My Ice Hockey Boy

Avery’s POV The bleachers are crammed full, everyone pressed in too close, the air thick with sweat and popcorn and this tense, humming energy that makes my skin itch. My hands are locked around the edge of the bench, knuckles gone pale, but I refuse to look at the ice. Not even for a second. I shouldn’t have come. I promised myself a while ago, swore up and down, full of anger and hurt that I wouldn’t set foot in here again. Not after everything. Not after what he did. But Lila wouldn’t let it go. She dragged me along, insisting, “Just one game. You don’t have to watch. Staying home on a Friday night just looks sad.” She might be right. I don’t know. The crowd roars, a wave of sound hitting me hard. I flinch before I can stop myself. Old habits, I guess. All those years clapping, shouting, yelling his name. Now the noise makes my stomach clench. I don’t look. I won’t. I stare down at this crack in the cement by my shoes. Count the lines. Trace the shapes. Anything but the ice. But my brain won’t let me off that easily. I’m dragged right back to that night. Flashback Back then, it was just as loud, just as crowded. We’d won, everyone buzzing. I was standing at the edge of the rink, watching Ethan skate over, sweat on his face, helmet in his arm. Ethan. My Ethan. The crowd shouted his name. I thought he was going to pull me in and kiss me, make a show of it. That’s how it always went Ethan the star, and me in his orbit. But he stopped in front of me and his grin was gone. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said. The noise dropped out, just like that. At first, I thought it was a joke. My laugh was small, shaky. “What?” And then he did it. Dumped me right there, in front of everyone. Not quietly, not in private. On the ice, under the lights, everyone was watching. The whispers started. Laughter too. He skated away. Left me there, stuck, embarrassed. The cheering after? That was for him. Always for him. That’s when I swore off hockey. The rink stopped feeling like home. It turned into something I couldn’t win, no matter what I did. Present “Cole scores!” the announcer bellows, snapping me back to the present. The crowd erupts, stomping feet shaking the bleachers, the sound stabbing through my skull. Of course. Ethan Cole, once again the hero. I can feel him on the ice without even looking, his confidence radiating through the thunder of applause. He’s probably grinning that infuriating grin, raising his stick in salute, soaking in the worship like he was born for it. And maybe he was. Ethan always knew how to play the part. But me? I can’t breathe. My chest tightens, heat crawling up my throat. “Bathroom,” I mutter to Lila, though she can’t hear me over the cheers. I don’t wait for her reply. I stand, pushing past knees and muttering complaints, climbing down the steps two at a time. The noise follows me, clawing at my ears, digging into old wounds. My pulse is wild, unsteady. My vision tunnels. I hit the concourse, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the smell of nachos and soda syrup filling my nose. Still too loud. Still too much. I need out. The exit signs glow red, and I make a beeline for them. My boots pound the concrete, my breath coming fast and uneven. My hands shake as I push open the heavy metal door, cold night air rushing to meet me like a slap. Relief floods in, sharp and stinging. The door clangs shut behind me, muffling the roar of the game to a distant hum. I lean against the wall, eyes shut, gulping air. Never again. I never should’ve come. I knew it. Ethan Cole can keep his trophies, his perfect crowd, his old tricks. I’m not falling for any of it again. Doesn’t matter how many times he scores, or how many people still watch him like he’s some kind of hero. I’m finished. I push off the wall, thinking I’ll just leave, when it happens. I run straight into someone rounding the corner. “Watch it,” I snap, barely catching my balance. He doesn’t budge. He’s tall, solid, just standing there like he belongs. His eyes flick over me, cold and sharp, like he can see right through. There’s a scar above his eyebrow that makes him look dangerous, like he’s used to trouble. He smirks. Not the fake, friendly one Ethan always wore, but something darker. It’s the kind of smile you notice, because it means something you can’t quite figure out. I stop breathing for a second. Neither of us speaks. The cold bites at my face, and my heart’s pounding hard, like it’s warning me. Finally, he glances back toward the arena, that smirk still on his face. “Figures the golden boy gets all the cheers.” His voice is casual, but there’s something bitter there. Maybe even a little amused. It makes my skin prickle. I try to answer, but nothing comes. He’s already moving past me, not looking back. His words hang in the air, rough and low. There’s something in them I can’t name. And for the first time t onight, the cold in my chest isn’t just about Ethan Cole. It’s about him. Whoever he is.