“That’s great for you. Doesn’t do much for Henry.”

He winced. “I know. I apologized, but he moved to train in Toronto after it happened. When I see him at competitions, he won’t even look at me. Not that he doesn’t have the right to be mad still. I wish I could go back and change it. You have no idea how much. I wish—oh fuck.” He’d turned his head, eyes wide.

I followed his gaze, and somehow Henry was there at the bend of the tunnel. He gripped the handle of his wheeled suitcase. He was alone, and I had no idea why he’d returned. Maybe he’d forgotten something. Maybe he was coming back to see me—a thought that made my sad heart leap.

But in the next ragged breath, it was clear Henry knew exactly what Anton and I were talking about. I imagined the betrayed, wounded expression on his beautiful face must have been similar to the one in Mike’s evil picture.

Anton backed away from me, his hands raised like Henry had pulled a gun. “I’m sorry, man. He made me tell.” He ran back toward the rink even though it was the wrong way.

I practically lunged toward Henry, afraid he’d disappear before I could fix this fuck-up. “Please. Let me explain.”

He stared at me with tears glistening in his eyes. His cheeks were flushed, and he shook his head decisively.

With jerky movements, he turned and disappeared, and as much as I wanted to chase him, this time I had to take no for an answer.

Chapter Seventeen

Henry

I should never have stopped hating Theodore Sullivan.

I also should have blocked his number. Another pleading text from Theo joined the unbroken string from the past several days.

Turning off my phone, I tried to clear my mind as I listened to pop music on my headphones and aggressively worked my IT band on the side of my right thigh with the massage gun.

Manon was nearby, a silent support, and I knew Bill was with Theo in another corner of the warm-up area of the arena that was spread out through a few curtained-off blocks.

It had been terrible enough that Anton and Hannah knew my secret. The reminder each time I saw them was torturous. That shame had been seared into me on a molecular level when the flash on that phone had gone off.

Mike. I hated even thinking his name.

That night, it had been less than a minute since he’d been inside me when it had all crashed down. I’d still ached with it. He hadn’t been rough, but I couldn’t say he’d been particularly gentle.

He’d gotten up and peeled off the condom. Tossed it in the trash. When he’d turned back, I wondered if he’d squeeze into the bed again and kiss me. I’d hoped so.

The flash had blinded me.

I hummed along now to Lady Gaga to block out an echoed memory of his mocking laughter, but my brain didn’t cooperate. He’d crowed about winning the bet, the words mystifying as I’d tried to process what was happening.