”

The title stares back at me, bold and certain.

I click.

The words unfold across the screen, familiar and foreign at the same time. I scroll slowly at first, then faster, scanning paragraphs I once memorized, arguments I once defended.

Every sentence is sharp. Precise. Confident.

Too confident.

I stop halfway through.

A name.

It shouldn’t stand out, but it does.

Because suddenly, it doesn’t feel like just a source.

It feels personal.

Too personal.

A knock interrupts the thought.

I freeze.

It’s late. No one comes here this late.

The knock comes again, firmer this time.

My pulse picks up.

“Who is it?” I call, my voice steadier than I feel.

A pause.

Then

“Someone who thinks you’re asking the wrong questions.”

My breath catches.

I know that voice.

I open the door.

Ethan stands there, framed by the dim hallway light, his expression unreadable, but his presence unmistakable. The air shifts the second he steps inside, like the room itself reacts to him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I say, though the words lack strength.

“Probably not,” he replies.

He doesn’t leave.

His gaze lands on my laptop, on the article still open, and something dark flickers in his eyes.

“Still reading that?” he asks.

“I had to,” I say. “You made me question it.”

“Good.”

The word lands heavier than expected.

I cross my arms, grounding myself. “Then explain.”

He studies me for a moment, like he’s deciding how much truth I can handle.

Then he speaks.

“Your source,” he says quietly. “The one who gave you everything. The one who told you I cheated my way into the league…”

My stomach tightens.

“What about them?”

“They didn’t lie,” he says.

Relief flickers.

Then disappears.

“Not exactly.”

The room feels smaller.

“What does that mean?”

“It means they told you what they wanted you to hear.”

The words settle slowly, like something sinking beneath water.

“That’s the same as lying.”

“Not when it’s done carefully.”

A chill moves through me.

“Who were they?” I ask.

He doesn’t answer right away.

And that silence says more than words ever could.

“You knew them,” he says finally.

Everything inside me stills.

“No,” I say immediately. “That’s not possible.”

“It is.”

And suddenly, that name in the article doesn’t just feel wrong.

It feels close.

“No,” I repeat, but my voice isn’t as strong this time. “I would remember.”

“Would you?” he asks.

The question lingers.

Because I’m not sure anymore.

“I checked everything,” I insist. “I verified identities, backgrounds”

“You verified what they showed you,” he says.

The precision of it lands hard.

I swallow. “Say their name.”

Because I need to hear it. I need something solid to hold onto.

Ethan exhales slowly, like he’s stepping into something unavoidable.

“The source you trusted most,” he says, “was the only person who had a reason to destroy both of us.”

My chest tightens.

“Who?”

“Daniel Reyes.”

The name hits like impact.

My brother.

“No,” I whisper. “That’s not true.”

But even as I say it, something shifts.

Memories rearrange themselves. Conversations take on new meaning.

“He wouldn’t do that,” I say.

“He did.”

His certainty is unshakable.

“Why would he?” I ask, even though part of me already knows.

Ethan watches me carefully. “He knew me before you did.”

That catches me off guard.

“What?”

“We trained in the same junior league,” he says. “Years ago.”

The pieces start to move.

“He was good,” Ethan continues. “But he didn’t make it.”

“And you did,” I say quietly.

He nods.

“There was a selection. Limited spots. I got one.”

“And he didn’t.”

Silence.

The weight of it presses down on me.

“That’s not enough,” I say. “That’s not a reason to destroy someone’s life.”

“Not just someone,” Ethan corrects. “Me.”

The distinction matters more than I want it to.

I shake my head, trying to push the thought away. “I need proof.”

“You should,” he says.

Then he hands me his phone.

“There’s something you need to see.”

My fingers tremble as I take it.

A video.

Five years old.

I press play.

Voices fill the silence.

Ethan’s.

And

Daniel’s.

“I told you to stay away from her,” Daniel says, his tone sharp, unfamiliar.

“She deserves the truth,” Ethan replies.

“The truth?” Daniel laughs, cold. “The truth is you’ll ruin her if you stay.”

“That’s not your decision.”

“No,” Daniel says. “But this is.”

A pause.

“If you don’t leave her,” he continues, “I’ll make sure she’s the one who destroys you.”

My breath stops.

“And how would you do that?” Ethan asks.

“I’ll give her a story,” Daniel says. “One she won’t ignore.”

The video ends.

Silence crashes down.

Everything inside me feels like it’s collapsing.

“You knew,” I whisper.

“I knew,” Ethan says.

“And you still left?”

His gaze softens, just enough to hurt.

“I had to.”

The realization settles slowly.

Painfully.

He didn’t leave because he didn’t care.

He left because staying would’ve forced me into something worse.

And suddenly, everything I believed…

Feels fragile.

Uncertain.

Wrong.

I look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, I see not just the man I lost

But the truth I never understood.

And now that I do…

There’s no going back.