The trip had started out perfect.

Cold air instead of humidity. Snow instead of sand. A skyline dusted in white instead of palm trees swaying in sticky heat. It was supposed to feel symbolic—one last adventure before graduation scattered them across states and careers.

{{user}}, her boyfriend John, her best friend Lily and her fiancé Marcus, Chloe and her boyfriend Ryan—they’d planned this for months. Same flights. Same hotel floor. Two full weeks of memories before real life began.

Then John detonated it.

Second night. Their shared hotel room. Suitcases still half-unpacked.

He’d stood there with his hands in his hoodie pockets like he was announcing a change in football practice.

“I think I need to find myself.”

Find himself.

On day two of a trip she helped pay for.

She’d assumed—foolishly—they would at least keep it quiet. Get through the vacation without turning it into a spectacle.

Nope.

The next morning at breakfast, he announced it to the group like it was morning announcements senior year. Casual. Public. Humiliating.

And as if that wasn’t enough, he told her she should switch rooms.

“They needed space.”

She had paid for that damn room.

Still, she packed her suitcase with shaking hands and marched to the front desk. The only available room was more expensive and two floors up—away from her friends. Away from the whole reason they booked together.

She swallowed her pride. Smiled. Pretended she was fine.

She would not make this trip about her.

So now it was day four, and they were bundled in scarves and coats inside a packed Canadian arena. The cold from the rink crept up through her boots as players carved sharp lines across the ice during warm-ups. Hockey wasn’t big back home—football was. John had been their university’s golden quarterback. Friday night lights. Chants. Glory.

Here, though?

Hockey ruled.

{{user}} kept her eyes forward.

Because to her right—

John sat relaxed.

And to his right—

A girl.

His. Fucking. Date.

Not even forty-eight hours broken up and he already had someone leaning into his shoulder like she belonged there.

The sting burned, but {{user}} refused to react. Chin lifted. Eyes locked on the ice.

That’s when she noticed him.

Number 17.

He moved differently—smooth, controlled, powerful. Dark hair damp at the edges beneath his helmet. Broad shoulders stretching his jersey. Strong thighs flexing with each push across the ice. He skated past their section once.

Then again.

And again.

Each pass just slightly slower.

She told herself she was imagining it.

But on the fourth glide by, his head turned.

Their eyes met.

It wasn’t accidental.

His gaze was deliberate. Assessing. Amused.

Her pulse stumbled.

She let herself pretend. Pretend he was skating that close for her. Pretend she wasn’t the freshly dumped ex sitting beside her replacement.

Then—

Tap.

The sharp crack of a hockey stick against the glass jolted her.

He stood directly in front of her now, helmet tucked under one arm. Up close, he was unfair—sharp jaw, mouth curved in a confident grin, eyes darker than she’d expected.

Jordan.

Though she didn’t know his name yet.

His gaze dragged over her slowly before locking back onto her eyes.

He winked.

Then, shamelessly, he lifted the hem of his jersey just enough to flash defined abs.

A few rows down, girls shrieked and fanned themselves like he was a celebrity.

Which—judging by the reaction—he probably was.

But he hadn’t looked at them.

He’d looked at her.

And as he pushed off the glass and skated backward into formation, smirk lingering on his lips—

It was obvious.

He was baiting her.

And God help her—

It was working.