Chapter 4 Crossing Lines

Morning came too bright.

The light cut through the thin blinds in wide stripes, landing across my bed like warning tape. Too loud. Too obvious. I rolled over, pulling the blanket up to my ears, but the warmth couldn’t block the distant hum of voices downstairs. My phone buzzed once on the nightstand and an alert from the weather app. Snow expected by evening. Great. A perfect match for the frost still lodged somewhere in my chest after last night.

The mirror in the bathroom didn’t pull its punches. Same tired eyes, darker underneath, like they’d been painted with smudged charcoal. I twisted my hair into a loose knot and splashed cold water on my face, trying to shock myself into feeling awake. Didn’t work.

By the time I padded downstairs, the kitchen smelled like coffee and toasted bagels. My dad was hunched over the counter, scrolling his tablet with two fingers, glasses low on his nose. He didn’t look up.

Liam leaned against the opposite counter, one ankle crossed over the other, a black hoodie hanging loose over his frame. Hood down, hair damp, a few strands falling stubbornly over his forehead. His eyes flicked to me the second I stepped into the room quick, precise, like he’d been waiting.

“You’re up,” Dad said finally, glancing over.

“Barely,” I muttered, heading for the cabinet.

Liam pushed the coffee pot toward me without a word. Our fingers brushed, a quick static spark that had no business being that distracting. His expression didn’t shift, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he knew.

“Practice starts in an hour,” Dad said, already sliding back into whatever roster math was in his head. “You can sit near the glass if you want.”

“Sure,” I said, though my gaze slipped to Liam, who looked far too at ease sipping his coffee like we weren’t in dangerous territory.

The drive to the arena was silent except for the heater’s low whir. I sat in the back, watching flurries drift lazy arcs past the window, melting as they hit the glass. Dad’s shoulders were locked in that coach posture half here, half somewhere on the ice already.

Inside, the rink’s scent wrapped around me again cold air, faint metal, the sharper tang of disinfectant. My breath fogged in the chill. Players carved slow arcs across the ice in warmup laps, blades slicing clean lines.

Liam was easy to spot fluid, fast, his body folding into each turn like the ice belonged to him. He didn’t look my way, but I felt the moment his attention slid over me. It was like the hum in the arena got louder.

During a pause, he coasted toward my side of the glass. “Enjoying the view?”

“I was, until you ruined it,” I shot back.

He leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that it softened under the arena noise. “Keep talking like that and I might get distracted.”

“Wouldn’t want your coach yelling at you.”

He grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

A whistle cut sharp across the ice. My dad’s voice followed, carrying over the scrape of skates. “Let’s go, Dawson!”

Liam pushed off, still smirking. I let out a slow breath I didn’t remember holding.

As drills went on, the stands started filling with team staff, a couple of younger kids in oversized jerseys, even an older man with a camera slung around his neck snapping practice shots. I noticed another figure lingering near the far tunnel, a woman in a heavy parka, phone in one hand, a compact camera in the other. She wasn’t aiming it at the ice. She was scanning the seating area. I looked away quickly, not sure why it made my stomach tighten.

After practice, the locker room door stood propped open. Steam curled into the hallway, thick with soap, wet gear, and the sharp edge of sweat. A trainer passed carrying a crate of water bottles, nodding at me in polite acknowledgment.

I hesitated, but then Liam appeared in the doorway. Hair damp again, hoodie pulled up.

“You’re still here,” he said, one brow lifting.

“You told me to sneak around right,” I said.

That earned a small grin. “Then come on.”

The service hallway was narrow, concrete underfoot, walls painted a tired off-white. The single strip light overhead buzzed faintly. We walked close enough that I could feel the shift of air every time his shoulder swung. His hand brushed my hip as we rounded a corner light, maybe accidental, but enough to send my focus scattering.

“Where are we going?” I asked, keeping my voice even.

“You’ll see.”

The hallway opened into a small equipment room. Stacks of sticks leaned against one wall, the faint scent of cedar from freshly sharpened blades threading through the cold air. A dryer thumped quietly in the corner, tumbling gear.

He shut the door behind us.

“Is this where you hide your secrets?” I asked.

“Only some of them.” His eyes were darker in here, shadow catching the edges of his face. The hoodie pulled snug over his shoulders, and I caught the faint rasp of stubble when he tilted his head.

“Your dad would kill me if he knew you were in here with me,” he said.

I swallowed. “Then maybe we shouldn’t be.”

“Maybe.” His voice was softer now, but it landed heavier. “But you’re not leaving.”

The quiet swelled around us, filled only by the low hum of the rink’s cooling system. My pulse thudded loud in my ears. His gaze flicked briefly to my mouth, then back up.

“You always look at people like that?” I asked.

“Only when I want them to know I’m thinking about them.”

My breath hitched, barely audible. His hand lifted, brushing a strand of hair back behind my ear. The touch was light, deliberate, sending a shiver racing down my spine.

Then the sharp rattle of the door handle.

We froze.

My dad’s voice came through, rough with impatience. “Liam? Are you there?”

Liam mouthed, Stay quiet.

The handle rattled again. “Is the door stuck?”

I stood perfectly still, not even breathing. Liam’s expression flattened into something unreadable as he stepped back. He reached for the handle.

When he pulled the door open, Dad’s gaze swept the room first Liam, then me. His eyes lingered for half a beat too long before snapping back to Liam.

“What’s going on?”

Liam’s voice was steady. “She was asking about skate maintenance. Thought I’d show her.”

Dad’s eyes moved between us, sharp and slow. Behind him, the faint sound of footsteps faded someone walking past with a rolling cart.

Finally, Dad said, “Harper, come with me. Now.”