His words trigger a flash.
The ice. The cold air biting at my lungs, the scrape of my skates, the thwack of the puck against my stick. I'm ten years old, a blur of green and white, weaving through cones on a deserted rink. My father's voice, always distant, always critical, echoes in the cavernous space. “That's not good enough, West. You're not focused.” But here, on the ice, I am focused. I am free. Every movement is mine. Every shot, every pass, every goal is a testament to my own will, my own effort. It's the only place where the Monroe name doesn't feel like a chain. The only place where I am truly myself. I promised myself then, a silent, fierce vow: I would work harder than anyone, I would make it to the NHL. I would earn my own name, my own destiny, before I was swallowed whole by theirs.
“I'm aware of my responsibilities.” The words taste like ash. His expectations are a cage I've been in my entire life.
“Are you? Because it seems to me you're more interested in indulging your… proclivities. There's a difference between control and obsession, West. One builds an empire. The other burns it down.” His voice hardens. “Focus, West. The world doesn't wait for your whims. You have a legacy to uphold. Not a playground to conquer.”
He hangs up without another word. The silence that follows is heavy, filled with expectation. His words are a cold reminder of the other game I'm forced to play, the one with real-world consequences, where my every move is scrutinized. The NHLis my only reprieve, my only path to a self not defined by the Monroe name.
Iwillbe drafted. I have to be.
Nineteen
Kinsley
The email from West, cloaked in professional concern, is a fresh stab of insidious control. It drives me further into myself, intensifying the battle between my fear and that horrifying, undeniable pull. I try to ignore him, but his presence is a constant, suffocating hum beneath the surface of my consciousness. Every passing glimpse of him on campus, every hushed mention of his name, sends a jolt through me.
I bury myself in my studies, in the precise, logical world of chemistry. But even there, he intrudes. I see his name on the lab schedule, I hear students in the hallway talking about the “legendary West Monroe” and his impressive skills. I catch glimpses of him across campus, walking with a group of friends, intense in conversation, or alone, a dark, magnetic figure. Every time, my breath hitches. Every time, that unwelcome current jolts through me.
Chloe, bless her oblivious heart, is no help. “He's just being a good TA, Kins! He probably felt bad after you yelled at him. See? He's not so bad.” She thinks the email is an olive branch. I know it is a noose, subtly tightening around my neck.
The tension builds, a pressure cooker inside my skull. The hypomanic energy, which usually channels into productivity is now a frantic, desperate need for release. I can't sleep. My thoughts race, replaying every encounter, every word, every touch. Dissecting it for clues, for weaknesses, for an escape route. But there is no escape. Not from him, not from myself. The yearning, the forbidden pull becomes almost unbearable, a constant ache beneath my skin.
On Friday afternoon, Chloe bursts into my room, practically vibrating with excitement. “Kins! Guess what? The hockey team just annihilated State, and West—yes, that West—is hosting the victory party at his penthouse! Everyone's going! It's going to be epic!”
My stomach drops. “His penthouse? Chloe, no. Absolutely not.” The thought of willingly entering his domain, his lair sends a fresh wave of dread through me.
“Oh, come on!” she pleads, already pulling clothes from my closet. “It's a huge deal! He's practically a campus legend, and his parties are supposed to be insane. Besides, you need to get out! Stop brooding over that email. Maybe you'll even get to see him in a non-TA capacity and realize he's just a normal, hot guy.”She gives me a knowing look. “And who knows, maybe this is your chance to show him you're not just a bookworm.”
I try to argue, to explain the suffocating dread that seizes me at the mere thought of being in his personal space. How can I explain that his “crush” is my personal nightmare? How can I articulate the terrifying intimacy of his whisper, the way my body betrays me? My anxiety medicine, a single clonazepam is tucked into the small, zippered pocket of my jeans, a silent promise of calm I am desperate to claim. I just need quiet.
Chloe, misinterpreting my silence and hesitation as typical Kinsley-resistance, just shakes her head. “Nonsense! You're coming. Think of it as exposure therapy. Plus, free food, and probably some delicious eye candy. You'll thank me later.”
My first instinct is to refuse. Parties are sensory overload. Too many people, too much noise, too many unpredictable variables. It is the last place I want to be when my mind feels like it is teetering on the edge.
But then a different thought sparks. A desperate, reckless impulse. Anonymity. Chaos. A place where I can lose myself, if only for a few hours. A place where I can feel something other than this suffocating blend of fear and forbidden yearning. In the sheer overwhelming noise, I can drown out the screaming in my head.
“Fine,” I say, the word a desperate gasp for air. “Let's go.”
Chloe grins, oblivious to the storm raging behind my eyes. “That's the spirit! Now, what are we going to put you in? Something that screams 'untouchable but intriguing'...” She rummages through my closet, pulling out a sleek, black dress I bought on a whim and never wear, along with my knee-high boots. “Perfect!”
I let her dress me. The taxi ride to the prestigious high-rise feels like a journey to another planet—his penthouse. The very idea is intimidating.
Twenty
Kinsley
The party is already in full swing when we arrive. The bass thumps through the floor, vibrating up through my feet. The penthouse is enormous, sprawling, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a glittering view of the city. It's packed with people. A chaotic mix of athletes, sorority girls, and hangers-on, all bathed in the pulsating light of the DJ's setup. The air is thick with the scent of expensive cologne, expensive beer, and something else… something that feels like power.
I feel utterly out of place in the sleek black dress and knee-high boots Chloe insisted on. Every movement feels self-conscious, every glance from a stranger a judgment. I try to lose myself in the crowd, to blend into the anonymity of the flashing lights. Chloe, meanwhile, is in her element, pulling me towards the makeshift dance floor. I manage a few forced smiles, a few awkward bounces but my head is already starting to throb. The sheer volume, the press of bodies, the relentless energy, it's all too much. My anxiety is a tight coil in my stomach, tightening with every passing minute. I need to find a quiet space, I need to take my pill.
I excuse myself from Chloe, promising to meet her by the bar, and begin navigating the throng. Just as I've found a path to a quieter balcony, a sudden surge of bodies fueled by some new song pushes me forward. I collide hard with someone, a glass flies from their hand and a sticky, cold liquid splashes across my chest, soaking the front of my dress and running down my side. It's not just my dress; the pocket where my emergency clonazepam is tucked feels damp, too. My heart sinks.
“Oh, gross!” I mutter, trying to wipe at the sticky mess. The tremor in my hands intensifies. My lifeline, the pill, could be compromised.
I push my way through the last few bodies and stumble out onto a small, private balcony, desperate for air, for quiet. I lean against the cool glass railing, trying to steady myself, trying to silence the cacophony in my head. My eyes are closed. My entire being is focused on simply breathing, on reaching for the small, hard tablet in my pocket, hoping it's still dry.
And then I feel it. A presence, a shift in the air. The hairs on my arms stand on end, a familiar, unwelcome current.
