Chapter 2 After Hours
The house was too quiet.
Even lying in bed, I could hear everything—the hum of the fridge downstairs, the faint tick of the thermostat, and the occasional creak of the wooden frame like the place was exhaling. The quiet was so complete that it made my own heartbeat sound loud, like a drum I couldn’t turn off.
I rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My brain kept replaying dinner like a movie I couldn’t pause—my dad laughing at something Liam had said, the easy way they bantered, the way Liam’s eyes found mine when no one else was looking. And then my father’s voice, casual but sharp: the son I never had.
That phrase stuck in my mind like a burr, small but impossible to ignore.
Sleep wasn’t happening. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the carpet cool under my bare feet. My hoodie was crumpled over the chair, sleeves twisted, smelling faintly of laundry soap and something I couldn’t place. I pulled it on, the fabric soft against my skin, and shoved my phone into the pocket out of habit.
The hallway was dim, shadows stretching long under the glow of a single nightlight plugged near the stairs. My father’s door was closed, a thin line of light seeping out beneath it. I padded quietly past, the muffled sound of papers shuffling inside telling me he was still awake.
The stairs groaned faintly under my weight. I slipped out the side door into the night.
Cold air hit me instantly, sharp and clean, biting my cheeks and waking me up more than I wanted. My breath curled in little white ghosts that trailed behind me as I crossed the parking lot toward the practice facility. Somewhere nearby, woodsmoke drifted faintly in the air, mixing with the dry scent of snow.
The keycard my father had given me beeped softly, unlocking the heavy metal door with a solid click. Inside, the air was colder still, that special kind of chill that sinks into your skin. It smelled of fresh ice clean, metallic cut with the faint, stubborn tang of sweat and disinfectant.
The rink was dim except for a strip of lights down the center ice. For a moment I thought it was empty. Then I saw him.
Liam.
He moved across the ice like the world owed him something and he intended to collect sharp turns, quick cuts, the hiss and bite of blades carving deep into the surface. He skated low, powerful, his shoulders tight, every push of his legs a little too hard, like he was chasing something only he could see.
I stayed in the shadows, watching him stop with a spray of ice that glittered briefly under the lights. He leaned forward on his stick, chest rising and falling. The boards rattled faintly from the impact of his stop.
When he looked up and spotted me, he didn’t look surprised.
He coasted toward me, slowing only at the last second before resting his forearm on the boards. “Couldn’t sleep either?” His voice was low, rough from cold air and exertion.
I shook my head. “Not really my kind of place to relax.”
He tugged off one glove, running his bare hand through damp hair, pushing it back in loose waves. “Some people need warm milk. I need ice.”
I tilted my head. “You get enough of that during the day, don’t you?”
His smirk was quick, like he couldn’t help it. “Yeah. But this—” he gestured toward the empty rink “—this is mine. No drills. No coaches. Just me.”
It sounded less like training and more like survival.
“You were quiet at dinner,” he said after a moment, eyes scanning my face.
“Maybe I didn’t have much to add to whatever it was you guys were talking about,” I said, stuffing my hands into my hoodie pocket. “I’m not exactly part of the team.”
“You don’t have to be,” he said simply.
The words made something shift in my chest, and I looked away, tracing the jagged skate marks in the ice. “So what’s with the late-night rage skate?”
“Bad practice. Couldn’t shake it. So I will stay until I can.”
“And now?”
His eyes didn’t leave mine. “Still working on it.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The hum of the lights above was louder than it should’ve been.
I broke the silence first. “So, you grew up around here?”
“Not exactly. A couple towns over. Moved a lot.” He shrugged, like the details didn’t matter. “You?”
“All over. Never anywhere long enough to feel like home.”
He nodded like he understood that more than he’d admit. “Guess that’s one thing we have in common.”
I smiled faintly. “One thing?”
“You’re a smartass, too,” he said, and there was a hint of warmth behind it.
“Guess that makes two.”
His smirk deepened, and something about the way he looked at me made it feel like we were teetering on the edge of something—not a cliff, exactly, but a thin sheet of ice that might crack if either of us stepped wrong.
“Want to watch a few?” he asked suddenly.
I arched my brow. “What, like a private show?”
“Exactly like that.”
He pushed off, his stride long and easy at first, then snapping into speed so sharp I could hear the faint crack of the ice under his blades. He weaved through invisible opponents, turned so tight that the spray reached halfway up the glass.
When he coasted back to me, breath fogging the boards, his grin was boyish. “Not bad for a late-night performance, right?”
“Eight out of ten.”
“Eight?”
“You lost points for looking like you were trying too hard.”
His laugh was low, warmer than the air between us had any right to be. “Tough crowd.”
We lingered there for a beat, the glass between us doing nothing to cut the awareness sparking in the space. I almost asked him why my dad liked him so much, why he called him the son I never had but something told me I didn’t want to know the answer yet.
The sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway slowly, deliberately.
Liam’s posture changed instantly. He straightened, eyes sharp.
I stepped back from the boards, heart thudding. The steps grew louder, heavier, a steady rhythm against the concrete. A shadow stretched across the far wall.
His eyes locked on mine. “Go,” he murmured, lips barely moving.
I hesitated half from curiosity, half from the way his voice dipped low when he said it but then I turned, the squeak of my sneakers on the rubber mat sounding too loud.
