On thin ice

Chapter 6 – Jax

Sleep had become a negotiation I kept losing.

Every time I closed my eyes I saw the punch again—Vale’s face, the blood on the ice, the way the arena had gone silent before it exploded. Sometimes the memory shifted and it was my sister’s hospital room instead, the beeping monitors, the way my father had looked at me like I was already a failure. The two images had started bleeding into each other until I couldn’t tell which one hurt more.

I was still awake when the group chat with the team lit up at 1:14 a.m.

Most of the messages were the usual noise. Then one from Vale himself appeared.

Hope the radio girl is worth the suspension.

I stared at the screen until the words blurred.

I didn’t answer.

Morning came too fast. The student union walk-through was scheduled for eleven. Dana had sent a call sheet that read like a military brief: entry point, conversation topics, suggested physical contact, exit angle for the best light.

I got there early again. Habit. Or maybe just the inability to sit still in my own apartment without the walls starting to close in.

Avery arrived looking like she hadn’t slept either. Dark circles, same gray hoodie, hair pulled up like she’d done it without looking in a mirror. She didn’t greet me. She just stopped a few feet away and waited for Dana to start talking.

“Today we want movement,” Dana said. “Walk the main floor, stop at the bulletin boards, grab coffee again if it feels natural. Talk about something personal this time. Viewers need to feel the shift.”

Avery’s voice was flat. “There is no shift.”

“Then create one,” Dana replied, still smiling.

The cameras started rolling the second we stepped inside.

The student union was crowded enough that people noticed us immediately. Phones came out. Whispers followed. I kept my hands in my pockets so I wouldn’t do something stupid with them. Avery walked beside me like she was counting the steps until she could leave.

“You look like hell,” she said under her breath.

“Didn’t sleep.”

“Join the club.”

We stopped at a bulletin board covered in club flyers and internship notices. I pretended to read one. She pretended to care.

“They’re going to want a longer touch today,” I said quietly. “Just so you know.”

“I know.”

“You can say no.”

She glanced at me sideways. “Can I?”

The question hung there. Neither of us answered it.

A group of freshmen walked past and one of them actually said my name like it was a dare. I ignored it. Avery’s jaw tightened.

We kept walking.

Near the coffee counter she stopped so abruptly I almost ran into her.

“My mom’s in the hospital again,” she said, so quietly I almost missed it. “That’s why the money matters. Not the exposure. Not the show. The bills.”

I looked at her. Really looked. The sharp edges were still there, but underneath them was something rawer than anger.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. Just don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“I’m trying not to.”

She nodded once, like she’d decided something, and started walking again.

We made it through another twenty minutes of carefully managed public performance. I touched her elbow once when the cameras angled for it. She didn’t pull away. The contact lasted three seconds and felt longer.

When Dana finally called cut, Avery stepped back immediately.

“I have class,” she said.

“I’ll walk you.”

“No.”

She left before I could argue.

I stood there in the middle of the student union with the cameras packing up around me and the weight of every eye in the room pressing down. My phone buzzed. Marcus.

Draft boards are watching the show. Keep her close. This is working.

I deleted the message without answering.

That afternoon I went to the empty rink and skated until my legs burned and the only sound left was the cut of blades on ice. No cameras. No audience. Just the cold and the repetition and the memory of Avery’s voice saying the bills.

I stayed until the lights started shutting off section by section.

On the way out I checked my phone again. A new email from the production team sat at the top of the inbox.

Subject: Schedule Update – Emotional Check-In Segment

I opened it.

They wanted us on camera tomorrow night in one of the dorm common rooms. Lights low. Conversation guided. The goal, according to the note, was “to capture the first real c***k in the walls.”

I stared at the screen until it dimmed.

Then I forwarded the email to Avery with a single line attached.

We don’t have to give them everything.

Her reply came three minutes later.

We already are.

I put the phone in my pocket and kept walking.

The cold air hit my face like a reminder that the performance wasn’t over.

It was only getting started.