Completely Lost

MIKKA

By afternoon, my arms felt like they were falling off.

I dragged my old suitcase across downtown Toronto until the little wheels squeaked louder than the traffic. Every crack in the sidewalk made it jump, and every step reminded me that my knees were still bruised from yesterday. I had nowhere to go anymore. The apartment was gone, my scholarship was gone, and even the tiny basement room that smelled like Levi had disappeared from my life like it had never existed. I finally dropped onto a cold bench outside Union Station and pulled my suitcase close, afraid someone would steal the only thing I had left.

People rushed past me without looking twice. Businessmen carried coffee. Students laughed together. Tourists pointed cameras at buildings. Everyone looked like they had somewhere to be while I felt like I belonged nowhere. My stomach growled so loudly that I almost laughed. I opened my wallet. A few folded bills sat in it, barely enough for one proper meal, and after that... nothing.

I stood again and spent the next few hours walking from one cheap hostel to another.

"Passport?" the woman at the first desk asked.

I handed it over.

She smiled until she reached the immigration page.

"I'm sorry. We need valid documents."

"I only need one night."

She shook her head.

"It's policy."

The second hostel didn't even let me finish explaining.

"No permit, no room."

The third manager looked almost sorry.

"I wish I could help."

"So do I," I whispered before walking back outside.

By sunset, my feet hurt so much that I could barely feel them. I wanted to cry, but I kept telling myself it wouldn't change anything. Tears couldn't buy a room. Tears couldn't bring back my scholarship. Tears definitely couldn't make Levi remember that I had once been the woman he promised forever.

I sat on another bench and stared at my phone. I had just one percent left on my battery.

My thumb hovered over Levi's number, hoping that maybe he had slept, that maybe guilt had finally found him, and that he would answer.

The phone rang once.

Then twice.

Then an automated voice spoke.

"The number you have dialed is no longer in service."

I stared at the screen, then I laughed.

It sounded broken.

"Of course," I whispered. "Even your phone left me."

Before I could lock the screen, it vibrated again.

Unknown Australian Number.

Every part of me froze.

I already knew who it was.

Still, my finger pressed accept.

"Hello?"

The man's voice was smooth.

Too smooth.

"Good evening, Miss Rowan."

I swallowed.

"What do you want?"

"We're simply checking on your travel plans."

"I told you—"

"No," he interrupted politely. "You never told us anything."

His calm voice scared me more than shouting ever could.

"You owe fifty thousand dollars."

"It wasn't me."

"Yes. But it was your mother."

My throat tightened.

"She borrowed against her insurance policy."

"I know."

"Do you? Well, maybe I should let you know that interest has continued growing since then, and that you have Friday as your deadline to pay."

I closed my eyes.

"I don't have that kind of money."

"I expected that answer."

My fingers trembled around the phone.

"So what happens now?"

He was quiet for a moment before speaking again.

His voice became almost gentle.

"If your debt isn’t paid, we won’t wait for you to return to Australia. We'll simply come to Canada."

Cold rushed through my body.

"You can't."

"We already know where you studied."

My heartbeat became painful.

"We know who your former partner is."

"No… hold on…”

"And we know where you used to live."

I gripped the bench so hard my nails hurt.

"You've been watching me?"

"We've been waiting."

I felt sick.

"Please..."

"Running has never saved anyone, Miss Rowan."

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone slowly until it slipped from my shaking hand onto my lap. My wolf curled into herself again. She didn't even growl. She was just... tired.

I wiped my face with both hands and forced myself to stand.

"No," I whispered. "I'm not sleeping outside tonight."

Without thinking, my feet carried me toward the only place that had felt peaceful since everything fell apart.

The Lakeshore Community Rink.

The building was nearly empty when I walked inside. Cold air brushed against my face, carrying the familiar smell of fresh ice and rubber mats. Somewhere below, skates scraped gently across the rink while a coach shouted instructions to a small group of children. The sound wrapped around me like a blanket as I climbed to the highest row of the bleachers and pulled my notebook from my bag.

The first page stayed blank.

Then I wrote one name.

Seven Calloway.

I closed my eyes and replayed last night.

His first shot.

His second.

His third.

Every miss.

Every movement.

Slowly, my pencil began to move.

I drew his skating position, his shooting angle, the way his back foot stayed planted too long, and the slight twist in his shoulders before every release.

"No," I murmured to myself.

I erased the drawing.

"You're protecting your left side."

I drew it again.

"You don't trust your body."

Another page.

Another diagram.

Another note.

"Weight shifts too early."

"Stick blade opens before release."

"Fear comes before the shot."

I kept writing until the rest of the world disappeared. Numbers filled one page, arrows covered another, and timing calculations stretched across the next. Every mistake had an answer. Every weakness could become a strength if someone believed in him long enough.

For the first time since Levi destroyed my life, my breathing slowed. This was who I really was. I was not a stalker. I was not a liar, neither was I a burden.

I was a coach.

I looked across the empty ice and smiled sadly.

"If you'd only listen once," I whispered, "I'd make you unstoppable."

The television above the concession stand suddenly became louder, and a sports reporter appeared on the screen.

"...breaking news involving Canada's Golden Rookie, Seven Calloway."

My head snapped up, and his picture filled the television.

"He unexpectedly missed mandatory training this morning, increasing speculation about growing tension between the rookie and team management."

Another analyst spoke.

"At some point we have to admit the truth."

"What truth?"

"He's simply not producing."

A second analyst nodded.

"Too much hype. Not enough goals."

"He looks completely lost."

"They expected the next superstar."

"What they're getting is another disappointment."

Each sentence felt like someone was throwing stones at him. Then the screen showed a clip of Seven missing another shot during practice last week.

Everyone laughed.

I didn't.

I remembered the real Seven—the one kneeling alone on the ice long after everyone else had gone home. The one who quietly paid for strangers to treat my injuries. The one who pretended not to care while kindness slipped through every crack in his walls.

The television kept talking, but I wasn't listening anymore. I closed my notebook carefully and slid it back into my bag.

There was nothing left for me to lose.

No home.

No scholarship.

No future waiting for me.

Only one last chance.

I looked toward the empty ice and whispered the words like a promise.

"One more chance, Seven..."

My fingers tightened around the notebook.

"...that's all I'm asking.”