Chapter 3 – Face Off

Wearing someone else’s skin is already a nightmare. Wearing it while leading a group of sweaty, overconfident boys on ice skates? That’s a whole new level of psychological trauma.

I stared at the message on Lucas’s phone for the tenth time, hoping it would vanish, or glitch, or miraculously refer to some other Lucas Park.

Nope. Still there.

“You’re leading warm-ups in 30 minutes.”

“Is this a sick joke?” I asked, voice hollow.

Lucas—in my pajama-clad body, still rubbing sleep from his eyes—looked equally horrified. “Coach never texts me. Something’s up.”

“I can’t go!” I protested. “I’m barely managing to stand upright, let alone lead a group of guys who all know how to play!”

Lucas rubbed his temples. “You have to. If you skip out, it’ll look suspicious. If you say you’re sick, Coach will just reschedule practice and bench you out of spite.”

“So what do I do? Pretend to know what I’m doing?!”

He looked me dead in the eye. “Yes. You’re me now. That’s the job.”

I felt like my soul cracked into a thousand tiny ice chips.

Twenty-five minutes later, I stood in the changing room of the school rink, squeezing into Lucas’s gear for the second time in twenty-four hours. This time, though, I wasn’t alone.

The rest of the team filtered in, talking, laughing, high-fiving. I recognized a few of them from the hallways. Now, they were all half-dressed and calling me “Cap” like I belonged.

“Yo, Park!” a tall guy with wild hair and a huge grin called out. I remembered his name—Jake, I think. “Heard Coach is gonna announce the scout schedule after practice. You hyped?”

“Uh…” I cleared my throat, dropping my voice an octave. “Yeah. Super hyped.”

Nailed it. (Not.)

Another guy clapped my back. “You leading warm-ups today, Cap?”

I nodded like that wasn’t the most terrifying sentence ever spoken.

They moved around me, changing with the ease of a thousand rehearsals. And I—awkward, clueless Rae—tried to look like I belonged.

Lucas’s voice echoed in my head:

"They trust me. You have to be me. Confident. Calm. Controlled."

I clenched my fists and took a shaky breath.

Let’s do this.

The moment I stepped onto the ice, panic nearly took me down. My blades wobbled, my knees locked. A small gasp escaped, but I forced my face into what I hoped was Lucas’s signature poker expression: intense, unreadable, slightly annoyed.

The guys followed me out, casual and loud, and began spreading out. Jake gave a whistle and gestured toward me.

“Let’s go, Cap! Take us in!”

My stomach dropped into my skates.

Oh no. This is real. This is happening.

I skated—well, limped on ice—to center rink, raised my stick awkwardly, and tried to remember what Lucas had taught me.

“First, stretches. Then knee bends. Then suicide sprints. Lead with confidence.”

“Alright,” I barked, voice echoing awkwardly across the rink. “Warm-up time. Let’s, uh, stretch it out. Same order as usual.”

A few guys nodded. Others blinked. Jake cocked his head. “You good, man? You sound weird.”

“Just tired,” I said quickly. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“Same,” muttered someone in the back. “Mrs. Kim gave us three chapters of econ homework. What does she think we are, astronauts?”

The laughter broke the tension slightly.

I copied the team’s movements as best I could—shoulder rolls, arm swings, side lunges. My body wanted to cooperate, but my brain was stuck screaming What are we doing?!

Then came the sprints.

Coach Hwang entered just as I barked, “Line up!”

His sharp eyes landed on me. “Park. I assume you’re setting the pace?”

I tried to match Lucas’s usual cool confidence. “Of course, Coach.”

“You’re slower than usual,” he said after the first round. “You injured?”

“No, sir,” I lied, panting.

“Pick it up then.”

By the time drills ended, I was drowning in sweat. Everything ached. My thighs were on fire. My arms felt like noodles. Lucas’s body was clearly an elite athlete, but I was still driving it like a nervous grandma behind the wheel of a racecar.

Jake skated over. “You okay, Cap? You’re, uh… off today.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

“You sure you’re not sick or something?”

I searched for an excuse. “Just… a lot on my mind.”

Jake gave a sympathetic grin. “Girl trouble?”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You always get weird when there’s drama. You and that chick—what’s her name? Rae? You guys dating now or what?”

I nearly choked on my mouthguard. “What?! No! Why would you think that?!”

Jake leaned in, smirking. “She confessed to you, right? Yesterday? Whole team heard about it.”

I wanted to die.

“Anyway,” Jake continued, “don’t let it mess with your head. We need your game face next week.”

My brain barely registered the rest of the conversation. My legs carried me off the ice automatically. I stumbled back into the locker room and collapsed onto the bench, shaking.

Lucas was going to kill me when he found out everyone knew about my confession. And worse—thought we were a thing.

After practice, I limped to the bathroom to change, praying for invisibility. I stripped off the gear with aching fingers, face flushed with embarrassment. When I reached into the locker for Lucas’s hoodie—

It was gone.

“What the…?”

I searched the bag. Nothing.

I froze when I saw it, folded neatly on the bench:

A girl’s hoodie.

My hoodie.

The one I’d worn yesterday.

And taped to it was a note.

“Wanna explain why you’re acting so weird, Rae?”

"We need to talk. I know something’s up."

There was no name. But I knew the handwriting.

It was Minji’s.

Lucas’s ex-girlfriend.

And my former tablemate in art class.

I rushed back to the house, heart pounding, cheeks burning.

Lucas (in my body) was at my desk, sketching something in my competition notebook. His posture—my posture—was weirdly graceful. Focused. It was like watching a stranger wear my skin like a costume.

He looked up when I slammed the door.

“How’d it go?” he asked.

“Everyone thinks I’m dating myself!” I shrieked. “And your ex left a note! She knows something’s wrong!”

His eyes widened. “What?! What did the note say?”

I threw it on the desk. He read it once, twice, and then his face—my face—twisted in alarm.

“This is bad,” he muttered. “Minji’s smart. She’s not just going to brush this off.”

“I told you we needed to lay low!” I snapped. “This is getting worse by the hour!”

He rubbed his forehead. “Okay. Okay. We’ll deal with it.”

“No. You’ll deal with it,” I said. “You’re the one who dated her! You can’t just dump that drama on me while I’m learning how not to die on ice!”

We glared at each other, tension crackling between us.

Then my phone buzzed on the desk.

A new message.

I picked it up and felt the blood drain from my face.

Lucas’s voice went low. “What now?”

I turned the screen toward him.

It was a photo.

Of me—well, him in my body—walking out of the school earlier today. With the caption:

"You’re not who you say you are."

And below it:

“Meet me tonight. Or I’ll tell everyone.”