The silence swelled, heavy as the air before a brawl.
Outside, a truck rolled past the house, headlights cutting through the curtain. I waited for him to fire back, already braced.
Nothing. Just a sharp sigh, softer than I expected.
When he spoke again, the edge in his tone dulled to something colder. “Orientation’s at ten. Don’t be late.”
The line went dead.
I tossed the phone onto the bed, the screen face?down. My hands stayed clenched longer than they needed to. A pulse throbbed behind my jaw.
Gideon always knew where to aim. Mention Nate, and he hit the soft tissue. Couldn’t say I didn’t deserve it; I’d been missing from that kid’s life by choice. Still, hearing about him through other people felt like getting benched from my own bloodline.
“Walked out, huh?” I muttered.
The phrase kept gnawing. Walked out meant she’d had enough of him—his temper, maybe his ego. The mirror didn’t bother denying where Nate learned those habits.
I jammed my arms through the jacket sleeves. The place reeked of last night’s smoke. I needed air, coffee, something that didn’t taste like regret.
Outside, the cold bit sharp against my cheeks. Snowmelt tracked down the gutter, thin as spit. I flicked a cigarette out of the pack, stared at it, then shoved it back.
Gideon’s order repeated in my head—orientation’s at ten.I checked the time. I’d have to move if I wanted to be something other than a mistake walking into that rink.
Still, my feet kept hesitating, like they had their own idea. Phone buzzed again, a notification I didn’t bother checking. Probably news about Nate, a photo, some crack about heartbreak on skates.
I crushed the thought.
Whatever story he was writing for himself, he didn’t need me ghosting through the margins.
I started the truck. The engine growled low, steady. Just noise, no meaning.
“Don’t be late,” I echoed, then gunned it toward Crestwood, leaving the motel glow behind.
Campus hitlike a slap of fresh paint—clean brick buildings, banners flapping in the wind, students everywhere moving with purpose. Crestwood looked new, too new, like no one here had ever lost anything. I parked behind the athletic complex, shut the truck door harder than I needed to, and yanked the collar of my jacket up against the wind.
The glass doors of the rink gleamed. Someone had polished them this morning, probably for me. Ridiculous. The place smelled like detergent and ambition. Posters of smiling athletes lined the entryway—no blood, no bruises, not a single scar between them.
I caught my reflection in the glass on the way in—old, out of place. Perfect.
Inside, the noise hit—music echoing off the rafters, puck smacks, blades carving ice. It should’ve felt like home, buteverything here was too bright, too clean. I shoved my hands in my pockets as a woman appeared from one of the side offices, clipboard in hand, smile locked in place.
“Calder,” she said, voice crisp as a cold drink. She offered her hand—steady, professional.
I took it. “I'm sorry, do I know you?"
“Paige Adams,” she said. “I’m the team liaison for the Serpents and administrative coordinator for athletics. Welcome to Crestwood.”
I arched a brow.
She sighed. "I'm dating Ryker."
"Oh, yeah, I heard about that."
She rolled her eyes.
I bit back a reply about not being much for welcomes. “You run this circus?”
“Some days, it feels that way.” She checked her notes without missing a stride, heels clicking on concrete. “We’ve got two women’s teams launching this semester—the Division I varsity and the developmental squad. Funding came through thanks to private sponsorship, though the budget’s thinner than we’d like.”
