I always sat in the fourth row now.
Same spot. Same routine. Laptop open on my knees, a document I wasn't writing pulled up on screen, my eyes tracking number seventeen on the ice instead of the cursor blinking on the page. It had become a ritual without either of us naming it – me in the stands, him on the ice, the invisible thread between us that pulled taut every time he took a hit and loosened every time he skated away from one. I told myself I came to study. I came to watch him breathe.
Today was different. I could feel it from the first whistle.
Rhys was carrying everything onto the ice and it was spilling out of his body in ways I hadn't seen before. The scholarship. Richard at six AM. My mom refusing to come downstairs. Miles's text glowing on the kitchen counter. The word on th
