Zoey's POV

Ophelia sat behind me in the afternoon class—too quiet.

Normally, she'd have passed me a note under her textbook by now, sketched with Mr. Brown's toupee migration patterns or scribbled something like "the cafeteria chicken sandwich finally doesn't smell like a tire today." But today even her page-turning was quieter than usual.

I knew why.

In AP English Literature, Ms. Patterson was covering the final chapter of The Great Gatsby.

"Gatsby believed in that green light, believed in the future he reached for with everything he had. But class, have you ever considered—some futures just aren't worth reaching for?"

My pen dragged across my notebook without writing anything.

My phone buzzed in my pocket.

Lawrence: [Good luck at practice this afternoon. I'll be there by six-thirty, I promise.]

I flipped the phone over and pressed it face-down on my desk.

When the bell rang, I gathered my things. Ophelia walked past me.

"Ophelia."

She stopped.

"Are you mad at me?"

She thought for a moment. "I'm not mad. I'm conserving my intervention quota. At the current burn rate, I'll be out before the semester ends."

I opened my mouth to say something, but she'd already stuffed her water bottle into her backpack and zipped it shut.

"I grabbed your highlighter from the classroom. The orange one." She pulled it out and placed it in my palm, then walked away.

That was the most infuriating thing about Ophelia—she'd make her stance clear, she'd give you the cold shoulder, but she'd never actually abandon you. You'd finish fighting with her only to turn around and find she'd already picked up everything you'd left behind.

I stood there clutching that orange highlighter for two seconds, then shoved it into my pencil case.

Practice started at four.

Octavia's expression was even colder than yesterday. Probably because regional competition roster confirmation was next week, and my recent jump completion rate had been sliding downhill.

"Zoey, your center of gravity shifted before takeoff on that triple Lutz. Didn't you feel it?"

I stood on the ice, breath still uneven.

"Got it, Ms. Cranston."

"'Got it' isn't enough. Again."

I reset my approach, picked up speed, pressed into the edge, launched—

The instant I landed, my right outside edge slipped. I barely avoided falling, but my whole body lurched forward half a step, arms flailing out.

Octavia stood rinkside, stopwatch clenched in her hand.

"Your performance today is worse than that fourteen-year-old who just started last week."

That one hit its mark.

I said nothing, circled back to the starting position, bent over with both hands braced on my knees.

My head was a mess—Cordelia's voice, Florence's profile as she looked down at that test, the sensation of Lawrence's knuckles brushing my hand when he pulled away.

And that line of his: "She just needed help, so I helped."

Stop thinking.

"One more time."

Octavia lifted her chin slightly.

This time I clenched my back molars and channeled everything into the blade beneath me.

Approach. Three-turn. Toe pick. Launch.

Mid-rotation, my mind finally emptied—nothing existed. Three full rotations completed, center of gravity locked precisely into the right back outside edge. Landing. Ice chips sprayed out with a crisp crack.

Clean.

Octavia didn't praise me. She just jotted something in her notebook, then said without looking up, "That's the level you should be at. Don't let me see that garbage again."

For Octavia, this was the highest form of approval.

Six-fifteen. I sat on the locker room bench in my street clothes.

My hair was still damp, towel draped around my neck. That distinctive post-practice ache was seeping through my muscles—they were burning, but my mind felt cold.

Six-eighteen.

Six-twenty-two.

Six-twenty-five.

I stared at the time on my phone, watching the minutes tick by. I couldn't tell if I was waiting for him to show up or waiting for him to disappoint me again.

If he didn't show, at least that would make my decision easier.

Six-twenty-nine.

A car horn sounded outside.

My heartbeat stuttered.

I walked out the rink doors. Lawrence's car was parked at the curb, engine still running. The window rolled down and he held up his phone, grinning like an idiot.

"Six-twenty-nine! One minute early! My football career is saved!"

I stood frozen on the steps.

He came. He actually came.

I should have been happy. And I was—that tight knot in my chest that had been there all day loosened slightly.

But right behind that relief came something awkward and uncomfortable. He'd stood me up so many times, and now he showed up on time once and I was grateful? When had I become so easy to please?

Still, I walked down the steps.

He came around from the driver's side and took my practice bag, tossing it in the trunk.

"How was practice today?"

"Okay. Landed a clean triple Lutz. Ms. Cranston's insult count dropped from fifteen to twelve."

"Twenty percent improvement." He calculated seriously. "At this rate, she won't be yelling at you at all in two months."

"At this rate, in two months she'll be depressed from having no one to yell at."

He laughed and pulled open the passenger door.

I slid in and buckled my seatbelt. The car smelled like coffee. On the center console sat an unopened pack of energy bars with a sticky note attached.

I picked it up.

In messy handwriting: "For the world's most exhausted but most badass figure skater. If she doesn't want to eat it, it'll wait here for her."

I clutched the note in my hand, throat tightening.

"You don't have to do this every time."

"Do what?"

"This. All of... this."

He glanced over at me and paused for a second.

"I don't do it every time. That's why this time matters."

I didn't respond.

The car pulled into the evening traffic. Streetlights flickered on one by one. The interior went quiet for a stretch. Some old English song played on the radio, volume turned low.

"Oh, by the way." He spoke suddenly. "My brother confirmed. He's coming this Friday."

I turned to look at him.

"He specifically texted to ask what's changed at home. I told him the biggest change is I finally have a girlfriend."

"What did you tell him about me?"

"I said she's beautiful and smart, really good at figure skating, and has a great personality."

"You lied about that last part."

"Yeah, I know. But I figured I'd set a good foundation first. When he meets you in person and it all falls apart, that's not my problem anymore."

I kicked him lightly with my foot.

He reached over and pressed his hand against my knee, voice dropping lower. "Seriously though. I was hoping you could come to dinner at my place Friday. I want to introduce you to my brother. His opinion matters a lot to me."

"Does your family know I'm coming?"

"My mom sent the invitation herself. She even asked if you eat shrimp."

"I do."

"Good. I'll let her know."

His thumb traced a small circle on my knee.

"Zoey."

"Yeah."

"Besides practice, was today okay for you?"

I thought about it.

Wanted to say no. Wanted to say the hallway incident had messed with me all day. Wanted to say when he defended Florence, my chest had started hurting. Wanted to say that moment when he pulled his hand away—my wrist still felt hollow from it.

But I looked at his profile as he focused on driving. He had shown up on time today. He had bought the energy bars. He had remembered that one-minute promise.

"It was okay."

He nodded without pressing further.