Nolan POV
I sat on the hard plastic bench in Section 112 like I belonged there, but everything felt wrong. The arena noise pressed in from all sides—cheers, boos, the sharp scrape of skates on ice—but it all blurred into this dull roar that couldn’t drown out the pounding in my chest.
My anxiety was skyrocketing, scraping up my throat like it wanted to choke me right here in front of everyone. Mabel was glued to my side, her leg pressed against mine, her perfume too sweet and
heavy, like she was trying to mark territory that didn’t need marking. She kept chatting about something—some influencer drama or whatever—but I wasn’t listening.
My eyes kept dragging back to Section 104, right by the glass, where Juniper sat wearing his colors.
Number 17 stretched across her back like a f***
