Page 96 of Fractured Faceoff

I leaned against my locker, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. The walls seemed to close in around me—Isla’s absence gnawing at my gut while Cole's words echoed in my mind like a relentless drumbeat.

I had messed up again—this time with someone who mattered more than all those games I played before.

And there it was: that gnawing fear that no amount of skating or scoring could erase the damage done—not just to Isla but to myself too.

I glared at Weston, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. I hated that there was anything about him that felt familiar. The way he wore that cocky grin like armor, how he deflected questions with sharp words—it mirrored my own defenses too closely. It infuriated me.

But maybe I had to admit, even if just to myself, that Weston wasn’t as bad as I had painted him. There was something deeper in his eyes—a hint of regret buried beneath layers of bravado.

I shook my head, pushing the thought aside like a pesky fly buzzing around my ear. No way I could get caught up in whatever twisted sense of camaraderie we shared over broken hearts and regrets.

With a grunt, I turned away from him and strode toward the ice. The chill hit me like a slap, sharp and invigorating. I laced up my skates quickly, focusing on the familiar rhythm of tightening laces instead of what lingered behind me inthe locker room.

As I stepped onto the rink, my heart raced with anticipation. The cold air filled my lungs, sparking adrenaline through my veins as I took off across the ice. My blade sliced through the surface, gliding effortlessly at first before building momentum.

Each stride pushed aside thoughts of Isla—her laughter echoing in my mind mingling with memories of her leaving. I wove between imaginary defenders, shoving frustration into every move as if it would translate into speed and power.

The puck danced at my stick’s edge, and for a moment, everything felt right again—the chaos faded as focus settled in like an old friend returning home.

Then a thought crept back: was she out there right now? Was she thinking about what happened between us or how easily she’d walked away?

I tightened my grip on the stick, refusing to let doubt seep in.

One more lap; I pushed myself harder until sweat trickled down my back despite the cold. Every time I spun and turned, I found solace in the familiar rhythm of skating—the freedom it gave me—while memories fought for attention just beyond reach.

Maybe Isla needed time to process everything—or maybe she just didn’t want to deal with me at all anymore.

Chapter 29

Isla

Icrept out of the room, careful not to disturb the tangled sheets or the man who had turned my world upside down. Jared lay there, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, a picture of peace that felt entirely foreign to me. I had broken my own rule.

The thrill of this morning lingered in my veins like a drug, but so did the weight of my cowardice. I hated myself for sneaking away. I knew what I had done—what we had done—and it terrified me. I didn’t just cross a line; I danced all over it.

In the shower, the water cascaded over me like a cleansing rain, yet I felt anything but clean. Memories of Jared's hands on my body ignited something deep within me—a longing I had buried for too long under layers of professionalism and restraint. No way could I let him see that side of me.

I dressed quickly, throwing on an oversized hoodie that swallowed my figure and jeans that were a size too big, hoping they would shield me from scrutiny as much as they shielded my body from exposure. In front of the mirror, Ibarely recognized myself—eyes wide with uncertainty and hair tousled from sleep.

The drive to work was mechanical, each turn calculated and familiar, but my mind raced with thoughts of Jared. The way he looked at me last night; it felt raw and honest, unfiltered by expectations or doubts. Yet beneath that was the undeniable truth: I didn’t want him to get too close. If he saw me as more than just Jared’sfake date, he’d peel back layers I wasn’t ready to reveal.

At the office, the hum of activity buzzed around me like static electricity, but all I could hear was the silence left in Jared's absence. My colleagues moved past in their usual whirlwind; they greeted me with friendly smiles while their voices faded into background noise.

I stepped into my office, the familiar scent of fresh coffee mingling with the crispness of paper. I shut the door behind me and took a deep breath, bracing myself for another day of pretending.

With shaking hands, I pulled out a backup blouse and a pencil skirt from my drawer. The fabric felt soft against my skin as I slipped it on, but it did little to erase the disquiet churning in my stomach. Each button I fastened felt like another reminder of how utterly pathetic I was.

As I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, my mind replayed the moment over and over:I don’t love you.Jared’s words echoed like a cruel taunt, piercing through any remnants of bliss from last night.

I had practically begged him to lie. What kind of person does that? The kind that was desperate for validation—an ache for something more than the hollow shell I'd been carrying around. But deep down, I knew he didn’t mean it. Jared Crowder was The Southern Serpent for a reason; his charm was sharp enough to cut through anyone's defenses.He had a way with words that made even the coldest hearts melt.

I could almost hear his voice—smooth and playful—cajoling me into believing what I wanted to hear in that heated moment. It had been so easy to lose myself in him, in those stolen seconds when everything else faded away. But reality crashed back in like a cold wave: he had only felt sorry for me, nothing more.

I turned away from the mirror, pushing down the wave of humiliation rising within me. The blouse fit snugly, flattering even as I fought against my own self-loathing. It was all part of the façade—a polished exterior to mask the chaos swirling inside.

The world outside continued without pause as I settled into my chair and faced my computer screen, each keystroke a distraction from the truth gnawing at me.

I logged into my email, a notification pinged, drawing my attention. One from Brody popped up at the top of the list—a receipt. My brow furrowed as I clicked it open.

---