The room was silent enough that I could hear both our breathing.
The heavy, metallic hum of the ice machine in the corner felt distant, drowned out by the erratic, frantic sprint of my own pulse. Violet stood right in front of me, the delicate, floral scent of her vanilla perfume instantly invading the sterile, rubbing-alcohol air of the treatment room. She was wearing that dark knit dress—the one meant for Ethan Blake—but she wasn't with him. She was here, in the dim, blue-tinted shadows of the arena basement, looking down at me with a raw, breathless panic that completely stripped away her new, quiet confidence.
"The trainer was heading to the equipment lockers, and I... I told him I’d bring the fresh ice wrap down," Violet murmured, her voice a fragile fracture that vibrated straight
