CHAPTER EIGHT

Timothee's POV

The question wouldn't leave me alone because nobody outside my aunt was supposed to know I was here. So how did Kaelen find me so fast?

I immediately pulled out my phone before I could talk myself out of it and called her.

She picked up on the third ring. "Timothee, it's late. What is it now?" She said

"You know what it is," I said. "Kaelen found me. I need to know how."

"I already told you I don't know," she said.

"You're lying." I said angrily.

Silence stretched on the line. "Aunt Raven." I shouted.

"Watch your tone with me," she said.

"Then give me something real," I said, gripping the phone tighter. "Nobody outside you was supposed to know where I was. So either you told someone, or someone told you, and you're not saying which."

She sighed, long and tired. "The witch," she said finally. "The one who gave the prophecy about your cure. She wasn't chosen randomly, Timothee." It seems she was choosen by someone whom I'm not sure about

My chest went tight. "What does that mean?"

"It means someone in the court assigned her to your case. I don't know who. I never asked, because I didn't think it mattered at the time."

"You didn't think it mattered that my entire fate was handed to me by someone with a name I don't even know?" I said looking more worried than before.

"I didn't say that." she said camily

"You basically did," I said

"Timothee, I have to go," she said, preparing to hang up

"Aunt Raven, wait," I shouted looking worried.

Then the line went dead.

I stood there staring at my phone as it owed me answers it wasn't going to give. Then I shoved it into my pocket and walked toward the rink instead, because standing still with my own thoughts felt worse than skating them off.

The locker room smelled like sweat and rubber, same as always. I pulled my gear on slower than usual, letting my hands do something mindless while my head kept turning over what my aunt said.

Assigned by someone in the court. Assigned by who?” I said that to no one but myself.

Then I stepped onto the ice and the cold hit my face, sharp, clean, and for a second, it actually helped.

Then, the Coach blew the whistle, and we lined up for drills.

I skated hard, harder than I needed to, using the burn in my legs to drown out the noise in my head.

That was when I saw her.

Mercy was in the stands, sitting a few rows up, her knees pulled to her chest, watching the ice. While Nathaniel skated past her section and slowed just enough to say something.

She laughed.

It wasn't a big laugh. It wasn't even a long one. But something in my chest twisted so hard I nearly missed the puck coming straight for me.

"Timothee, heads up!" a teammate shouted.

I caught it a second too late, fumbled the pass, and Coach blew the whistle for us to reset.

I skated back into position, my jaw tight, eyes flicking up to the stands again without meaning to.

Nathaniel was still there, leaning on the boards near her, saying something else, and he smiled this time.

I told myself it didn't matter. I told myself it was nothing. He was probably just being friendly, or maybe apologizing for the way he treated her before, and none of that had anything to do with me.

It didn't help.

"Scrimmage, five on five," Coach called out. "Timothee, you're on Nathaniel's line."

Of course I was.

We lined up across from each other, and for a second his eyes met mine, then something in his face told me he was thinking about the locker incident too, the way I'd shoved him against the metal weeks ago.

Then the puck dropped.

I played clean for the first two minutes. I told myself I could do this without losing control, that I wasn't some animal who couldn't handle a scrimmage.

Then Nathaniel got the puck near center ice, skated past me, and glanced up at the stands, right at Mercy, and grinned like he had something to prove.

I don't remember deciding to hit him. One second, I was skating beside him, and the next I had my shoulder buried into his chest, driving him hard into the boards, harder than any drill called for, harder than I needed to.

The sound of it echoed through the whole rink.

Then, the whistle screamed.

"Timothee! What was that?" Coach shouted, skating over fast. "This is practice, not a playoff game!"

But I didn't answer.

Nathaniel pushed himself off the boards slowly, glaring at me, rubbing his shoulder. "You've got a problem, man," he said, low enough that only I could hear it.

"Get off the ice," Coach barked at me. "Now." he said.

I turned to skate off, while my chest heaving, my pulse pounding in my ears louder than it should have been from one hit.

The rink had gone dead quiet.

Every player was staring at me. A few of them had taken a step back, like they weren't sure what they were looking at anymore.

I lifted my head to see why, and that was when I caught my own reflection in the glass wall separating the rink from the stands.

My eyes weren't green.

Panic hit me harder than the cold ever could.

Everyone was staring. Coach was still shouting something I couldn't hear over the blood rushing in my ears.

I had maybe three seconds before someone else noticed too, and there was nothing I could do to hide it out here, not with an entire team and a full row of stands watching me.