I’ve seen her before. The coach’s daughter. A static shock in the study hall from a simple touch, a breach I never categorized. Familiarity doesn’t dull the impact; it sharpens it into a blade.
Recognition lands like a cheap shot—dirty and unwelcome. A problem. For a second, I think I imagined her. Glass blurs light; it hums when a puck hits. But then she blinks—slow, deliberate. As if she knows I’m watching. As if she’s giving permission.
Crowd noise blurs to static. My pulse slams against my ribs, hard enough to feel under the crushing weight of armor. Adrenaline spikes, jagged and hot, a fire igniting in my chest. She doesn’t flinch when a puck slams near her. The crowd jumps; she stays still. Those hazel eyes never move.
Hazel.Steady.
The realization lands deep and primal, knocking something loose inside me. Not possession—not yet. Recognition. Like my body’s been waiting for this without my mind catching up. A chemical reaction I can’t control.
My throat tightens. My stick buzzes like a live wire in my grip. The arena fades. The ice fades. It’s just that gaze, dissecting me through the mask, pulling me in like gravity.
“Reid! Get set!”
The voice is distant. Muffled underwater. I don’t move. I can’t look away.
“REID!”
The shout cracks the trance like a whip. My body jerks, wires cut. Panic flares, sharp and sudden. My hand twitches, instinct frantically reaching for the post to ground myself—
I miss.
My stick cuts through empty air.
The echo is loud. Wrong.
Heat spikes up my chest, a burning shame. Inevermiss the tap. Ever. That’s my anchor. My ending prayer. Her eyes press into my spine, phantom pressure. Pulse stutters. I slam my stick down—hard. Tap left. Tap right.
The sound is wrong. The rhythm’s off. My grip’s too tight; the leather bites deep as I force the sequence back on track.
Fractured. Tainted. Because of her.
The pattern resumes, but a split remains—a hairline crack no tape will fix. I rip my gaze from Section 104. Back to the blue line. Back to the ice. Should’ve kept my eyes on the ice. Sloppy. But I can still feel her watching—heat on my shoulder blades. Pulse loud in my neck. Helmet too tight.
The horn blares. Warm-ups over.
I skate to the blue line, movements stiff, focus wrecked. Sequence broken. Armor cracked. And her gaze still burns, branded into my skin. A brand I didn’t ask for but will claim as my own.
One look. One rupture I can’t undo.
The game hasn’t even started, and she’s already in my head. In my space. Uninvited. An obsession I didn’t ask for—and one I’llclaim anyway. I already know I’m going to ruin myself to figure her out.
Chapter 2
Talia
Thesoundhitsfirst.It always does.
It’s not merely sound; it’s a force—a roar that thuds against my chest and reverberates through the soles of my boots until my teeth ache. The Briarcliff Ice Arena is a chaotic swirl of navy and light blue, the air biting cold and sharp against my lungs, thick with the metallic tang of ice mingling with popcorn and sweat.
I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my denim jacket, pressing my knuckles into the seams, grinding into the fabric. It’s a habit. A tell that anchors me, keeping me from fidgeting or picking at my nails until they bleed. The strap of my backpack digs into my shoulder—a tangible reminder that I have something solid to cling to if everything tilts. A tether.
The crowd presses in. I squint against the brightness that stings my eyes. The deafening commotion swirls around me, an unrelenting cacophony threatening to drown out my thoughts. My shoulders creep up toward my ears, instinctively bracing for impact. I force them down—muscles screaming with the effort.
Expand.I command my lungs to work, inhaling sharp, frigid air.
You wanted this. You made this choice.
This isn’t survival; it’s reclamation. A deliberate, defiantscrew youto the man who tried to shatter me last year. He may have stolen nights, robbed me of sleep, and splintered my trust with a temper that turned hands into weapons, but this moment is mine. He doesn’t get this too.
