I freeze and my breathing becomes shallowed when I hear footsteps thud closer.
I don’t have to look up to know it’s him.
The air shifts when Triston enters the lobby. He carries it with him; a storm in human form. He doesn’t say anything atfirst, just lingers near the counter, watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
My heart pounds so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
Finally, he leans close enough that only I can hear his voice. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”
The broom handle nearly slips from my grip. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “And you know it.”
Heat flares under my skin, anger and thrill tangled in one and humming between my legs. “My dad’s right there.” I spit.
“I don’t care.” His voice is softer now, but it cuts sharper. “He can bark orders at me all day on the ice. But off it? You’re mine, Sammie. You’ve always been mine.”
My throat dries. I want to tell him he’s wrong, that he’s dangerous, that this is insane. But the words won’t come.
Because part of me wants it to be true.
“Don’t—” My voice cracks. I shake my head, clutching the broom like a shield. “You can’t say things like that.”
He smirks, leaning back just enough to give me space, but his eyes never leave mine. “I just did.”
Then he’s gone, striding down the hallway toward the locker room.
I stand frozen, chest heaving, heart slamming, every nerve buzzing like I’ve touched live wires.
Through the glass, I see Dad gathering his clipboard, still barking at stragglers. He didn’t hear. He didn’t see. Thank God.
But I did.
And I’ll never forget it.
When the lobby finally empties, I lock up alone, broom still trembling in my hands. The rink is quiet, shadows stretching long, fake cobwebs fluttering in the draft.
Halloween is coming.
And I know — deep down in my bones — nothing about it will ever be the same.
Chapter Two
Sammie
The morning after practice creeps in gray and silent. My alarm buzzes, but I don’t need it. I’ve been awake for over an hour, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the old furnace rattling through the vents.
The house always feels emptier in October.
My brother’s room is just down the hall. The door is shut, same as it’s been for a year now, and even though Dad hasn’t said the words, I know I’m not supposed to open it. Andrew’s things are still inside, hockey sticks propped against the wall, a jersey draped across his chair. I’ve seen it through the crack when I pass too slowly. I pretend I don’t.
Halloween was Andrew’s favorite holiday. Last year, the night we lost him, our house was strung up in cobwebs and fake bats, laughter spilling through the hallways. Now, the same decorations are boxed in the basement, waiting for me to unpack them for tonight’s party. A tradition that feels more like a haunting.
I drag myself out of bed and into the kitchen, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Dad is already there, hunched over the table with a mug of coffee, paper spread open in front of him. He’s in his Storm Cats jacket, hood pulled up even though it’s not cold inside. His eyes lift when I shuffle in.
“You’re up early.” He says, voice rough.
I shrug, pulling a bowl from the cabinet. “Didn’t really sleep.”
