DELICATE AS DAWN

I don't belong here anymore.

The gym doors slam shut behind me, echoing like a slap. My breath fogs in the hallway air. Cold. Sharp. Just how I like it.

I should be in dodgeball hell right now, pretending not to flinch when those rubber balls ricochet off bodies like war zones. Instead, I slip past the trophy case and head into the back corridor. This part of the school doesn't even pretend to be fancy. The linoleum floors are cracked, the walls are stained, and the air smells like mold and freezing pipes.

It's early. Barely 6:30. The janitor hasn't even finished his round. Good.

My fingers tremble slightly as I punch in the rink code. It's still the same one from two years ago. My brother's birthday. The beep sounds like betrayal.

And then I'm in.

The air changes instantly. The chill wraps around my legs, climbs up my spine, and settles between my shoulder blades like an old friend. Or maybe a ghost.

The rink is empty. Silent. Beautiful.

Exactly what I need.

I kick off my sneakers and dig out my skates from the duffel I keep buried in the back of my locker. They still smell like cold sweat and a hint of mold. Perfect. I don't bother untangling the laces. I just shove my feet in, cinch them tight, and step onto the ice.

It groans beneath me. Or maybe I do.

The first glide is rough. My muscles remember what my mind keeps trying to forget. The way your thighs burn. The way the ice catches your blade when you cut too sharp. The way the cold stops stinging once you start flying.

I push harder.

My body begins to loosen. Shoulders drop. Jaw unclenches. I breathe.

Around and around.

Each lap strips away another layer I've been choking under. The pity stares. The whispered names in the hallway. The fake friends who vanished after the candlelight vigils ended. My hoodie flutters behind me like a cape. If someone walked in right now, they might think I'm still that girl who gives a damn.

They'd be wrong.

I skate faster. Harder. Like I'm chasing something. Or outrunning it.

And then I see it.

Jersey number 13, mounted on the far wall. His number.

I stumble. Almost fall. The cold bites my palms as I catch myself on the ice.

Damn it.

The image flashes across my mind like an old film reel. His face, just for a second. Grinning behind his cracked helmet. Brown eyes lit with adrenaline.

"You're next, Cass. I'll clear the way. You finish."

But I didn't finish.

Not that night. Not ever.

I press my forehead to the ice and shut my eyes. Maybe if I stay perfectly still, the memories won't find me. Maybe the blood won't leak through the cracks.

But it always does.

The night I quit, I didn't cry.

I screamed at my mom. Slammed my bedroom door. Tore the posters off my wall with scissors. Shoved every puck, jersey, and medal into a garbage bag and dumped it on the curb before school.

What I remember most is the silence.

Silence at dinner. Silence from friends. Silence on the ice.

And then, the silence inside me.

Now I stand. My knees ache. My breath scrapes in my throat.

I do another lap. Then another.

I'm starting to feel again, and that terrifies me.

That's when I hear it.

A creak in the bleachers. Not the building settling. Not some random sound.

Someone's here.

My stomach drops.

I glance up and freeze.

He's standing there.

Leaning against the railing like it's just another Tuesday morning. Coach Halder. Same whistle around his neck. Same grim jawline. Same sharp eyes that always saw too much and said too little.

He doesn't move.

Doesn't speak.

Just watches.

The ice doesn't feel cold anymore. My skin burns.

I stop in the center of the rink. It feels too open, too bright, like I'm standing on a stage with a spotlight on every scar I've tried to hide. And he remembers. He knows who I used to be.

He also knows I'm not her anymore.

My thoughts start spinning.

Did he follow me?

Has he been watching the whole time?

What did he see?

What does he want?

I can't breathe.

This wasn't supposed to happen. This moment was mine. The only place I come to be quiet. To think. To not pretend I'm okay.

Now he's here.

Watching. Knowing. Waiting.

No. No. No.

I rip off my gloves. Yank at my skates. I'm moving too fast. Too clumsy. My fingers are shaking. My throat is tight. I shove everything into my bag like I can erase this morning if I'm quick enough.

I can't meet his eyes.

If I do, I'll shatter.

I turn to the side door, heart pounding so loud it drowns out everything else.

Run. Just run.