The sharp scent of cold ice hits me as the scrimmage reaches its crescendo. Players skid and swoop like ballet dancers at war, their movements precise yet aggressive. I’m on the edge of my seat, watching as Alex commands the rink. He’s a force of nature—unpredictable, unstoppable. I don’t believe it’s all because of my training, but I’d like to think I had a little hand in it.
In one fluid motion, Alex intercepts a pass, his eyes laser-focused on the goal ahead. He breaks away from the other players. But in the next heartbeat, something goes wrong—horribly wrong. Another player, too eager to prevent the imminent goal, crashes into Alex with the full force of desperation. Time seems to stretch, bend, break. Alex’s towering form twists unnaturally as he slams onto the ice with a sickening crack that hushes the arena.
Panic grips me like an icy vice. Coach Lawson leaps from the bench, players converge in a frantic swarm, and Lara and the rest of the medical staff sprint across the slick surface. The practice is forgotten—all that matters now is Alex.
My hands tremble as if the impact had hit me instead. I stand, but I'm not sure how or when I got to my feet. All I can think of is the way he'd looked at me so earnestly, as if he'd wanted to tell me something. He'd said he couldn't stop thinking about our kiss. It had felt like the beginning of something.
But this feels like an ending. It’s as though the collision has knocked the world off its axis. Players are kneeling by his side, their faces painted with concern and fear. Even from my distant perch in the stands, I can see Alex’s chest rising and falling, a testament to the struggle beneath the armor of his uniform.
“Alex,” I whisper, my voice lost in the cacophony of worried murmurs and urgent shouts. My gaze doesn’t waver from his prone figure; every cell in my body urges me to be out there, to hold his hand, to tell him it will be alright—even if I’m not convinced myself.
“Please be okay,” I mutter, my breath misting in the frigid air. I feel helpless, rooted to the spot, watching the players who respect him so deeply hover with bated breath, their usual competitive fire replaced with stark dread. Alex, the indomitable Iceman, lies vulnerable on the ice, and all I can do is wait.
***
The automatic doors of the hospital swoosh open, blasting me with a gust of sterile air that somehow smells both clean and sick. The florescent lights are harsh on my eyes after the darkness outside, and the antiseptic hallways stretch out ominously before me. My boots click too loudly against the polished floor as I approach the nurse’s station, each step amplifying my worry.
“Alex Winters,” I manage to say, the name coming out as more of a plea than a question. The woman behind the counter glances at her computer, her expression unreadable, and points me down the corridor. “Room 305,” she says mechanically.
As I hurry through the maze of halls, the repetitive beep of heart monitors and the occasional muffled voice from behind closed doors become the soundtrack to my mounting dread. The ice rink is a world away, yet the echo of Alex’s fall still reverberates through me—I can almost hear the crackling as his body collided with the boards.
I’m about to round the corner when I catch sight of room 305’s open door. I pause, hands clammy, the chill of the hospital seeping into my bones despite the sweat clinging to my skin. I feel like an intruder, but I need to be there. My heart beats so fiercely, I fear it might burst through my chest as I inch closer to the doorway, desperate for any news that might tell me he’s going to be okay.
In the waiting room, I sit hunched over, elbows on my knees, hands clasped together so tightly my knuckles ache. My mind races with worst-case scenarios, each one more frightening than the last. I’ve lost count of the minutes ticking by, the second hand on the wall clock taunting me with its slow, steady rhythm.
“Are you family?” A doctor’s voice pulls me from my thoughts, and I look up to see a pair of concerned eyes studying me.
“No, I—no, but—” I stammer, suddenly feeling even more out of place.
“Then you shouldn’t be here,” Natasha strides in, her voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel. She stands tall and imposing, her sleek hair framing her face in a perfect silhouette of poise and authority. “He doesn’t have family, not really. But I’m a close friend.”
Her gaze locks onto mine, sharp as the edge of a skate blade. There’s no mistaking the underlying message: I don’t belong here.
“Leave, Lila.” Her words are cool, dismissive. “I’ll take care of him.”
A knot forms in my throat, and for a moment, I’m frozen, caught between my loyalty to Alex and the crushing weight of Natasha’s presence. But then, the fight in me, the same one that always rises when Alex challenges me on the ice, ignites. I’m not ready to walk away—not yet.
My heart hammers against my ribcage, a relentless reminder of the chaos that’s unfolded. “No family?” The words slip from my lips before I can reel them back in, and Natasha’s eyes narrow slightly, the sharpness in her gaze cutting through me.
“Alex keeps his personal life private,” she says, her tone laced with a possessiveness that sends a shiver down my spine. “He doesn’t need fair-weather friends hovering over him.”
I bristle at her insinuation. “He’s a member of the team. And I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
“He will be, now that I’m here.” Natasha steps closer, her scent—expensive perfume mixed with determination—invading my senses. “So you can leave.”
“He told me you were gym buddies. I didn’t realize you were so close,” I say.
She barks out a laugh. “How close are you to him? I bet you didn’t know that he doesn’t have any family. And that I’m pretty much the only person who looks out for him.”
I blink. I didn’t know that. So, not only is Natasha almost engaged to Nathan, she shares a close bond with Alex? I feel like a third wheel. “And what does Nathan think about this?”
She stares me down. “I’m here because Nathan can’t be. They have a practice to finish up, in case you didn’t realize. There are twenty other team members who need him.”
That much is true. It makes sense that Natasha is here. And yet, why I am I here? Maybe that’s what I need to explain.
“Natasha,” I counter, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside, “He’s my friend, too. I care about him. I’m not leaving until I see that he’s okay.”
“Touching,” she sneers, folding her arms. “But futile. Alex doesn’t need your pity.”
It's not a pity that anchors me here. It's something deeper, something woven through every shared glance, every collision on the ice, every whispered challenge. But Natasha doesn't need to know that. No one does.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes. “Make a scene. Stay. But don’t expect a warm welcome.”
The nurse appears, ushering us inside the small room.
The sterile smell of the hospital room is a jarring contrast to the adrenaline and sweat of the ice rink. As we enter, Natasha immediately rushes to Alex’s side, her hands fluttering over him like dark birds coming to roost. His eyelids flicker open, bleary and unfocused, until they land on me.
“Couldn’t keep away from me?” Alex’s voice is raspy but unmistakably tinged with his usual bravado. He’s looking right at me, and for a second, there’s a flicker of something warm, something genuine.
Then the shutters come down, and the Iceman is back.
“Actually, Lila was just leaving,” Natasha interjects smoothly, laying a proprietary hand on his arm.
“Is that so?” His gaze hardens as he turns back to me, the playful light extinguished. “You heard her. Get lost.”
The words are a slap in the face, each syllable stinging more than the last. But it’s the satisfaction oozing from Natasha’s smug smile that cuts deepest. She’s won this round, and she knows it.
I stand there, rooted to the spot, grappling with the urge to stay, to fight, to demand answers. But Alex’s cold dismissal echoes in my ears, louder than any protest I could make.
“Take care, Alex,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
I don’t wait for his response. I don’t look back at Natasha. I simply turn and walk out, each step away from him heavy with a mixture of hurt and confusion.
With a heavy heart, I rush down the hall, the sterile hospital floor squeaking beneath my shoes as if in protest. The cool, impersonal walls of the corridor seem to close in on me, magnifying the weight of Alex’s rejection. My chest tightens with each step, the air in the hallway feeling thinner, harder to draw into my lungs.
I can feel Natasha’s eyes boring into my back, her gaze like the sharp edge of a blade. I resist the urge to glance over my shoulder, to confront that look of victory I know is etched across her face. She’d love nothing more than to see me crumble right here, but I won’t give her the satisfaction.
The sounds from Alex’s room fade behind me, swallowed by the distance and the closing door. But it’s not the physical space growing between us that causes this hollow sensation inside; it’s the emotional chasm, suddenly as vast and insurmountable as if a continent has shifted.
“Goodbye, Alex,” I whisper to myself, words he’ll never hear, a farewell he wouldn’t care for even if he did.
As I reach the waiting area, a reflection catches my eye—a distorted image in the polished surface of a metallic trash receptacle. I pause, unable to help myself now, and turn just enough to confirm my fears. There she stands, Natasha, a dark silhouette against the light flooding from the open doorway of Alex’s room. Her posture is relaxed, triumphant even, one hand resting possessively on the frame as if declaring her territory.
Her gaze locks with mine in the reflection, and there it is—the gloating satisfaction of a cat who’s not only caught the canary but relishes parading it before the other envious felines. She mouths something, and though no sound reaches me, the message is clear: “He’s mine.”
I tear my gaze away, pushing through the double doors that lead out to the lobby. It’s over. Whatever strange, complicated dance Alex and I were tangled in, Natasha has cut in and claimed the lead. And despite the sting of humiliation, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe... just maybe, I’ve escaped something far worse than a wounded heart.