By six that evening, Jace had complained about the resistance bands, the ice pack, my taping technique, and the fact that Lauren had banned him from contact practice.

I survived all of it.

Then I escaped to the rink.

My last assignment of the day was a sophomore winger coming back from a knee sprain. Lauren wanted me to watch his lower-body mechanics while he worked slow turns around the face-off circles.

I stood behind the open bench gate in sneakers and called corrections over the scrape of his blades.

“Lower your hips. Don’t let the knee collapse inward.”

He tried again.

Better.

I marked the change on my tablet.

Something bumped the toe of my shoe.

A pair of black hockey skates sat on the rubber mat.

I looked up.

Jace leaned against the boards in his team jacket, his injured arm tucked close to his body.

“You spend a lot of time yelling about edge control for someone who never gets on the ice.”

“I’m observing mechanics.”

“From land.”

“That’s where the medical equipment is.”

His mouth twitched.

“You can’t skate.”

It was not a question.

I looked at the skates.

Then at him.

“I can skate.”

“Prove it.”

The sophomore finished his last lap and headed for the locker room, pretending very hard not to listen.

I should have walked away.

Instead, I sat on the bench and changed shoes.

Jace watched without saying a word.

The skates were close enough to my size to be dangerous.

I tightened the laces, stood, and immediately regretted every decision that had brought me here.

“You’re smiling,” I said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“Get on the ice, Parker.”

I opened the gate.

My right blade touched first.

My ankle wobbled.

My left foot followed and shot forward.

I grabbed for the boards.

Jace caught my waist from the rubber side of the gate before I could go down.

His good arm locked around me.

Heat pressed along my back.

Pine and winter frost rose between us.

My wolf went very still.

“Easy,” he said near my ear. “Bend your knees.”

“I know how knees work.”

“Your current performance suggests otherwise.”

I elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

He laughed.

It surprised me enough that I turned my head.

Without the audience, without his parents, without Madison, Jace looked younger. Less like the future Alpha everyone discussed and more like an eighteen-year-old boy enjoying the fact that I was terrible at something.

“Let go,” I said.

“You’ll fall.”

“Maybe I’d rather fall.”

His expression changed.

Not offended.

Thinking.

Then he released me.

I lasted three seconds.

My skates went in opposite directions, and I landed hard on my butt.

Pain shot up my spine.

Jace laughed so loudly it echoed off the empty seats.

I glared at him.

That made him laugh harder.

“You are a terrible person.”

“You told me to let go.”

“I did not tell gravity to humiliate me.”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.

For a minute, the last two days disappeared.

There was no mate ceremony. No family hierarchy. No Madison. No public rejection.

Just me on the ice and Jace grinning from the gate.

I pushed myself to my knees.

“Any useful advice, Captain?”

“Use the boards until you find your balance. Short pushes. Don’t try to walk.”

I followed the boards and tried again.

Jace stayed at the gate and coached instead of touching me.

"Push out, not back. Small stride. Let the blade glide."

"You know I spend all day telling athletes not to listen to injured captains, right?"

"Then consider this peer education."

I made it halfway to the face-off circle before panic tightened my knees.

"Don’t look at your feet," he called.

"They’re the part trying to kill me."

"Look where you want to go."

I lifted my head.

He was still there, one hand on the gate, not moving toward me even though the bond tugged when I got farther away.

That detail lodged somewhere inconvenient in my chest.

This time, I made it ten feet.

Then fifteen.

On the return, my left skate caught an edge.

I tipped forward.

Jace reached through the open gate and caught my forearm before my knees hit the ice.

His grip was firm.

The bond sparked between us.

I looked at his hand.

He did too.

Then, as soon as I had my balance, he let go.

No joke.

No excuse to keep touching me.

No Alpha grip around my waist.

Just space.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it.”

The small act unsettled me more than flirting would have.

He had listened.

We left the rink together a few minutes later. I carried the borrowed skates by the laces while Jace held the door with his good arm.

The lobby lights were brighter than the ice.

So was reality.

“Jace, sweetheart.”

Claire Callahan stood beside the trophy cases in a cream cashmere coat.

Madison was with her.

Jace stopped.

The easy posture he had worn at the rink vanished.

“Mom.”

Claire’s gaze passed over me without pausing.

“We came to see how the shoulder is doing. Your father wants an update before dinner.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’ll be better if you follow the schedule.” Madison stepped to his good side and rested a hand at his waist. “Claire and I were talking about playoff seating. My parents want the family boxes together.”

“It presents a unified front,” Claire said. “Especially with scouts attending.”

I stood two feet away holding skates.

Jace looked at me.

For one second, I thought he might say something.

This is Ivy.

She’s my mate.

She’s the reason my wolf didn’t tear apart the locker room.

Anything.

He said nothing.

Madison’s hand stayed on him.

Claire kept talking about seating charts.

The laugh we had shared on the ice suddenly felt stupid.

Private Jace could be warm. Funny. Careful.

Public Jace still disappeared inside his family’s expectations.

I stepped forward and pushed the skates against his chest. He caught them awkwardly with his right hand.

“Your skates, Callahan.”

His eyes darkened.

“Have a good night.”

I walked toward the doors.

“Ivy.”

My hand stopped on the metal handle.

Not Parker.

Ivy.

Behind me, Claire went silent.

So did Madison.

I could have turned around.

I didn’t.

He did not get to use my first name like a secret while pretending not to know what I was in the light.

I pushed the door open and walked into the cold.

A week later, Blackridge won another home game and Jace came off the ice with his shoulder angry again.

Not reinjured.

Angry.

There was a difference, and Lauren had made me learn it.

The locker room celebration thudded through the wall while Jace sat alone on the treatment table in athletic pants, shirtless, his hair still damp with melted ice and sweat.

I cut three strips of kinesiology tape.

“You took three hard hits on that side in the third period.”

“It’s hockey.”

“It’s also your left AC joint.”

“I noticed.”

“Did you? Because you kept volunteering it to people twice your size.”

“They’re not twice my size.”

“Your medical argument is devastating.”

He gave me a tired look.

The swelling was mild compared with the opener, but the muscle around the joint had tightened. Wolves healed quickly; his range of motion had improved every day. The problem was that Jace treated fast healing as permission to be reckless.

I stepped closer.

“I’m going to anchor across the chest and shoulder blade. Sit straight.”

He did.

The angle was awkward from the side.

I moved between his knees to reach the front anchor point.

Jace went quiet.

So did I.

My fingers pressed the first strip against his upper chest.

His skin was warm.

The bond stirred.

Pine and winter frost slid into the room, softer than it had been during the injury. Not a blast. A pull.

I kept my eyes on the tape.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m not moving.”

“You’re breathing.”

“I’ll work on that.”

I almost smiled.

Almost.

I guided the tape over the joint with careful tension, then around the back of his shoulder.

His hand flexed beside his thigh.

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

My fingers stopped.

“No.”

“That was fast.”

“I’m working.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

I smoothed the tape down.

“You stood in a courtyard and denied me in front of the entire school.”

“I know.”

“You let your mother talk about Madison like she was already part of your future while I stood three feet away.”

His jaw tightened.

“I know.”

I reached for the second strip.

“Then why ask?”

“Because you don’t act like you hate me.”

I looked at him.

That was the problem.

If I hated him, this would be easy.

I could ignore the way his wolf settled for me. I could forget how he had let go on the ice the second I had my balance. I could dismiss the quiet version of him who appeared whenever nobody important was watching.

“I’m trying to,” I admitted.

Jace’s eyes dropped to my mouth.

“How’s that going?”

“Poorly.”

His hands moved to my waist.

The contact hit through my shirt like a spark.

My wolf surged forward.

For one dangerous second, I stayed there.

His thumbs rested just above my hips. He did not yank me closer, but the invitation was obvious.

So was the privacy.

A closed treatment room.

No parents.

No scouts.

No Madison.

I caught both his wrists.

Jace tensed.

I removed his hands from my waist and placed them on the edge of the table.

“You don’t get private privileges after a public denial.”

He went very still.

The words landed harder than I expected.

He looked at his hands, then at me.

“Ivy—”

“No.”

I stepped out from between his knees.

“You don’t get to decide I’m real only when the door is shut.”

His throat worked.

For once, he had no argument ready.

“I understand,” he said.

I did not trust the answer.

But I finished the tape.

When I stepped back, Jace rolled the shoulder once and stopped when I gave him a look.

“What?”

“You’re testing it.”

“I’m checking it.”

“That is what the post-game exam is for.”

He lowered his arm.

“I came off for two shifts tonight,” he said.

I looked up.

“Coach wanted me back out. I told him no until the ache settled.”

That was new. Jace usually treated pain as an insult to be defeated in public.

“Lauren will be thrilled you discovered self-preservation.”

“You told me one game wasn’t worth the next ten years of my shoulder.”

“I say a lot of brilliant things.”

His mouth curved.

“Apparently.”

The smile lasted only a second, but the exchange mattered. He had listened to something I said when I wasn’t touching him, threatening to report him, or standing between him and a game.

That was harder to dismiss than the bond.

I wrote the reduced pain score on his chart and circled the note for Lauren. The numbers mattered because they gave me something objective to hold on to. Jace could charm, argue, or make my wolf forget its own name, but a shoulder either improved or it did not.

Trust should work the same way, I decided. Not promises. Not chemistry. Evidence.

A minute later, footsteps thundered down the hallway.

“Callahan!” someone shouted. “Coach wants the press photo. You alive in there?”

Three of his linemates burst through the door before I could answer.

Jace had already moved.

He pulled on his shirt and sat on the bench across the room, leaving a clear, professional distance between us before anyone entered.

“There he is,” one of the defensemen said. “Golden boy lives.”

“Give me a minute,” Jace replied. “Parker just finished the tape.”

Nobody looked twice at us.

That was the point.

Jace had not scrambled away because he was ashamed to be caught near me.

He had moved because I had asked him not to blur the line.

His teammates started arguing about a missed call in the second period.

Jace stood and joined them.

Before he left, he looked back at me.

No secret smile.

No loaded comment.

Just a brief nod.

I returned it.

One decent choice did not erase the courtyard.

It did not repair trust.

But it was the first time Jace had respected a boundary without making me fight him for it.

That should not have mattered as much as it did.

The hydrotherapy room was cold enough to make my teeth hurt.

Jace sat chest-deep in a steel recovery tub while ice floated around his ribs. His left shoulder stayed above the water, taped and protected. My phone counted down beside my AP Biology book.

“One minute, twenty-eight seconds,” I said.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m studying mitochondria.”

“While I die.”

“Very educational.”

He glared at me over the rim of the tub.

I highlighted another sentence.

“One minute, twelve.”

“You have no empathy.”

“I have empathy for athletes who follow the plan.”

“I followed the plan.”

“You took three extra shifts after Lauren told you to reduce your minutes.”

“We were tied.”

“And now your shoulder is in a bucket of ice.”

His mouth twisted.

“You’re impossible, Parker.”

“So I’ve heard.”

The room settled into the hum of the circulating pump.

No parents.

No teammates.

No Madison.

Just Jace turning blue and me pretending I could focus on cellular respiration.

“You ignored me all day,” he said.

I looked up.

“What?”

“In the cafeteria. Between second and third period. After chemistry.”

“You were counting?”

“I noticed.”

“I was busy.”

“You walked past me close enough to hit my shoulder.”

“I would never risk the paperwork.”

That earned a short laugh.

He leaned his head back against the steel rim.

“You’re really going to keep doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Acting like I don’t exist outside rehab.”

I capped my highlighter.

“You were very clear at the Moon Match Ceremony.”

His smile disappeared.

“I’m respecting your public statement.”

“Are you going to hold that against me forever?”

“Until graduation seems reasonable.”

I expected another sarcastic answer.

Instead, Jace went still.

“Only until graduation?”

The question changed the room.

I stared at him.

He was not joking.

For the first time, he sounded as if he had imagined a version of his life that continued after Blackridge and still included me.

My pulse jumped.

The alarm saved me.

I snatched the phone off the counter.

“Time.”

Jace gripped the rails and pulled himself up.

Water streamed down his chest and soaked his shorts. The cold had stiffened him, and he was protecting the left side without realizing it.

“Slow down,” I warned.

“I’m fine.”

His foot hit the wet rubber mat.

It slid.

Jace pitched backward toward the edge of the steel tub.

I reacted without thinking.

I grabbed his right forearm with both hands.

It was stupid physics.

He outweighed me by at least seventy pounds.

Instead of stopping him, I got pulled down too.

My back hit the mat.

Jace twisted at the last second and braced his right arm beside my head so he did not land on me.

Cold water soaked through my shirt.

I sucked in a breath.

Then realized where we were.

Jace hovered over me.

My palm was flat against his bare chest.

His right arm held most of his weight. His left hand had landed at my waist, fingers spread against my side.

His heart hammered under my hand.

The mate bond flared.

Pine and frost flooded the small room.

My wolf answered with a low, pleased hum.

Jace’s eyes flashed gold.

Neither of us moved.

His thumb made one slow pass against my waist.

Not an accident.

“Jace,” I whispered.

The hydrotherapy door opened.

“Your mother needs to know if—”

Madison stopped.

Silence dropped between all three of us.

She looked at me on the floor.

Then at Jace above me.

Then at his hand on my waist.

“Am I interrupting something?”

I pulled my hand off his chest.

Jace got up first and offered me his good hand.

I ignored it and pushed myself to sitting.

Every instinct in me expected him to laugh.

Explain.

Tell Madison I slipped and it meant nothing.

That was what public Jace always did.

He said nothing.

He did not deny the scent choking the room.

He did not tell Madison she had misunderstood.

He stood between us dripping onto the floor, breathing hard, and let the truth exist.

Madison’s expression changed by degrees.

The polished irritation left first.

Then the certainty.

What remained was recognition.

She finally saw what the courtyard denial had hidden.

The bond was not broken.

Jace’s wolf wanted me.

And, worse for both of us, some part of Jace did too.

Madison looked at my wet clothes, then at his bare chest.

“I’ll wait in the lobby,” she said.

Her calm frightened me more than shouting would have.

Madison did not make scenes.

She collected information.

The door closed behind her.

I got to my feet and wrung water from the hem of my shirt.

Jace stared at the door.

“She’s going to tell your mother,” I said.

“Probably.”

“And then?”

Jace dragged a towel over his hair with his good hand. He did not look at me when he answered.

“Then my mother does what she always does. She decides which version of the story she can control.”

“Which version is that?”

“That you’re a temporary complication.”

The words should have hurt more than they did. Maybe because he sounded disgusted by them too.

I crossed my arms.

“Are you going to correct her?”

His gaze lifted to mine.

The hesitation was small.

I still saw it.

“If she asks me what happened in here, I won’t lie.”

A bitter laugh escaped me.

“That is not the same thing as telling the truth before you’re cornered.”

Jace flinched.

Good.

He needed to understand the difference.

“You sound calm,” I said.

“I’m not.”

For once, I believed him.

The bond pulsed between us, warm and exposed.

Jace took one step toward me, then stopped himself.

“Ivy, if tomorrow gets ugly—”

“Don’t.”

He frowned.

“Do not make me another promise in a locked room,” I said. “If you want me to believe something, do it where people can see you.”

His face tightened.

“Fair.”

Yesterday it had belonged to treatment rooms and accidental touches.

Now Madison had seen it with her own eyes.

By tomorrow, whatever happened between Jace and me would no longer be a private problem.