Chapter 3
The morning light filters through the grimy windows of the old common room, casting long shadows across the scuffed hardwood floor.
I’m standing in the middle of what used to be Riverside Arts College’s heart, before the fire gutted everything around it. This room survived by some miracle, though it still smells like smoke.
I check my phone. 9:07 AM.
No one’s here.
I pull up the volunteer sign-up sheet on my screen and scroll through the messages that came in overnight:
hey Artie, so sorry but I have one more exam. rain check?
Can’t make it today, got stuck in a library.
My car won’t start. Next time for sure!
Sorry dude, completely forgot I have work.
Five people signed up. Five different excuses.
“Great,” I mutter, shoving my phone back in my pocket. “Perfect.”
But I’m not discouraged. Not really. I’ve learned not to rely on people too much. The important thing is to get started— and tackle the hardest part first. The ice rink. Everything else can come later.
I pull out my tablet and review the plans I sketched out. The frame needs to be assembled, the ground leveled, the liner installed. It’s going to be brutal work, but if I can just focus on this, I won’t have to think about—
Don’t.
I squeeze my eyes shut.
Don’t think about him. Don’t think about yesterday. Don’t think about how his lips felt under my tongue when I accidentally—
“God damn it,” I say aloud.
It was his fault. The whole thing was his fault. Who makes someone take gum directly out of their mouth? What kind of sick power play is that?
It was just another way to humiliate me. That’s all. Raiden Blackwell has been systematically finding new ways to make me feel small for six months, and yesterday was just… an escalation. A new tactic.
The fact that he was—that I felt—
No. I’m not going down that road.
I grab the metal frame pieces stacked against the wall and drag them into the center of the room. The screech of metal on wood echoes in the empty space. Good. Physical labor. That’s what I need.
Raiden somehow figured out that I’ve been having confusing thoughts about him, and now he’s weaponizing it. That’s the only explanation. He’s using my own stupid brain against me.
I just need to stop. Stop thinking about him that way and analyzing every interaction… and wondering if what I felt pressing against me was real or imagined.
I’ve never thought about boys like that before. Never wondered about their—
Stop.
I attack the frame assembly with more force than necessary, my hands already starting to ache.
Twenty minutes later, I hear footsteps.
“Hey! Sorry I’m late!”
