The high from winning lasted exactly fourteen hours.

They'd beaten Crestwood 4-2 the night before—a clean, controlled game that Coach Kincaid called "the kind of hockey that wins championships." Declan had two assists, both to Mateusz, both executed with the kind of precision that made scouts take notes. The locker room had been loud after, full of laughter and back-slaps and the particular energy that only came from a team firing on all cylinders.

Declan had smiled through it. Said the right things. Accepted the praise without making it weird.

He'd gone to bed feeling good.

But now it was Friday, third period, and he was sitting in French class watching Mr. Duclair make Mateusz read aloud from Le Petit Prince, and the good feeling was gone.

"Continue, Mr. Kowalczyk," Duclair said, his accent crisp and Parisian. He was leaning against his desk, arms folded, watching Mateusz with the kind of patient attention that wasn't patient at all.

Mateusz was standing at his desk, book in hand. His jaw was tight.

"On ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur," he read slowly, carefully. "L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."

His pronunciation was off. Declan could hear it—the vowels too flat, the rhythm slightly wrong. But it wasn't bad. It was just... accented. Different.

Duclair's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Again, please. The cœur. You're swallowing it."

Mateusz's shoulders went tighter. "Cœur."

"No, no. From the throat. Cœur."

"Cœur."

"Mr. Kowalczyk." Duclair's tone was gentle, almost kind. "Perhaps if you spoke less quickly, we could understand you better."

Someone laughed. Quiet, but there.

Declan's hand tightened around his pen.

Beside him, Micky leaned in close enough that Declan could smell his shampoo. "Jesus. Is he having a stroke or just trying to speak French?"

Declan didn't answer.

"Cœur," Mateusz said again, and this time there was an edge to it. Frustration bleeding through.

"Better." Duclair nodded once, dismissive. "Sit down. Mr. Dawson, would you continue from the next paragraph?"

Declan stood.

He found the line automatically, his eyes scanning the page. His mouth formed the words without effort—smooth, fluid, the accent coming as naturally as breathing. His grandmother had been Québécois. He'd spoken French before he could write his own name.

"Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux."

"Beautiful," Duclair said, and he sounded like he meant it. "Thank you, Mr. Dawson. That's how it should sound."

Declan sat down.

He didn't look at Mateusz. He didn't need to. He could feel it anyway—the weight of it, the comparison that had just been made.

Micky was still grinning. "Dude. Your accent is so good. Meanwhile, Kowalczyk sounds like he's gargling gravel."

Declan's stomach turned.

He should say something. He knew he should say something. That's not fair or leave him alone or even just shut up, Micky.

But the words stuck in his throat.

And before he could force them out, Micky was already moving on, already talking about something else—the party this weekend, the game next Friday, whatever. The moment passed.

Declan sat there and let it pass.

The rest of class was agony.

Duclair kept calling on people at random, and every time he said someone's name, Declan's chest tightened. He wasn't sure why. It wasn't like Mateusz was going to get called on again—Duclair had made his point.

But Declan couldn't stop thinking about it.

The way Mateusz had stood there, book in hand, trying. The way his voice had gone flat and careful, like he was controlling every syllable. The way Duclair had smiled and said perhaps if you spoke less quickly like it was helpful advice instead of a knife.

And the way Declan had read the same passage perfectly, right after.

That's how it should sound.

God.

Declan stared at his notebook. He'd written three words in the last ten minutes, and two of them were crossed out.

This was fine. It wasn't his problem.

Mateusz was a big kid. He could handle a little criticism. It wasn't like Duclair had been cruel—he'd just been direct. Teachers were like that sometimes. You either figured it out or you didn't.

Declan had figured it out a long time ago.

But Mateusz—

Mateusz didn't have someone to teach him French when he was four. Didn't have a grandmother who sang him to sleep in a language that rolled off the tongue like water. Didn't have the advantage of sounding right without trying.

Declan knew that. He knew it.

And he'd still said nothing.

The bell rang.

Declan shoved his notebook into his bag and stood, moving quickly. He wanted to get out of here, wanted to stop thinking about the look on Mateusz's face when Duclair had compared them.

Micky fell into step beside him. "You coming to Sloane's thing tomorrow night?"

"Maybe."

"Dude, you have to come. She's been asking about you."

"Sloane's always asking about me."

"Yeah, because she wants to bang you."

Declan didn't answer. He pushed through the door into the hallway, and the noise hit him like a wave—voices, laughter, the clatter of lockers opening and closing. It was easier out here. Easier to disappear into the crowd.

But then he saw Mateusz.

He was standing by the water fountain, bag slung over one shoulder, talking to Yolanda. His jaw was still tight, and there was something in the set of his shoulders that looked like barely-contained fury.

Yolanda said something, and Mateusz laughed—short, sharp, not really a laugh at all.

Declan looked away.

He told himself it was fine. Mateusz was with his friends. He was handling it.

But as Declan walked past, close enough that he could've reached out and touched him, Mateusz looked up.

Their eyes met.

Declan saw it—the flicker. The accusation. The silent question: You were right there. You heard everything. And you said nothing.

Declan's feet kept moving. He didn't stop. Didn't speak.

He just walked away.

Practice that afternoon was brutal.

Coach Kincaid ran them through bag skates for the first twenty minutes—punishment, apparently, for something the second line had done in the game last night. Declan didn't ask what. He just put his head down and skated.

His legs burned. His lungs burned. Everything burned.

But it wasn't enough to drown out the noise in his head.

He kept seeing it: Mateusz standing at his desk, book in hand. The way his accent had thickened under pressure. The way Duclair had smiled.

Perhaps if you spoke less quickly.

That's how it should sound.

Declan pushed harder. Faster. Let the ice blur under his blades.

When Kincaid finally blew the whistle and let them stop, Declan bent over his knees, gasping. Sweat dripped down his face. His pulse pounded in his ears.

"Dawson."

He looked up.

Mateusz was skating toward him. His face was blank, but his eyes—

His eyes were not.

"Good reading today," Mateusz said. His voice was flat. Controlled. "Duclair loves you."

Declan straightened. His chest was still heaving. "Look—"

"No, it's fine." Mateusz smiled, and it was wrong—sharp and brittle, nothing like the real thing. "You're good at French. I'm not. That's just how it is, right?"

"That's not—"

"You don't have to explain." Mateusz's smile widened, and there was something vicious in it now. "You just have to stand there and look perfect. That's what you're good at."

Then he turned and skated away.

Declan watched him go.

His hands were shaking inside his gloves.

After practice, Declan sat in the locker room and stared at the wall.

The team was loud around him—laughing, chirping, the usual post-practice chaos. Micky was telling some story about a girl he'd met last weekend, and Felix was arguing with Gael about whose fault it was that they'd had to do bag skates.

Declan didn't hear any of it.

He kept replaying the conversation on the ice.

You just have to stand there and look perfect.

God.

Was that what Mateusz thought of him? That Declan was just—what, some empty shell? Someone who only looked good because he never had to try?

It wasn't true.

It wasn't.

Declan worked his ass off. He studied. He trained. He did everything right.

But—

But he also knew why he'd stayed quiet in French class. He knew why he hadn't said anything when Micky made that comment. He knew why he'd walked past Mateusz in the hallway without stopping.

It was easier.

It was always easier to say nothing.

And Declan was very, very good at doing what was easy.

Micky dropped onto the bench beside him. "Yo. You good?"

Declan blinked. "Yeah. Fine."

"You look like someone shit in your cereal."

"Just tired."

Micky shrugged. "Fair. You coming to Sloane's tomorrow?"

"I don't know."

"Dude." Micky punched his shoulder, light. "You need to relax. Have some fun. You've been weird all week."

Declan didn't argue. Maybe Micky was right. Maybe he did need to relax.

But as he pulled on his jacket and grabbed his bag, he couldn't stop thinking about the way Mateusz had looked at him.

Not angry. Not hurt.

Just—disappointed.

Like he'd expected exactly this.

Like Declan had confirmed something he'd already known.

And that, somehow, was worse than anything else.