Chapter 25: 25 Worth Protecting
"Sweetheart."
Every muscle in my body tightened. I didn’t look up. Instead, I turned another dial on my camera and pretended I hadn’t heard him, keeping my eyes fixed on my monitor like the settings needed my complete and urgent attention. A chuckle followed.
"So that’s how we’re doing this now?"
Ethan walked closer until his expensive sneakers entered the edge of my frame. "Aren’t you filming?" Nothing. I refused to give him even a glance. He laughed again, louder this time, the kind of laugh designed to draw attention. "Come on." He spread his arms dramatically. "Get a few shots of me."
Olivia shifted beside me. Mia went unusually quiet. I kept adjusting my settings like my life depended on it.
Then Ethan delivered the line he’d clearly been saving all morning. "I helped make you famous, didn’t I?"
For a split second, my fingers froze on the camera. There it was, the version of Ethan I’d spent months trying to convince myself hadn’t existed. The one who genuinely believed every good thing that happened to me somehow belonged to him, like my pain was content he’d produced and deserved credit for. I inhaled slowly and forced myself back to work.
Across the rink, movement caught my eye. Justin. He’d just stepped off the ice, helmet tucked beneath one arm, and the moment his gaze locked onto Ethan, the easy expression he’d been wearing disappeared instantly. He started toward us. Fast.
My heart lurched. No. Not this time.
I looked directly at him and gave the smallest shake of my head. Don’t.
He stopped. Even from where I stood, I could see it, the hesitation, the frustration pulling at the corners of his mouth. His jaw tightened. His fingers curled around his hockey stick until his knuckles turned white. For one impossible second I thought he’d ignore me anyway. Instead, he slowly stepped back and stayed exactly where he was.
The look on his face almost hurt worse than Ethan’s words. Justin wanted to protect me, and I wanted him to know that I couldn’t keep needing him to rescue me every single time. Not if I ever wanted to become someone stronger than the girl Ethan had spent two years quietly dismantling.
I turned back to my camera. "I’m working."
Ethan smiled wider. "Exactly." Before I could react, he stepped directly in front of my lens. My screen filled with nothing but his smug, self-satisfied face. "Film me."
I shifted left. He shifted left. I moved right. He followed, matching every step like it was a game he was winning.
"Ethan."
"My good side is this one," he said, turning his head theatrically like he was posing for a magazine cover.
I lowered the camera. "Move."
"Why?"
"Because you’re in my shot."
"Maybe I like being in your shot." His grin never slipped. Then he leaned closer, dropping his voice until only I could hear him. "You always did love following me around."
Heat rushed through my chest. Not embarrassment this time. Anger, pure and hot and completely done pretending otherwise. I stared at him without blinking. "I followed someone I thought loved me." His smile faltered for half a second, just long enough for me to catch it. "I know better now."
Before he could answer, Olivia stepped between us. She wasn’t much shorter than Ethan, but somehow she looked twice as intimidating standing there with her arms folded and her chin lifted. "Back off."
Ethan laughed. "Mind your business."
"She said back off."
Neither of them moved. Around us, conversations stopped one by one. The scrape of skates faded. Even the equipment staff looked over. The entire rink seemed to hold its breath at once.
A sharp voice cut across the arena. "Ethan."
Coach. Ethan ignored him. Coach’s voice hardened into something that left no room for argument. "Ethan." This time he turned slowly, like he was doing everyone a favor. "What?"
Coach skated to a stop a few feet away, his expression completely unreadable. "Dean Marshall has been looking for you."
Ethan shrugged. "So?"
Coach folded his arms. "You’re suspended from all team activities, effective immediately."
Silence. Real, suffocating silence, the kind that settled so heavily you could feel the weight of it pressing against your chest. Even the air in the arena seemed to stop moving.
Ethan blinked. "What?"
"The Dean wants to see you."
"For what?"
Coach didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. "You know exactly why."
Nobody spoke. Not one player. Not one coach. Not one teammate stepped forward to say a single word on his behalf. The complaints, the warnings, the fights, the missed team meetings, the harassment, everything Ethan had brushed aside like the rules existed for other people had finally, quietly, completely caught up with him.
For the first time since I’d met him, his smile disappeared. He looked around the rink, searching faces, waiting for someone to object, to defend him, to say something. Nobody did. His teammates avoided his eyes. A few simply turned away entirely. He was standing in the middle of the arena alone, and for a fraction of a second I almost felt something before I remembered my mother’s hospital bed on his Instagram page.
Then his gaze landed on Justin. Something ugly twisted across his face, recognition first, then blame, settling there like he’d finally found somewhere to put it. He pointed across the ice. "You."
Justin hadn’t moved from the spot I’d asked him to stay. "What about me?"
"You did this."
Justin frowned. "I didn’t."
"You’ve been trying to ruin my life since freshman year."
Justin took one slow step forward. "I didn’t get you suspended."
"You made sure everyone hated me."
Coach’s voice cracked through the arena like a whip. "Ethan!" Too late.
Ethan spun toward the bench. His hand closed around a hockey stick lying against the boards. Everything happened at once after that. "Ethan!" Coach shouted again. Players yelled. Someone cursed loud enough to echo. I dropped my camera. It hit the rubber flooring with a dull, horrible crack.
Justin’s eyes widened. "Ethan, don’t—"
With a roar of pure rage, Ethan swung the stick. Justin barely managed to turn. The stick connected with a sickening crack and he collapsed onto the ice. His helmet spun away, sliding across the rink before smacking hard into the boards.
For one impossible second, nobody moved. A thin line of blood trickled down the side of Justin’s face, vivid red against the white ice.
My scream shattered the silence.
"JUSTIN!"
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