Theo's pov
There are two kinds of people in this school.
The ones who think I'm an arrogant ass.
And the ones who know I am—and still want to be me.
Neither of them matter.
I don't play for them.
I play for me. For the scouts. For the scholarships. For the future that doesn't involve me crashing on my mum's tiny sofa in the council flat we used to live in before my stepdad cashed out on crypto and decided to play "Weekend Dad" every other month.
This isn't some sob story. I'm not looking for sympathy.
But when you've had to fight for every inch of space your whole life, you learn to sharpen your elbows. You learn to push back. You learn not to let anyone—figure skater or not—get too close to the edge you're standing on.
---
Morning practice was brutal.
Coach Callahan was in one of his moods. The kind where he screamed through the glass because apparently our slapshots weren't "snappy" enough.
I didn't flinch. I just kept skating. Hard. Fast. Loud.
Like I always did.
"Dodge," he barked. "You wanna keep screwing around or you wanna go pro someday?"
"Pro sounds alright," I muttered, breath sharp, sweat burning my neck.
"Then get your head in the game."
My head was in the game. That was the problem. The game just happened to be the only thing keeping me sane right now.
---
In the locker room, Avinav tossed a protein bar at my chest. "You're spiralling."
"No, I'm hungry."
"You're skating like you've got a death wish."
I peeled the wrapper open with my teeth. "Better than skating like a benchwarmer."
He held his hands up. "Easy. Just saying. You looked like you were trying to kill the ice."
"Maybe I was."
He didn't ask. That's why I kept him around.
---
After practice, I skipped the library and walked the long way around the back of the school. Needed air. Needed silence.
That's when I saw the car.
His car.
Matte black Range Rover. Custom plates. Impossibly shiny. Sitting in front of the school like it owned the building.
And out stepped my biological father, like a ghost from a different timeline.
James Dodge.
Millionaire. Business shark. Biological donor of the year.
He hadn't even texted.
"Thought I'd surprise you," he said, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt like we were catching up over lunch.
"You thought wrong," I muttered.
"You've been dodging my calls."
"Fitting, isn't it?" I threw him a look. "You did the same thing for the first twelve years of my life."
His jaw tightened. "We've talked about this."
"No, you talked. I ignored you."
He glanced at the school like the bricks offended him. "This is a good place. Prestigious. You should be thriving here."
"I'm surviving. Big difference."
James clicked his tongue. "I've seen your stats. Scouts are circling. That's good."
"Is that why you're here?" I asked. "To talk numbers?"
"Isn't that all that matters?"
I stepped back. "I've got training. Don't bother picking me up later."
He didn't stop me.
He never does.
---
I showed up at the rink later than usual that night. Just me, my stick, and the kind of anger you can't yell out. You have to bleed it out. Onto ice. Onto wood. Onto bruised knuckles and a frozen mouthguard.
I skated laps until my legs screamed.
Shot pucks until I couldn't feel my hands.
Breathed like I was drowning.
And still, he was in my head. James.
The scouts.
The pressure.
The image.
Golden boy on the outside.
Cracked as hell underneath.
And no, it had nothing to do with her. Not tonight.