Chapter 1 seeing er wild side
The beer in my plastic cup is warm, flat, and tastes like regret and dish soap, but I drink it anyway. It’s 11:17 PM on a Tuesday at The Pit—the off-campus dive the hockey team has claimed as our own since before I was a freshman—sticky with three decades of spilled liquor and regret, neon beer signs buzzing so loud they rattle my molars, the air thick with sweat, cheap perfume, and the sharp tang of fried pickles. I’m 6’7”, 260 pounds of blocky muscle and scar tissue, tattoos crawling up both arms: a half-sleeve of hockey sticks and my old man’s half-assed life motto on my left, a black skull with a broken crown on my right, HOCKEY blotted across my knuckles in faded ink, a thin white scar slicing through my left eyebrow from a bar fight last semester. My scuffed work boots stick to the floor when I shift, my black team hoodie sleeves rolled up to my elbows, and I’m laughing so hard at Matt’s story about blowing off a sorority formal to play NHL 24 that beer sloshes down my wrist.
That’s when the shout cuts through the noise.
It’s raw, guttural, thick around the edges like the speaker’s mouth won’t quite form the words right, and it slices through the jukebox and the chatter so sharp every head in the bar snaps left. I nudge Matt hard in the ribs with my elbow, my grin fading. “Damn, who’s that chick?”
More shouts follow, sharp and female, and Matt and I both gulp—audible, even over the sudden hush that’s fallen over the room. The whole bar is staring, all 80-odd of us, frozen with our beers halfway to our mouths, eyes locked on the corner booth by the jukebox.
I see Lila first, of course. Everyone always sees Lila first. Head cheerleader, blonde extensions so long they hit her waist, fake tan the color of a worn football, pink satin dress so tight it looks painted on, perched on the edge of the booth like she’s posing for an Instagram reel. Next to her is Tyler, her quarterback boyfriend, 6’4” and built like a brick shithouse but with the backbone of a wet noodle, his hands half-raised like he’s trying to calm a rabid dog he’s too scared to touch.
Then I see her.
And every single detail burns into my brain so hard I know I’ll replay it at 3 AM for the next month, drunk or sober, until it’s etched into the back of my eyelids.
She’s small—maybe 5’2” on a good day—but chunky, all soft, thick curves packed into a tiny frame, an hourglass so extreme it makes my breath catch in my throat. Her dress is red satin with black lace trim, thin spaghetti straps slipping off her shoulders, tight enough to strain across her chest—at least an E cup, maybe more, the fabric pulling so hard I’m half-surprised the seams don’t split—and hug every roll of her stomach, every thick, soft line of her thighs that spill over the tops of her scuffed black combat boots. Her hair is long, so long it falls to the small of her back, dark brown the color of wet earth with natural red ends that glow copper under the neon Budweiser sign—no dye, everyone on campus knows that, the rumor mill’s been churning about it since she was a freshman: Millie Hale’s hair has been red at the ends since she was born, no one knows why, freakish, right? Her eyes are blue, bright as a frozen lake in January, blazing so hot they look like they could melt steel, her lips full and pouty, slathered in fire-engine red lipstick that’s already smudged at the corners, her eyelashes thick and black, clumping together because she’s crying and furious at the same time.
Millie Hale. Coach’s daughter. Second year. 19 years old.
I’ve seen her a hundred times, maybe more. Hovering at the edge of the rink after practice, headphones clamped over her ears, typing furiously on her phone while the rest of the team catcalled cheerleaders. Sitting alone in the campus cafeteria, picking at a salad while Lila and her crew laughed so loud the whole table shook. Walking across the quad with her backpack slung over one shoulder, her steps a little unsteady, her left foot dragging just so—cerebral palsy, neuromuscular disorder, Coach mentioned it once at the start of my third year, gruff and defensive, like he was daring any of us to say a word about it. Her speech is thick, slurred around the edges, hard to understand if you don’t listen close, so she types everything into the notes app on her phone when people won’t bother. She knows sign language too, but she hates it—another rumor, passed around like a cheap joint: Millie Hale thinks sign is for people who give up, she’d rather type until her thumbs bleed than admit she can’t talk right.
The stupid, drunk thought flashes through my head before I can stop it: Have I fucked her?
I snort to myself, taking another sip of beer. No. I’d remember that body. Also, Coach Hale would skin me alive, feed my remains to the team, and yank my captaincy so fast my head would spin if I so much as looked at his daughter wrong. Four years younger than me, too—fresh meat when I was already a senior on paper, a fifth year burning through my last semester of eligibility while I waited for the NHL scout to show. Untouched, I’d bet my left skate on it. No one on this team has ever bragged about her, no sorority girl has ever hissed about her stealing a guy, which means either no one’s ever tried or no one’s ever gotten within ten feet of her without her biting their head off.
She’s screaming now, leaning across the table at Lila, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles are white, her words thick but sharp enough to cut glass: “You actually fucking told everyone I lie about what I have? Why? What have I fucking done to you? What—coz guys look at me? Is that it? You jealous?”
The bar is so quiet you can hear a beer bottle sweat. Lila laughs, high and fake and mean, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. “Oh, please, Millie. You act like your little act isn’t obvious. You drag that leg around, mumble like you’re drunk, type on your stupid phone like anyone cares—all so guys will feel bad for you and fuck you. It’s pathetic. No one believes you. You’re just a lazy, attention-seeking cunt who can’t handle that I’m the one people actually look at.”
That’s when Millie snaps.
She launches herself across the table so fast Tyler doesn’t even have time to flinch, slamming her shoulder into Lila’s chest so hard the cheerleader’s head cracks against the vinyl booth back with a sick thud. Millie’s hand flies up, tangling in Lila’s blonde extensions, and she yanks so hard Lila screams—a high, shrill sound that makes my teeth ache—half the weft coming loose in Millie’s fist. Curses fly out of Millie’s mouth then, raw and ugly and unfiltered, calling Lila a terrible friend, a lying bitch, a coward who’s been spreading rumors about her since the first week of freshman year, who told the whole sorority Millie faked her seizures to get out of exams, who told the guys on the football team Millie put out for anyone who’d carry her books. Her movements are jerky, a little unsteady—her CP, her legs not quite doing what she tells them to—but she’s fierce, a tiny, furious hurricane of red satin and rage, pinning Lila to the booth with her knee pressed hard into the cheerleader’s stomach, her other hand clawing at Lila’s pink dress.
Someone behind me yells, “Ain’t you gonna do something, man?” at Tyler.
Tyler just stands there, face white as a sheet, hands still half-raised, like he’s scared if he gets close Millie will tear his throat out too. Matt snorts beside me, so loud the guy next to him glances over. “Fucking pussy. Let the girls kill each other, I guess.”
A beer bottle gets knocked over, shattering on the floor. A group of sorority girls scream, scrambling back. Millie’s dress rides up her thighs, and I catch a flash of black lace garter around her thick left thigh, and I’m half-hard and so ashamed of it I want to punch myself in the face—this is a fight, not a fucking strip show, but I can’t look away. That’s when I see the tears, cutting through the rage on her face, hot and fast, streaking her foundation, leaving clean tracks down her cheeks. They’re not just angry tears. They’re hurt. Old, deep, festering hurt, like Lila’s been carving at her for years and this is the first time Millie’s finally had enough to swing back.
I don’t remember deciding to move. One second I’m leaning against the bar, beer in my hand, the next I’m shoving through the crowd, my broad shoulders clearing a path like a bulldozer, people scrambling out of my way like I’m a cop raiding the place. I bend down, wrap one thick, tattooed arm across Millie’s chest—right under those full, heavy breasts, my bicep flexing against her soft skin—and yank her back hard against my chest.
She’s heavier than she looks, all soft curves and dense muscle, solid as a brick wrapped in silk, and she fights me every single second. Her nails dig into my left forearm so hard they break the skin, four long red scratches bleeding through the black ink of my hockey tattoo, her combat boots kicking my shins so hard I see stars, her mouth moving a mile a minute, yelling curses I can barely understand through the thick slur of her speech. I can feel her heart hammering against my arm, fast as a rabbit’s, her chest heaving, the smell of her wrapping around me—coconut shampoo, dark vanilla perfume, the sharp tang of sweat and rage—and it goes straight to my head, fuzzier than the six beers I’ve had tonight.
I snort, the same cocky, stupid line I use on every sorority girl who throws a fit at the bar falling out of my mouth before I can stop it: “Should a girl as pretty as you be pulling people’s hair?”
Then she turns her head, and her eyes lock with mine, and the words die in my throat.
Her blue eyes are swimming with tears, red-rimmed, so bright with pain and fury they knock the breath right out of me. Her red lipstick is smudged down her chin, a little streak of it on her left cheek where Lila must have hit her earlier, her thick black lashes clumped together with wetness. For half a second she freezes, too, like she’s just realizing who’s holding her—Xander Cole, hockey captain, campus manwhore, the guy who’s walked past her a hundred times and never even said hello—and then Tyler steps forward, his hand outstretched, his voice soft and fake-concerned: “Millie, c’mon, baby, let’s just go—”
Millie flinches so hard she nearly headbutts my jaw, pulling back from him so violently her shoulders hunch up to her ears, like she’s expecting him to hit her too. My arm tightens around her chest on instinct, pulling her harder against me, shielding her from Tyler even though I don’t know why the fuck I’m doing it. I glare at the quarterback over the top of her head, and he flinches back, his hand dropping to his side like he’s been burned.
That’s when Lila decides to be a stupid cunt.
She’s pushed herself up on one elbow, her hair half-pulled out, her dress torn at the neckline, her face red and splotchy. She lunges forward before anyone can stop her, her open palm cracking across Millie’s right cheek so hard the sound echoes off the cinder block walls.
Millie’s head snaps to the side. A bright red welt blooms across her skin, her lip splitting a little at the corner, a tiny bead of blood welling up. For one long, terrible second she goes completely still, her breath catching in her throat, and then she lets out a sound that’s half snarl, half wounded animal scream, and she’s gone again. She throws herself forward so hard she nearly yanks me off balance, her fists flying, ready to tear Lila’s throat out with her bare hands.
I curse so loud the whole bar flinches. Coach is gonna kill me.
If Millie gets hurt here—if Lila scratches her face, if she hits her head on the broken glass on the floor, if she so much as twists her ankle wrong—Coach Hale will yank my captaincy, bench me for the rest of the season, maybe even kick me off the team entirely, and the NHL scout coming next month will take one look at my record and walk right back out the door. I don’t think. I bend down, wrap one arm tight around Millie’s thick waist, hoist her up like she weighs nothing, and throw her over my left shoulder.
She goes absolutely feral.
Her fists pound my back so hard my teeth rattle, her thick, soft legs kicking, her boots catching me in the ribs hard enough to make me grunt. She’s yelling, her voice cracking, half sobs half curses, and I catch “PUT ME DOWN YOU FUCKING NEANDERTHAL” clear enough, the rest a jumble of thick, angry words I can’t parse. Her red satin dress rides all the way up to her hips, exposing those thick, soft thighs, black lace underwear stretched tight over her curves, and my face heats up so hot I’m sure I’m glowing red. My free hand flies down, pressing the fabric of her dress hard against her legs to hold it in place, my palm burning where it touches her warm skin, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood to keep from making a sound. Her hair falls in my face, that mix of dark brown and copper red, the vanilla-coconut smell of it clogging my throat, and I can feel her full breasts pressed against my back, soft and heavy, her heart hammering so fast I can feel it through both our clothes, and the unwanted, raw attraction coiling in my gut is so thick I can taste it.
The bar is dead silent as I carry her toward the door. Matt whoops so loud it echoes. Someone yells, “Nice work, Cap!” Lila screams after us, shrill and furious: “She’s a fucking psycho, Xander, don’t waste your time! She’ll just lie about you too!” Tyler still hasn’t moved a single muscle. I glance down as I step over the broken glass, and I see Millie’s phone on the floor, screen lit up, the notes app open, a long typed message glowing in the dark: I HAVE CEREBRAL PALSY. IT IS A NEUROMUSCULAR DISORDER. IT AFFECTS MY SPEECH AND MY BALANCE. I DO NOT LIE ABOUT IT. STOP TELLING PEOPLE I FAKE IT FOR ATTENTION.
Something twists hard in my chest. She had it typed out. Ready. Because she has to do this all the time. Because no one ever listens long enough to let her talk. Because Lila’s been making her prove she’s not a liar for years, and she’s so used to it she keeps the proof in her pocket, just in case. I almost stop, almost go back, almost wrap my free hand around Lila’s throat and squeeze until she can’t spread another rumor ever again—but Millie kicks me hard in the stomach again, and I grunt, shoving the heavy bar door open with my shoulder.
The cold November night air slams into us, sharp and biting, cutting through the beer fumes and sweat, making Millie gasp a little against my back. The street is empty, the only light coming from the neon Pit sign buzzing above the door, the distant rumble of a car driving down the main road. Millie’s still fighting me, but her punches are getting weaker, her sobs mixing with her yells, her body going soft and heavy against my shoulder like the fight’s finally draining out of her. I carry her around the side of the building, away from the door, away from the neon light, into the dark alley between The Pit and the laundromat next door, where the only sound is our ragged breathing and the distant hum of a dryer.
I slow down, my grip on her legs tightening just a little, her soft skin warm under my calloused hand. The memory hits me then, sharp and uninvited, the thing I’ve buried for two years: third year, me, leaving the rink at 2 AM after a brutal practice, my muscles screaming, and I saw her sitting alone in the empty stands, headphones on, typing on her phone, her shoulders shaking, crying so hard she couldn’t breathe. I almost went over. Almost asked if she was okay. But then Matt yelled my name from the locker room, and I turned and left, and I never thought about it again until this exact second.
Millie goes still against my shoulder, her fists fisted in the back of my hoodie, her sobs quieting to shaky little gasps. I can feel her tears seeping through the fabric of my shirt, hot and wet against my skin. The alley is so dark I can barely see her face, but I can feel every single inch of her pressed against me, every soft curve, every shaky breath, every beat of her fast, furious heart. I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do now. Coach will kill me. The team will never let me live it down. I’m Xander Cole, hockey captain, the guy who fucks and leaves, who never gets involved, who never stays to clean up the mess—and here I am, standing in a dark alley with his daughter over my shoulder, my arm burning where she scratched me, my chest tight with a guilt I can’t name, and a want so dark and deep it scares me a little.
She shifts against me, her hand fumbling in her pocket, and a second later I hear the familiar click of her phone unlocking. She taps the screen a few times, hard and angry, and then holds it down by my face, the bright screen blinding me in the dark.
The notes app is open. One line, typed in all caps, the cursor blinking at the end like it’s waiting for me to say something:
PUT ME THE FUCK DOWN BEFORE I BITE YOUR EAR OFF.
I stare at the words for a long second, the cold air stinging my cheeks, the weight of her warm against my shoulder, the faint smell of vanilla still clogging my throat. Somewhere down the street a car backfires. The neon sign buzzes. And for the first time in my entire life, I don’t have a smart, cocky, stupid line to say.
I just stand there, in the dark, holding Millie Hale over my shoulder, and I know—deep in my bones, in the scar tissue on my knuckles, in the empty space where my dad used to be—that this is the moment everything changes. And I have no fucking idea if I’m ready for it.
