I wasn't sure which was worse.
The elevator button was cold under my thumb. My reflection stared back at me from the brass doors. The mark was already darkening, spreading across my cheekbone in a shape that was unmistakably fingers. My mother's jaw. Her eyes. Her face in every mirror I'd ever looked into.
The elevator opened, and I stepped inside.
Outside, the March air hit, and my eyes watered from the sting. I pulled out my phone before I could think better of it.
I turned off the phone and slid it back into my pocket. My hand was shaking again, and I let it, detached, like it belonged to someone else.
Red was in this city.
The thought surfaced, and I couldn't push it back down. I'd known it when I agreed to come to Salt Lake for Milo's concert. I'd told myself it didn't matter, that I wasn't going to do anythingabout it. The Hive had called him up in January, and he'd had a goal and an assist in his first game, and the sports blogs had called him a revelation, this undersized center who played like he had something to prove.
I'd read every article. I'd watched every clip. I'd told myself that was normal, that anyone would be curious, that it didn't mean anything.
The public rink on Fifth Street was half-empty. Families and teenagers traced wobbly circles under fluorescent lights, and the air had that familiar bite to it, cold and clean and smelling like nothing else in the world.
I paid for an hour and walked past the rental counter toward the boards. The cold hit my face, and the swelling throbbed, and I wrapped my hands around the rail and let myself breathe.
Red was on the far side of the ice.
He wore jeans and a hoodie instead of gear, his hair longer than I remembered and curling at the back of his neck. He was skating lazy figures in a corner away from the crowd, his body low and loose, and I couldn't look away from him. I'd never been able to look away from him.
He moved like the ice owed him something, like it had always been his and he was just collecting what he was due.
My hands ached where I was gripping the rail. He turned on the far end and started back toward center ice, and halfway through the turn his head came up.
His eyes found mine.
His whole body changed. His jaw went tight. His rhythm broke, his edge catching wrong for just a second before he corrected. He held my gaze as he crossed the ice, and whatever warmth I remembered was gone.
He stopped at the boards in front of me, close enough to see the new lines at the corners of his eyes, the set of his mouth, the way his knuckles had gone white on the rail.
Then his eyes cut to the families behind him, and his nostrils flared, his jaw going tight, his gaze darting toward the exit.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"
"I needed to skate."
"You need to leave." He was already moving toward the gate. "Now. Before someone sees you."
He was off the ice and shoving his feet into sneakers before I'd made it to the rubber mats. His movements were jerky, rushed, his head turning every few seconds to check the door and the parking lot beyond.
"Red—"
"Not here. Don't say my name. Don't look at me. Just walk."
He grabbed his bag and headed for the back exit. I followed three steps behind like a stranger, like we'd never touched each other, like I hadn't spent the last three months trying to forget the taste of his skin.
The parking lot was dark and mostly empty. Red stopped next to his truck and finally turned to face me. His eyes went straight to my cheek and stayed there.
"Who hit you?"
My hand went to my cheek before I could stop it. I'd had a response ready for his anger, words lined up to defend myself, and now they were useless.
"It doesn't matter."
"Milo?" His hands curled at his sides. "Did that piece of shit put his hands on you?"