Chapter One
Sammie
The rink is always cold, but in October it feels different. The chill doesn’t just sting my skin, it seeps straight into my bones, carrying that same haunted feeling I can’t ever shake around this time of year.
Halloween.
The one night I used to love more than anything. The one night I now hate.
It’s been a year since Andrew died. A year since everything in my world cracked down the middle, and nothing’s felt steady since. My brother lived for this rink, for the Storm Cats, for hockey. He lived for Halloween, too. Costumes, pranks, bonfires. He was the kind of guy who turned the night into magic. Andthen one stupid, tragic accident ripped him away, and now the holiday feels more like a funeral than a celebration.
I pull my jacket tighter then drag the broom across the lobby floor. Watching tiny trails of dust curl away in the pale overhead lights. The walls are dressed up halfheartedly with orange streamers, fake spider webs stretched across the bulletin board, a paper skeleton pinned near the trophy case. I helped hang them, but my heart wasn’t in it. Dad insisted.“Andrew loved Halloween. We’ll honor him this way.”
I try. God, do I fucking try. But the ache doesn’t go away.
From the rink, the whistle of Dad’s voice slices through my thoughts. “Hustle, Storm Cats! Again!”
I glance up through the glass to the ice. Dad stands tall at the center line, barking orders, clipboard in hand. He looks older now, shoulders slumped heavier than they used to be. Coaching is the only thing keeping him upright, I swear. Without it, he’d collapse under the weight of losing Andrew.
The players rush through drills, skates slicing, sticks smacking. They’re loud, rowdy, full of energy, just like Andrew used to be. It should make me smile. It doesn’t. Instead, I feel that creeping weight again, the one I can’t name.
That feeling of being watched.
My eyes drift, like they always do, tohim.
Triston Knight.
Captain of the Storm Cats. Twenty-nine years old. Broad-shouldered, dark-eyed, every inch of him cut from ice and fire. He moves across the rink like he owns it, every stride full of power. He doesn’t belong under orange streamers and paper skeletons. He belongs in the shadows, in the places that scare you when you’re alone.
And somehow, I can’t look away.
Even worse? He’s looking back.
The second my gaze lands on him, his eyes lock on me. It’s like his stare pierces through the glass, through my jacket, through skin and bone. My stomach flips, heat rushing to my cheeks.
I whip my attention back to the broom, dragging it across the tiles as if the fate of the world depends on spotless floors. But I still feel it. That burn. That weight.
That hunger.
My dad would lose his mind if he ever knew what those looks mean. If he knew what they did to me.
I bite my lip, pulse racing.Stop. Don’t look again. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
But I do. I look up at him.
And he’s still watching. Always watching.
Practice ends with a final shrill whistle. The players groan and cheer, slapping sticks, skating off toward the locker room. The air then fills with the thunder of blades against mats.
I slip behind the counter in the lobby, setting out a tray of cookies one of the hockey moms left. Sugar and chocolate hang in the air, too sweet against the chill. I am busy with my hands, but my ears track every sound.
Voices echo down the hallway. Laughter, teasing, a chorus of “Knight, you’re obsessed!” Followed by more laughter. My chest tightens. I don’t know what they mean, but it feels like they’re talking about me.
I tell myself I’m imagining it. I always do.
But then his voice cuts through — low, rough, sharper than the others.
“Knock it off.”
