Sleep had been impossible. Every time she'd closed her eyes, her brain replayed the scene at Ingalls Rink in excruciating detail—Eli's powerful stride across the ice, the precise sound of his edges carving through turns, the way his practice had looked effortless until that final moment when his gaze had found her in the stands. She'd told herself repeatedly that Americus was being dramatic, that there was absolutely no way Eli Hayes knew or cared about some washed-up figure skater hiding in Yale's Gothic shadows.
But the doubt gnawed at her like a persistent injury that wouldn't heal properly.
By lunch the next day, Americus had decided that hiding in their dorm room with protein bars and self-pity wasn't an acceptable long-term strategy.
"Come on, Silver," she declared, already applying what appeared to be her third coat of glitter lip gloss. "Yale dining hall is a rite of passage. It's like The Hunger Games but with significantly better lighting and occasionally edible food. Plus, I heard there might be curly fries today, which is basically a religious experience."
Silver limped alongside her roommate through the Gothic corridors of their residential college, Riley trailing behind with her ever-present composition notebook and the kind of patient energy that suggested she'd long ago accepted her role as the voice of reason in their chaotic trio. The dining hall occupied a massive space that looked like it had been designed to host medieval banquets—soaring wooden beam ceilings, tall windows filled with actual stained glass that painted rainbow patterns across the stone floors, and long tables that could have seated entire royal courts.
The air inside buzzed with typical college dining chaos: the clatter of plates and silverware, conversations that ranged from animated debates about professors to hushed gossip about weekend parties, and the persistent underlying aroma of pizza, industrial coffee, and too many teenagers crammed into one space.
Silver grabbed a tray more for the illusion of normalcy than any actual appetite, letting herself be swept along the food line while Americus provided running commentary on every available option.
"Okay, the salad bar looks like it's been sitting here since the Renaissance, but those fries are calling my name," Americus announced, loading Silver's plate with golden curly fries despite her protests. "Trust me on this. Carbohydrates are basically fuel for the soul. It's science."
Silver accepted the nutritional advice and followed Americus toward what appeared to be an empty table tucked into the back corner of the massive hall, as far from the central chaos as possible. But then her feet stopped moving entirely, as if someone had suddenly flash-frozen the floor beneath her sneakers.
Across the cavernous dining hall, at a table surrounded by navy and white hockey jackets and the kind of easy laughter that carried over ambient noise, sat Eli Hayes.
He wasn't just another student grabbing lunch between classes. He commanded the space around him like he'd been born to it—leaning back in his chair with one arm draped casually over the backrest, dark hair catching the light filtering through stained glass windows, sharp jawline visible in profile as he grinned at something one of his teammates had said. Everything about his posture suggested someone who belonged everywhere he went, who'd never doubted his place in any room he entered.
And in that moment, as if he possessed some kind of sixth sense that athletes developed after years of being watched and evaluated, his gaze swept the dining hall and found her.
Their eyes locked across the sea of students and conversation, and Silver felt the world narrow to that single point of connection. The noise of the dining hall—hundreds of conversations, clattering dishes, chairs scraping against stone—faded into white static. Her chest constricted until breathing became a conscious effort, and she couldn't move, couldn't look away, couldn't do anything but stand frozen under the weight of his attention.
Americus nudged her with an elbow sharp enough to crack ribs. "Uh, Silver? You're doing that whole deer-in-headlights thing again. It's not subtle."
The commentary broke whatever spell had held Silver motionless. She tore her gaze away from Eli's table and forced herself to move toward their chosen spot in the back corner, her hands trembling slightly as she set her tray down on the scarred wooden surface. The curly fries that had smelled appealing moments ago now seemed to mock her complete lack of appetite.
"He's still staring," Americus whispered with the kind of gleeful fascination usually reserved for particularly dramatic reality television. She slid into the seat beside Silver, obviously thrilled to be witnessing what she probably considered a real-life romance novel in action.
Riley frowned as she settled across from them, shooting Americus a disapproving look. "Leave her alone. She's clearly uncomfortable."
"What? I'm just making observations," Americus protested, but her voice carried a hint of defensiveness. "And my observation is that Mr. Hockey Captain over there hasn't taken his eyes off our table since we walked in. That's not normal cafeteria behavior."
Despite every instinct screaming at her not to look, Silver risked another glance toward Eli's table. He was indeed still watching her, but this time there was no smile, no acknowledgment, no casual nod of recognition. Just that same unreadable intensity she'd felt during their brief encounter outside her dorm, magnified by distance and the weight of too many people between them.
Heat crawled up Silver's neck in a wave that made her grateful for the high collar of her Yale sweatshirt. She couldn't do this—couldn't sit here under his scrutiny while surrounded by strangers who might recognize her face from old magazine covers, couldn't pretend to eat lunch while her past and present collided in the most public possible setting.
Her chair screeched against the stone floor as she stood with enough force to rattle her untouched tray.
"Silver—" Riley started, concern evident in her voice, but Silver was already moving. Past the food stations, past tables full of students absorbed in their own dramas, past Eli's penetrating stare that she could feel burning into her back like a physical weight.
Through the heavy wooden doors and out into the safety of Yale's Gothic corridors, where the only witnesses to her retreat were centuries-old stone gargoyles who'd seen enough human drama to remain appropriately unimpressed.
Fleeing had become her signature move, and she was getting disturbingly good at it.