But nothing looked the same.
New buildings had sprouted up where empty lots used to be. The old diner where we'd gotten victory pancakes after games was now a yoga studio. Even the street names seemed wrong, like someone had repainted the signs while I wasn't looking.
Or maybe I was the one who'd changed.
Probably that.
I'd reserved an apartment on the north side of town, deliberately far from both arenas. The Frost Kings played at Glacier Arena downtown. The Steel Wolves had their home ice across the river at Iron Stadium. League headquarters sat between them like a referee at center ice, which meant I'd be shooting games for both teams.
Both teams.
My throat tightened.
The job posting had been perfect. League photographer, travel required, portfolio-building opportunity. Good pay, great benefits, and the kind of access that would make my career. I'd applied on impulse at two in the morning, half-drunk on cheap wine and convinced I'd never hear back.
Then they'd called.
Then they'd offered.
Then I'd said yes before my brain caught up with my mouth.
I hadn't let myself think about the fact that photographing NIHL games meant I'd be rink side. Crouched behind the glass with a 400mm lens while players I used to know skated past. Close enough to hear the impact of bodies against boards, close enough to smell the ice and sweat and testosterone.
Close enough to photograph players likeLuca ValeandJaxon Roarke.
My hands tightened on the steering wheel.
I hadn't let myself think their names in years, hadn't let myself remember the way Luca used to adjust my helmet before every game, his fingers gentle against my temples. Or the way Jaxon would save me a seat on the bus, sprawled out across two spaces until I arrived.
Hadn't let myself remember the locker room.
The scent that had poured out of me like poison.
The snarling.
The way Luca had stood frozen, knuckles split and bleeding, staring at me like he didn't recognize what he'd become. The way Jaxon had fought security like a feral animal, snarling my name over and over until his voice went hoarse.
The way they'd looked at each other after, like something fundamental had broken between them and it was all my fault.
A horn blared behind me.
The light had turned green. I pressed the gas, willing my hands to stop shaking. This was fine. Everything was fine.The league had thirty-two teams across North America. I'd be rotating coverage, not assigned to specific franchises. And even when I did have to shoot the Frost Kings or Steel Wolves, I'd be behind a camera. Professional. Invisible.
The chances of actually interacting with either of them were basically zero.
I repeated that to myself as I pulled into the apartment complex parking lot.
Zero chance.
Absolutely none.
The third spike hit me as I was unloading my camera bag from the trunk.
This time I didn't stay upright.
My knees hit the pavement hard enough that I felt the impact through my jeans. The bag slipped from my fingers, expensive lenses rattling inside the padding. My vision blurred, then sharpened, then blurred again. Somewhere in the distance I could hear someone asking if I needed help but their voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.
The scent that rolled off me was visible in the cold air, a shimmer of heat that made the atmosphere warp.
