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Chapter One
Brenna
The puck dropped, a sharp crack of rubber against ice that set the tone for the next sixty minutes. The energy in the arena shifted instantly, vibrating through the soles of my sneakers as the two teams collided with a violence that only intensified the rivalry.
Jake Calloway was everywhere. He moved with a kind of predatory fluidity that made everyone else look like they were skating in mud. He was the undisputed king of the rink, and he played like it—arrogant, relentless, and infuriatingly precise. He scored once, a lightning-fast snapshot that left our goalie lunging at air, and notched two primary assists that were practically surgical. Every time the whistle blew, he was there, skating by our bench to toss a barbed comment at our guys, his mouth curled into that cocky, infuriating smirk. When the student section rained boos down on him, he just laughed, skating backward with his arms spread wide like he was soaking in the applause. It was maddening, but I couldn’t look away. He played with the kind of absolute, unwavering belief that the game belonged entirely to him.
And, God help us, he wasn’t wrong.
The clock ticked down, agonizingly slow, until late in the third period. Noah finally caught a break, burying the equalizer with a desperation shot that silenced the opposing fans and sent our side into a frenzy. The arena erupted, a wall of sound so loud it vibrated in my teeth. I surged to my feet, screaming until my lungs felt like they were on fire, pounding my palms against the thick plexiglass until my skin stung.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” I yelled, my voice cracking under the roar of the crowd.
The final horn sounded a few minutes later. A tie. It wasn’t a loss, but it felt like one. Nobody in this building liked walking away with a tie against Ridge State, and my dad’s face, tight and thunderous behind the bench, made it clear he was currently imagining a hundred ways to make the team run suicides at 6:00 a.m.
The teams lined up at center ice, the standard ritual of handshakes playing out with the usual performative apathy before they filtered toward their respective tunnels. I stayed put, leaning against the cold glass behind our bench while Dad held an animated, heated conversation with the officials.
Players drifted past me, sweaty, smelling of stale adrenaline and wet nylon. Noah finally jogged over, ducking his head to reach over the boards. He caught my hand, giving it a firm, grounding squeeze.
“I’ll find you after media,” he said, his eyes scanning mine.
“I’ll be around,” I promised.
He shot me one of those lopsided grins that usually made my stomach do a slow, lazy roll, then turned and disappeared into the tunnel. I let out a breath, shoulders dropping as the tension finally began to seep out of me. I leaned back against the glass, idly watching the Ridge State players congregate near the exit, gathering their discarded equipment and chattering amongst themselves.
Then, the air shifted.
Someone stopped on the other side of the glass, just a few feet away.
Jake Calloway.
He’d stripped off his helmet, tucking it beneath one arm, and his dark hair was matted to his forehead, damp with sweat. A jagged, fresh scrape marked the bridge of his nose, testament to the physical mess of the last hour. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic, powerful hitches as he caught his wind.
For a heartbeat, I assumed he was just waiting for a straggler from his line. But then he shifted, his weight settling, and his eyes locked onto mine.
Neither of us looked away. It wasn’t the standard, polished stare of a guy trying to pick someone up, and there was no friendly nod of acknowledgment. It felt heavier than that—something raw and stripped back. It was pure, unadulterated curiosity. It felt like we’d both been struck by the exact same realization at the exact same moment, a silent recognition of something neither of us could quite name.
A teammate bumped his shoulder, barking something about the bus, which finally forced him to break the connection. He turned away, but he glanced back over his shoulder once, his gaze flicking to mine for a fraction of a second before he vanished into the dark mouth of the tunnel.
“Bren.”
My dad’s voice hit me like a slap, pulling me back to the reality of the locker room and the lingering bitterness of the tie.
“You coming?” he asked, already halfway to the hallway.
I blinked, the static in my head clearing. “Yeah,” I muttered, pushing off the glass.
I followed him toward the locker room, my footsteps heavy. I tried to analyze the moment, to find a logical reason why I’d been so transfixed by the star player of a team I was supposed to hate. I wanted an answer, something to file away and forget.
But as I stepped into the tunnel, I didn’t have one. And, if I were being entirely honest with myself, I wasn’t sure I wanted one yet.
