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Michael shrugs, backing me against the closed door. “My dad has always been my role model.”

He places his hands on my waist, and a hiss breaks free before I can tamp down the reaction. He frowns, and as his fingers slide to the hem of my shirt, I trap my bottom lip between my teeth, knowing damn well he’s not going to like what he’s about to see.

With a gentle tug, he pulls my tee up. “What the hell is this?” he mutters when my bruised side comes into view.

“I fell.”

“What the fuck, Isla? Why didn’t you tell me?”

I soften my voice. “Because it’s nothing. It’ll heal.”

“When did it happen? It looks fresh.”

“Yesterday.”

He ducks his head so our eyes are level. “And you went to practice today?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Elena insisted I take a break.”

His brows jump to his hairline. “Elena insisted you take a break? I’m fucking scared to ask how bad the fall was.”

“It was bad, but it’ll heal. I’ll be back on the ice in two days.”

“Oh?” He drops his head a little, still zeroed in on me. “Does that mean I get you all to myself for two whole days? And I’ll be able to take care of you?”

I nod.

“I hate the reason,” he says, voice softer now, “but I’m not mad about getting some time alone with…” He tilts his head, pretending to think. “What did my dad call you again? My girlfriend?”

“Stop,” I say, swatting his chest.

Laughter rumbles out of him as he leans in and steals a quick kiss. When he steps back, fingers threading through mine, he says, “Okay, okay. I’m being unfair.” His grip tightens a little. “Come on. We should go back. Meg gets fucking scary when she’s hungry.”

I let him pull me out of the room, happy and light. With him, all my days are perfect.

CHAPTER FIFTY

she won

MICHAEL

Twenty-three years old

Warm-ups don’t start for a few more minutes, but I was too damn anxious to sit around the locker room any longer. I needed to move, to find a way to take my mind off Isla and what she’s about to do halfway across the world. While I’m in the US, she’s in Sweden, and today, she’ll compete in the Olympics.

I rest my stick against my thigh, helmet tucked under my arm, and stare at the rink, but my mind isn’t here. I’m too busy picturing her lacing up her skates and putting on a brave face to compete in the most prolific competition in the world. For the second time in her career. And I’m a fucking mess, terrified I’ll miss her free skate because I’ll be on the ice.

Before I started therapy, I played plenty of games in a shitty headspace. But that was back when I still read all the negative comments and agonized over every one of my flaws. I played through pressure in high school, in college, and it’s only grown now that I play for the Phantoms. I’ve done it all—elimination games, overtimes when my lungs burned and my hands shook so hard, I was surprised I didn’t lose the stick somewhere in the middle of the ice.

But none of that compares to how I feel right now. Because tonight, winning isn’t the hardest part. It’s not my primary focus. My primary focus is supporting Isla and cheering her on while we’re miles and miles apart.

Fuck, not being able to watch her achieve her dreams will haunt me forever.

“Hey.” Asher approaches, his green eyes as bright as ever, his Vipers jersey tight across his pads, and a shit-eating grin on his face.

The one that never fails to make me smile in return.

My best friend.