It’s been three days. Three days of hiding out at Evan’s place like I’m some kind of fugitive instead of a skater who just wants to train for Nationals. Three days of reporters camped outside the rink, outside my parents’ house, outside Daniels’ office, everywhere except here. They haven’t found Evan’s place yet. Thank God.
But I’m still pissed. I’m pissed that I can’t go home. I’m pissed that I can’t train. I’m pissed that I can’t even walk outside without worrying someone will shove a microphone in my face. And I’m pissed that all of this, the locker, the picture, the threat, has shoved itself between me and Evan right when things were finally starting to feel… good. Real. Ours.
I sit on his couch, knees pulled to my chest, staring at the muted TV. Some sports channel is replaying high
