Page 18 of Dice & Dekes

And my stupid, traitor heart squeezes like it wants to remember what it felt like to be wanted by him, even for a second.

I snap my gaze away, cheeks flushed and throat tight. Nope. Not going there. He’s still watching.

Why is he beingsuchan insufferable weirdo?

“Go,” Mom says, eyes twinkling. “Before I embarrass you with a hug and a kiss.”

“You already did,” I mutter, but I lean in for a squeeze anyway. She’s warm, soft. Familiar in a way that makes me ache with things I haven’t named yet.

She pats my cheek. “And don’t ignore your dad up in the stands, okay?”

“No promises,” I say and peel off toward the tunnel, head down, heat licking at the back of my neck.

Up the stairs, past security, into the VIP section, where the seats are padded, the air conditioning is blessedly strong, and the drinks are only criminally overpriced.

Sofia waves me over, nudging the armrest up like she’s parting the seas for Moses. “I saved you a seat.”

She hands me a sparkling water like the goddess she is. I pop the tab and take a long drink, praying it’ll cool the flush in my chest. But my eyes—those disloyal traitors—drift right back to the ice.

Right back to Viktor. Still watching. Still not blinking.

And my pulse gives a single, traitorous kick, as if to say:You still want this.

The speakers crackle.

“Venom fans, make some noise!” Marco’s voice booms across the arena. The man’s grammar is iffy, his accent is straight-off-the-boat Italian, and his energy could bring a corpse back to life. I’ve known him my whole life—he’s basically an uncle with better hair and constantly embarrasses Sofia by wearing slides with socks.

The crowd erupts. I elbow Sofia gently. She winks.

“Today, we are having a special performance from a member of the Venom family!” Marco cries.

A spotlight swings toward us. A stadium intern jogs over with a mic and thrusts it into my hand.

“—Knova Hale!”

…What. The. Fuck.

“No!” I read my mom’s lips from ice level. She waves her hands. “No, no, no.”

But it’s too late.

Knight is waving wildly on the bench, trying to redirect the camera crew toward our mom. People are clapping. The music is starting. My name is on the jumbotron.

Somehow, I’m standing. Somehow, the mic is in my hands. Somehow, my feet are moving. I open my mouth.

“Oh, say can you s—”

What escapes sounds like a frog choking on a kazoo.

I clear my throat. Try again. Overshoot the key, undershoot the volume. I’m a full bar behind the orchestra, which is really committing to the brass section like they’re playing for a coronation.

By “twilight’s last gleaming,” I’ve changed keys and time signatures, and someone in the front row actually flinches.

Kill. Me.

I want to vanish. Explode. Take off like I’m back in the pilot seat.

Then—like a gift from the gods—Dad appears beside me, calm and steady, taking the second mic and belting out the rest of the anthem in his flawless, velvety voice.

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