Chapter Thirty-Eight: Distractions or Realization?
1109 Words
Marcus's POV
I feel it before anything actually goes wrong.
That crawling, skin-prickling sense like the universe has wound its arm back and is about to throw something sharp straight at my head.
The rink smells like cold steel and rubber, the familiar comfort of it usually settling my thoughts into clean lines. Today, my mind is anything but clean. It’s frayed. Loud. Stuck on replay.
Anna’s laugh.
Ben’s hands on her.
The way she looked at me afterward—firm, but still choosing me.
Coach’s whistle shrieks, cutting through my thoughts. “Marcus! Focus!”
“I am,” I lie, skating into position.
The puck slides toward me. I mishandle it. The blade catches wrong, the puck skitters wide and slams uselessly into the boards.
Damian snorts from the other side of the ice. “You trying out for figure skating now?”
“Shut up,” I mutter, retrieving the puck.
We run the drill again. And again. And again.
And I miss shots I never miss.
My timing’s off. My shots are sloppy. My head’s not in the game, and Coach knows it. I can feel his eyes on me, weighing patience against irritation.
“Marcus!” he calls finally. “Bench.”
I skate over, breath fogging the air. Coach folds his arms. “You’re skating like you’ve got ghosts in your head.”
I don’t respond.
“Two extra hours,” he says flatly. “Solo shots. Work it out.”
The rest of practice ends in a blur. Damian and Peter skate off, exchanging looks that say you good? I don’t answer them either.
The rink empties.
The silence presses in.
I line up pucks at center ice and start firing.
Shot after shot. Hard. Relentless. The c***k of puck on post echoes, sharp and angry. Sweat drips down my spine despite the cold.
This is how I fix things. Motion. Force. Focus.
It almost works.
Almost.
“Marcus.”
Her voice slices through the quiet like a blade.
I don’t turn. “Rink’s closed.”
Bella laughs lightly, heels clicking as she steps closer to the boards. “Funny. I didn’t see a sign.”
I fire another shot. It hits dead center, rebounds hard.
“What do you want?” I ask, still not looking at her.
She sighs dramatically. “Is that any way to talk to your date?”
That gets my attention.
I stop skating and finally turn. Bella leans against the glass, arms crossed, immaculate as ever—hair perfect, expression smug. Like she owns every room she walks into.
“We’re not dates,” I say coldly.
She tilts her head. “The gala invitation says otherwise.”
“My dad invited you,” I snap. “That doesn’t mean I agreed.”
“Oh, come on,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s tradition. Hockey golden boy escorts superstar Figureskater. Cameras flash. Everyone’s happy.”
“I’m not.”
She smiles thinly. “You will be.”
I skate closer to the boards, grip tightening on my stick. “Listen carefully. If you don’t shut up about the gala, I won’t show. At all.”
Her smile flickers.
“You wouldn’t,” she says, but there’s uncertainty there now.
“Try me.”
Silence stretches.
Then she recovers, eyes gleaming with something darker. “Fine. We’ll circle back to that.”
I turn away, collecting more pucks.
“Marcus,” she adds sweetly, “I saw Anna the other night.”
My body stills.
I don’t turn. “Congratulations.”
“At the movies,” Bella continues casually. “With Ben.”
The name hits harder than it should.
I fire a puck. It slams into the boards so hard it rattles the glass.
“And?” I ask.
“And,” she says, enjoying this far too much, “people talk.”
I grind my teeth. “People always do.”
She pushes off the glass, voice lowering. “I also heard a rumor.”
I stop skating.
This time, I turn.
Bella meets my gaze, satisfaction flickering across her face. “Apparently, Ben has connections. Big ones. At the Leith School of Art.”
“In Europe,” she adds.
The world tilts.
“There’s talk,” she says softly, “that he could get Anna an internship there this summer.”
The rink goes silent except for the distant hum of the cooling system.
Europe.
Summer.
Anna.
I stand there, heart pounding so hard it hurts. Bella watches every micro-expression, waiting for the c***k. Waiting to wedge herself in.
“That would be… life-changing for her,” Bella continues, voice honeyed. “Art history. Travel. Opportunity.”
I swallow.
My chest tightens.
“And long-distance,” she finishes gently. “If you’re lucky.”
Something ugly flares in my chest—not jealousy exactly, but fear. Real, sharp fear.
Bella steps closer. “I just thought you should know. Before you get too… invested.”
My hands shake.
I skate toward the bench instead, ripping my gloves off and digging into my bag with more force than necessary.
My phone buzzes.
I freeze.
Anna: Hey. Can we meet up? I want to talk.
My chest loosens in a rush so sudden it almost knocks the wind out of me.
I stare at the screen, rereading it like it might disappear.
Bella peers over my shoulder. “That her?”
I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket.
“That’s none of your business.”
She scoffs. “You really trust her that much?”
I straighten, meeting Bella’s gaze fully now. “Yes.”
She laughs sharply. “You’re naïve.”
“No,” I say, stepping past her. “I’m done.”
She grabs my arm. “Marcus—”
I shrug her off. “Don’t touch me.”
Her eyes flash. “You think she won’t choose Europe over you?”
I pause at the rink exit, my back to her.
“She’ll choose what’s right for her,” I say quietly. “And I’ll deal with that when it happens.”
Bella sneers. “You’re going to get hurt.”
I glance over my shoulder, calm settling into my bones for the first time all day. “Maybe. But it won’t be because I listened to you.”
I walk out.
The cold air outside hits my face, sharp and grounding. I pull out my phone as I head down the steps.
Me: Yeah. Let’s meet.
The eerie feeling fades, replaced by something steadier.
Whatever’s coming—
I’ll face it with her.
Not against her.
- Writer
