Reborn, I Let Him Have Her. I Chose Harvard and Gold.

My childhood sweetheart, Philip Mitchell, was a hockey prodigy.

When he wanted to throw away his Olympic qualifiers to take care of his sick girlfriend, I told his coach and his mother.

Because of me, he was dragged back to the ice. He won the Olympic gold, secured a spot at Harvard, and eventually became a billionaire sports agent.

I, however, ended up with nothing.

During a public practice, he swung his hockey stick with full force—right into my eye.

As blood blinded my vision and my retina detached, he looked down at me with pure disgust. "You ruined her life, Arabella. This is your karma."

When I opened my eyes again, I wasn't in the hospital.

I was back in the locker room at seventeen, right before everything went wrong.

The sharp smell of Zamboni exhaust and stale sweat hit my nose. I gasped, my hands flying up to cover my right eye.

It didn't hurt. My vision was perfectly clear. No shattered orbital bone.

"Oh my god, look at his shoulders. His skating is literally insane."

"That slapshot was so hot. And did you see when his jersey rode up? Literal eight-pack!"

"Right? And look at that jawline. With those perfectly thin lips, I bet making out with him is insane."

A high-pitched voice pulled me out of my panic. I lowered my trembling hands and looked toward the glass partition overlooking the men’s rink.

Kinsley Sutton was leaning against the railing, surrounded by her usual squad of figure skaters. She was wearing her signature neon crop top and a thin skirt way. Her eyes were glued to the ice, tracking Philip as he drove a puck into the net.

"I'm telling you guys, I'm going on a date with him this week," Kinsley bragged, flipping her bleached blonde hair.

"Do it! The ice princess and the hockey god. You guys would break the internet," one of her friends cheered.

Kinsley turned around, her eyes scanning the lounge until they locked onto me. A smirk played on her lips as she walked over.

"Hey, Arabella," Kinsley said, her tone dripping with fake sweetness. "You and Phil are neighbors, right? You guys grew up together. Be honest, you think I have a shot with him?"

There it was. The question that ruined my last life.

Just yesterday, Kinsley had caught a glimpse of my tactical journal in the lounge. The margins were covered with Philip’s name. She had laughed in my face, mocking me for being a coward who didn't have the guts to confess.

And now, she was making this grand, public spectacle of claiming him.

In my past life, Kinsley had ambushed me with this exact same question. Back then, my face flushed bright red, and I was too mortified to get a single word out. Under the staring eyes of everyone in the center, my secret crush was stripped completely bare.

From that moment on, everyone knew I was secretly in love with Philip. So later, when I intervened to stop him from dropping out of the Olympic qualifiers and snitched about their relationship, they all just assumed I was acting out of bitter jealousy.

My biggest mistake in my previous life was trying to tear those two lovebirds apart.

Philip and I grew up on the same ice. We survived 5:00 AM skating drills and late-night tactic sessions. Just last summer, a sixteen-year-old Philip had leaned on his stick, sweating through his jersey, and grinned at me.

"Olympics and Harvard, Bella. We're doing it together, okay?"

That was my light. My ultimate goal.

But then Kinsley transferred here. To the coaches, she was a walking discipline problem, but to the guys in the center, she was absolute eye candy.

She rocked big bombshell curls, always tailored her practice skirts to be dangerously short, and was exactly the type to grind on the dance floor at post-tournament parties. She was a wild fire that burned right through Philip’s disciplined, boring hockey life. He became obsessed.

For her, he skipped practices. He got into bar fights. He even planned to ditch the National Team Selection Camp—the one we prepared three years for—just to accompany her to a minor figure skating regional event.

I couldn't watch him throw his life away. So, I did what I thought was right. I told Coach and his mom, Eleanor.

Eleanor dragged Philip to the camp by his ear and put him on strict lockdown, completely cutting off his contact with Kinsley.

Forced back onto the ice, he made the team. He won the Olympic gold. He leveraged his fame to build a sports agency and became a millionaire before turning twenty-five.

And Kinsley? She got knocked up by a local rich kid, married him, and missed the World Juniors. Three years later, her husband beat her to death in a drunken rage.

The day Kinsley died, Philip and I were on the ice for a joint practice.

He didn't say a word. He just skated straight at me and swung his carbon-fiber stick with full force—directly into my right eye.

"Arabella Pearl, you're a vicious, toxic bitch. How do you even have the nerve to breathe?" he had screamed, standing over my bleeding body as I writhed on the ice. "You're never touching a puck again. Go to hell and keep my Kinsley company."

He meant it. The sheer force of the blow detached my retina instantly. I was left permanently half-blind, my athletic career dead in seconds.

I tried to sue, but he bought out the medical experts. They ruled it a "training accident." Then he used his agency's power to blacklist me across North America. No team would take me. No school would hire me to coach.

"Hello? Earth to Arabella." Kinsley snapped her fingers in front of my face. "Don't tell me you're gatekeeping him. Or what, are you secretly in love with him?"

Her friends giggled.

I looked at Kinsley, then glanced past her shoulder at Philip, who was just stepping off the ice, taking off his helmet.

The phantom pain in my right eye flared, but my mind had never been clearer.

I didn't owe Philip Mitchell a damn thing. If he wanted to dive into the trash can, I was going to hold the lid open for him.

I looked back at Kinsley and gave her a smile.

"Go for it," I said. "Actually, I think you guys are a perfect match. I wish you both a long, happy life together."

Kinsley blinked, clearly thrown off by my answer. "Uh... thanks?"

"You're welcome."

I walked straight out of the lounge.

This time, there would be no warnings. No snitching to his mom. No playing the savior.