Chapter 8 The Whale

POV: Silver Preston

I escape registration with my hood pulled low and my heart still hammering against my ribs, Americus's cheerful chatter about costume design electives creating a buffer between me and the rest of the world.

I didn't answer Bianca's question. Couldn't have even if I wanted to.

Instead, I muttered something appropriately vague about having "one of those faces," scrawled my signature on the English Literature roster, and melted back into the crowd before the Mitchelle twins could corner me for the kind of conversation that would inevitably end in humiliation.

But the damage is already spreading through my system like poison.

My pulse hasn't returned to normal since the moment their perfectly glossed lips curved into those familiar smiles, and every time I close my eyes, I can see the recognition dawning in their expressions.

Back in our Gothic dorm room, Americus has immediately claimed her bed as command central, sprawling across the floral duvet with course catalogs spread around her like battle plans.

Loose sequins from her registration day outfit scatter across the fabric like glittery confetti, catching the late afternoon light streaming through our diamond paned windows.

"So," Americus announces, not looking up from the theater arts course descriptions she's highlighting with religious fervor, "tonight we're doing karaoke at the student center. Mandatory roommate bonding. Bring the mysterious brooding energy. It'll add depth to our group dynamic."

I mumble something that could be agreement or protest, already tugging my Yale hoodie tighter around my shoulders.

The thought of standing in front of strangers, holding a microphone, being seen and heard and potentially recognized, makes my stomach clench with familiar dread.

Karaoke is approximately the last thing I want to subject myself to.

What I want, what I need with an intensity that surprises me, is ice.

Not competition ice with its harsh spotlights and judging panels. Not the polished perfection of training facilities where every move is scrutinized and measured.

Just the quiet sanctuary of a rink where blades sing against frozen water and the rest of the world fades into irrelevance.

I've heard whispers about Ingalls Rink from other students. Nicknamed "The Whale" for its distinctive curved wooden roof that rises from the Yale campus like the spine of some great sea creature.

Home to Yale hockey, a landmark that's hosted decades of games and championships.

I hadn't planned on seeking it out, but the restless energy under my skin won't leave me alone.

That evening, while Americus practices what appears to be jazz hands in our narrow mirror and Riley attempts to focus on her assigned reading despite the impromptu dance rehearsal happening three feet away, I slip out of our room.

The Gothic corridors of our residential college feel different in the gathering dusk. More mysterious, more forgiving of someone trying to disappear.

My knee brace makes each step deliberate, but determination carries me across campus through areas I haven't yet explored.

Past darkened courtyards where other students gather in clusters around stone benches, through side streets lined with New England maples just beginning to hint at autumn colors, until the unmistakable silhouette of Ingalls Rink emerges from the shadows ahead.

The building is impossible to miss.

Those dramatic arched beams rising against the evening sky like the skeleton of some prehistoric creature, glass walls glowing faintly from interior lighting that suggests life within.

The Whale, in all its architectural glory.

I hesitate at the main entrance, cool September air pressing against my back and carrying the distant sounds of campus life. Laughter from nearby dorms, music from someone's open window, the steady hum of cars on Whitney Avenue.

I almost turn around. Almost convince myself that this is a terrible idea, that I should return to my room and pretend to be a normal college freshman who doesn't feel physically incomplete without the sensation of blades beneath her feet.

But the magnetic pull of ice is stronger than common sense.

Inside, the familiar blast of refrigerated air hits me like a homecoming.

I inhale sharply, letting the scent fill my lungs. Cold and sharp, with undertones of rubber matting and leather skate tongues, zamboni exhaust and the particular metallic tang that clings to hockey equipment.

It's like breathing in memories of every rink I've ever trained in, every early morning practice session, every moment when the ice felt like the only place in the world that made sense.

I creep up into the stands, grateful to find them nearly empty except for a forgotten backpack abandoned on one of the benches and a few scattered programs from previous games.

Below me, the rink stretches in perfect white expanse under brilliant overhead lighting.

This isn't figure skating ice. The boards show the familiar scuffs and dings of hockey play, goal nets stand at attention at either end, and the surface itself has the slightly rougher texture that comes from hosting games rather than hosting artists.

A single player moves across that perfect canvas of ice.

My breath catches in recognition.

Eli Hayes.

The same guy who kept me from face planting on the cobblestones outside my dorm, who delivered that cryptic "Welcome to Yale" like it contained layers of meaning I hadn't yet deciphered.

Now here he is in his natural habitat, and for the first time I begin to understand why his presence feels so sharp edged, so dangerous.

He's fast. Ridiculously, impossibly fast.

His skates carve across the ice with the kind of precision that speaks of thousands of hours of practice, edges biting deep as he executes tight turns, carries the puck through an invisible obstacle course, and fires slapshots that crack against the boards with enough force to make me wince sympathetically.

He moves like the rink was built specifically for him, like gravity and physics agreed to bend slightly in his favor.

Every stride is economical, purposeful, powerful. Even practicing alone, his focus is absolute. Shoulders low and balanced, head up, eyes tracking the puck with predatory intensity.

I find myself gripping the cold metal railing of the stands, my knuckles going white as I watch him execute a drill that involves stopping short in a spray of ice crystals that fan out like shattered diamonds before he pushes off again, chasing the puck down the full length of the rink.

My knee throbs in cruel counterpoint to his fluid motion, a constant reminder that I'll never again experience that particular brand of physical poetry.

But I can't bring myself to leave, can't tear my gaze away from the hypnotic rhythm of blade against ice, the dangerous beauty of speed balanced perpetually on the edge of disaster.

For one traitorous moment, it's all too easy to imagine myself out there with him.

Not playing hockey. I've never had the slightest interest in body checking or fighting for puck possession.

But spinning across center ice in a perfect camel, arms extended like wings, hair streaming behind me as the stands blur into irrelevance and the world narrows to nothing but music and movement and the crystalline perfection of a program executed flawlessly.

My throat tightens with longing so sharp it feels like swallowing glass.

Eli fires another shot, the puck ringing off the far post with a sound that echoes through the empty arena. He coasts to a stop near the goal line, chest heaving beneath his Yale Hockey practice jersey, stick resting across his knees as he catches his breath.

Steam rises faintly from his overheated body in the frigid air.

Then, as if pulled by some sixth sense that athletes develop after years of performing under scrutiny, his gaze lifts and sweeps the stands.

Straight to where I sit frozen in the shadows.

Our eyes meet across the distance.

His sharp and assessing, mine wide with the particular horror of being caught somewhere I don't belong.

For a heartbeat that feels like an eternity, neither of us moves.

Eli Hayes has found my hiding place, and there's absolutely nowhere left to run.