chapter 19

Val's POV

The ceiling had never looked more boring. I'd counted the corners, traced the cracks, flipped my pillow three times for the "cold side" effect, and even tried listening to some sleep playlist that promised I'd be unconscious in five minutes. Spoiler: I wasn't.

The championship was tomorrow.

And I couldn't sleep.

Emma was snoring softly in the next bed, curled up like a cinnamon bun under her fuzzy unicorn blanket. The clock read 12:47 a.m.

I needed air. Or cold. Or ice.

I tugged on a hoodie and leggings, grabbed my skates, and slipped out quietly, tiptoeing past my father's room like I was a professional ninja.

The rink was dark when I got there, lit only by the bluish glow from the emergency lights. Cold bit into my cheeks, but I didn't care. I laced up, stepped onto the ice, and let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

And then—

"Val?"

I jumped, nearly falling on my butt.

My eyes snapped to the other end of the rink.

Theo Dodge.

Holding a hockey stick.

Wearing a navy hoodie and sweatpants, eyes wide, like I'd just caught him sneaking cookies from the jar.

"You couldn't sleep either?" I asked, pushing my hair behind my ears.

He skated a little closer. "No. Too many thoughts. Mostly about how you'll probably beat me."

I smirked. "Please. You wish."

He grinned. "Yeah. Maybe."

There was a moment. Just ice and breath and silence. And then—

"Okay," I said, tightening my laces. "Since we're both here. Wanna make this a deal?"

Theo tilted his head. "What kind of deal?"

"You help me run through my jumps. I'll help you warm up with your puck skills or whatever hockey boys do when they're not punching each other."

He laughed, gliding toward me with that stupid smoothness that hockey gave him. "Alright, ballerina. Let's see what you got."

"Figure skater," I corrected, spinning once just to be dramatic.

Theo dropped the puck to the ice and started stickhandling around me, circling. "You do that little spin to distract people, huh?"

"Maybe," I said. "And maybe I'll land a double axel right next to your ear just to make you shut up."

"Oh yeah?" He stopped. "Do it."

I took a breath, picked up speed, and launched the jump. Landed clean. Glided backward. Smirked.

He whistled. "Okay, that was hot."

I blinked. "What?"

He cleared his throat. "I said—uh—'That was a lot.'"

I squinted at him. "Sure you did."

"Shut up," he said, bumping me gently with his shoulder. "Your turn to compliment me now. Equal trade."

"Hmm," I said, pretending to think. "You... didn't fall. Congrats."

He rolled his eyes, spun his stick, and flicked the puck at the boards with a little flick of his wrist.

"Okay, wait," I said. "Teach me how you do that. That... flick thing."

He skated behind me. "Hands closer. No—like this. Yeah."

He guided my hands on the stick, warm and close, and it did weird things to my stomach. Stupid, swoopy things.

"Now flick."

I tried. The puck barely rolled.

He laughed. "Wow. Okay. You're the most unthreatening hockey player I've ever seen."

I smacked his arm. "I'm a figure skater! Not a mutant ice warrior!"

He snorted. "Mutant ice warrior? Who says that?"

"I do, apparently."

We were laughing now, dumb and loud, echoes bouncing off the walls. It was late. Too late. The kind of late that made everything feel like a secret.

"You know," he said suddenly, quieter now. "You're kinda scary."

I blinked. "Scary?"

"In a good way. You just—go for it. You don't hold back when you're on the ice. It's cool."

Something in his voice made my chest do something fluttery and annoying.

"You're not so bad yourself," I said, nudging his skate with mine. "You're less of a jerk when there's no one around to see it."

"That was almost nice."

"Shut up."

He smiled.

I smiled.

The lights flickered above us. Time ticked on.

And tomorrow?

Tomorrow we'd be competitors.

But tonight?

Tonight, we were just two kids on ice, trading stunts, laughing too much, and accidentally saying nice things without realizing it.