Or maybe it will just rip open the wound I’ve been trying desperately to let heal.

I take a long, hot bath at home to help with my head, then drive to the arena a few hours later. I’m feeling a little more settled, although as I take my seat and watch the players fan out onto the ice for their warmup, my heart aches with pain at the sight of Declan.

God, he’s beautiful. The fluid way he moves on the ice, powerful and graceful all at once. His jersey stretches across his broad shoulders as he accelerates, that familiar number making my heart skip.

I’m not sure if he knew I was going to be here tonight, but he finds me in the crowd anyway, as if some invisible thread still connects us across the distance. The look of anguish that flashes across his face when his eyes meet mine makes me feel sick to my stomach.

He looks away as quickly as he found me, and pain lances through my heart.

It’s written all over his face—I hurt him. Deeply. The knowledge that I caused that pain, even if it was to spare him what could be a much worse pain later, makes it hard to breathe.

I don’t blame him for being hurt after the way I dumped him without explanation, but seeing how wrecked he looks only makes me feel worse about it.

Maybe coming tonight really was a bad idea.

It’s hard not to think that as the Aces finish their warmup and the game gets underway, but the intensity of the match makes sitting with it a little bit easier.

And my father must not have been kidding about the rest of the league gunning for the Aces, because the Falcons are playing a particularly aggressive game tonight. They’ve always been a tough, physical team, and tonight they’re taking it to a whole new level. Every time the Aces try to make a play, the Falcons are there with bone-crushing checks and aggressive stick work.

I find myself following Declan’s jersey number instinctively, my breath catching whenever he takes a hit or makes a spectacular play.

The puck passes back and forth in possession so often and so quickly that it would be impossible to keep up with if it weren’t for the commentators and the roar of the crowd every time it happens.

But even so, it’s all a bit too much for me right now. The lights, the noise, the stress—my nervous system is already frayed after everything I’ve been through today, and by the time the third period rolls around, I’m starting to feel like I’m actually going to be sick.

My head pounds in rhythm with the crowd’s cheers. Each flash of the arena lights sends a spike of pain through my skull.