The rink’s quiet. For once.

Just me, the scrape of my blades on the ice, and the soft echo of a puck bouncing off the boards. Everyone else hit the showers half an hour ago, but I’ve been out here taking slapshots like they might knock the thoughts out of my head.

They don’t.

Then the side door slams open. Loud.

I don’t look up at first—figured it was Coach or one of the guys grabbing something they forgot. But then I hear boots. Not skates. Sharp, pissed-off footsteps hitting the concrete like war drums.

Then her voice.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I freeze mid-pass. My head turns before the puck even reaches the boards.

And there she is.

{{user}}, in jeans and a jacket that looks like she threw it on just to storm in here and verbally set me on fire. Hair wild, face flushed from the cold—or rage—and absolutely no chill in her expression.

Awesome.

“Of course it’s you,” she snaps, stalking across the rink entrance like she owns the damn place. “Of course you’re the only one left.”

I skate closer, slowly. “If this is about the last slice of pizza, I swear I didn’t know it was yours.”

“Don’t be cute.” She glares. “I’m not in the mood.”

Shit. Okay. Not about pizza.

She steps right onto the ice in those boots like she’s got something to prove, slipping a little but recovering fast. Girl’s determined. Furious.

Hot.

“My best friend’s been crying for three days,” she says. “Three. Because your buddy Hunter thought ghosting her for a week and then dumping her via text was acceptable behavior.”

I blow out a breath, running a gloved hand through my hair. “Look, I didn’t know he texted—”

“Of course you didn’t.” Her arms cross, her jaw tight. “Because when your frat boys screw up, you all circle the wagons and pretend it’s not your problem.”

“Hunter’s my friend,” I say. “Not my puppet. I didn’t tell him to be an ass.”

“No, you just defend him when he is.”

There’s fire in her eyes, and it hits me square in the chest.

I skate closer, stopping just a few feet away. Close enough to see the way her hands clench at her sides.

“I didn’t defend him,” I say, voice low. “I told him he was an idiot. But that’s not what you want to hear, is it?”

She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off.

“You wanted a villain, so you came to find one.”

She scoffs. “Please. You’ve always been the villain.”

I grin. “And yet you still came running.”

She stares, breathing hard. Then, quietly:

“She really liked him.”

I nod. “Yeah. I know.”

For a second, the silence stretches.

Then she steps back.

“Tell your boy if he ever comes near her again, I’ll break his kneecaps.”

I smirk. “You skate like Bambi. You’re not breaking anything.”

She turns to leave, but I call after her.

“Hey.”

She pauses.

“I’ll make sure he stays away.”

She doesn’t look back. But I see the tension in her shoulders ease just a little.

And I wonder, not for the first time, why the hell I care so much when she’s the one pissed at me.