The sound of skates scraping across ice echoed in Ethan's head, not from the present but from a memory so sharp it almost felt like yesterday.
He had not thought about Silver Ridge pond in years, yet when his team celebrated in the locker room that night, Riley's laugh had come back to him, bright and unguarded.
It was a winter afternoon when the world was small and simple. The frozen pond stretched under the pale sun, kids bundled in coats and scarves, cheeks red from cold.
Ethan, maybe nine years old, tightened his skates with clumsy fingers. His breath puffed out in clouds as he glanced across the ice.
Riley was already out there, gliding in wobbly circles, her hair spilling from beneath her knit cap.
"Ethan," she called, voice carrying across the pond.
"You're too slow.
He grinned and stood, wobbling on the blades before pushing himself forward.
"I don't even have them tied yet.
"That sounds like an excuse," she teased, arms out like wings as she tried to spin.
She nearly fell, laughing as her boots scraped ice.
Ethan reached her, steadying her by the arms. "You're going to break your nose one of these days.
"And you'll be there to pick me up," Riley said with a grin.
"You're not supposed to fall at all," he reminded her.
Riley tilted her head.
"Where's the fun in that?
The memory carried the warmth of childhood, the way every scrape felt like an adventure.
They played until the sun dipped behind the ridge, chasing each other across the ice.
Ethan remembered Riley falling flat, arms spread, laughing so hard she could not breathe.
He dropped beside her, their breaths puffing together. "You're crazy.
"You like it," she said between giggles.
"Do not," he argued, though the smile on his face gave him away.
"Yes, you do," she shot back. "You always come when I ask. Even when it's cold, even when your mom says you can't.
Ethan rolled onto his side, brushing snow with his mitten. "That's because you would bug me until I said yes.
Riley's eyes softened for a moment, the laughter fading into something quieter.
"Maybe. Or maybe it's because we're supposed to be friends forever.
He frowned, like the word forever was too heavy.
"Friends forever is a long time.
Riley nodded. "Good.
That means I'll never have to do this alone.
The scene blurred into another summer this time. The garage smelled of gasoline, not the big Vipers garage, but Marcus Storm's smaller workshop before the club grew so large.
Ethan sat cross-legged on the floor, holding a wrench that was too big for his small hands. Riley leaned over a half-disassembled bike, her eyes bright.
"You're holding it wrong," she told him.
"I'm not," Ethan protested.
"I watched your dad do it.
She laughed, shaking her head. "You watched wrong. Give it here.
He handed it over, muttering. "You think you know everything.
"I don't," she said, crouching beside him. "But I know more than you about this.
Ethan studied her, smirking. "I know more about hockey.
"That's true," Riley admitted.
"So maybe you can teach me one day. When I'm not stuck here.
He leaned against the bike frame, thoughtful.
"Why are you always stuck here?
She shrugged, like the question was too big for kids to answer.
"Because Dad says I am. Because someone has to help.
Ethan frowned. "But don't you want to play outside with everyone else?
"Sometimes," she said softly.
"But if I don't stay, he gets mad. And I don't like it when he gets mad.
Ethan reached out, tugging her sleeve.
"Then I'll come here too. We'll both be stuck.
Riley gave him a look, part amusement, part gratitude. "You'd do that?
"Yeah," Ethan said firmly. "Friends forever, remember?
Her smile returned, bright enough to chase away the weight. "Forever.
The memory jumped again, as memories do, to a night under stars. They sat on the hood of a car, too young to understand the weight of the world, too old to be free of its pull.
Riley pointed up at the constellations, her finger tracing lines only she could see.
"That one's ours," she whispered.
Ethan squinted. "Which one?
"The one that looks like a chain. See? Those stars in a row.
"That doesn't look like a chain," he said, shaking his head. "Looks more like a stick.
Riley laughed softly. "Fine. Then it's a stick. Either way, it's ours.
He leaned back, watching her more than the stars. "You always claim things.
"Because nobody else will give them to me," she replied. "If I don't claim them, they're gone.
Ethan thought about that, chewing his lip.
"Then I'll share mine with you. You can have half my world.
She turned to him, eyes shining in the dark. "You mean that?
"Yeah," he said. "Half mine, half yours. That's fair.
The weight of the moment was lost on them then, but Ethan remembered it now with a sting in his chest.
He remembered how easily they had promised forever, how quickly life had pulled them apart.
Back in the present, Ethan sat on the edge of his hotel bed, elbows resting on his knees.
His teammates' laughter buzzed through the walls, but he was somewhere else entirely. He rubbed his face with his hands, muttering to himself.
"Riley Storm," he said quietly.
"What happened to us?
He could almost hear her laugh from the ice, see the grease on her cheek from the garage, feel the weight of her head against his shoulder under the stars.
Childhood had been their sanctuary, but adulthood had been a thief.
A knock came on the door, pulling him back.
"Ethan, you coming out?" one of his teammates called.
"In a minute," Ethan replied.
When the footsteps faded, he leaned back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling.
Maybe Silver Ridge was too small to hold them both. Maybe their worlds were always meant to collide and then split apart.
But deep down, he wondered if Riley still looked at the stars and remembered the chain that was theirs.
And if she did, did she remember him too?