Chapter 1
The cold crept in before the snow.
Ember Lake sat in the driver’s seat of her dusty SUV, staring through the windshield at the familiar “Welcome to Ember Hollow” sign half-buried in a snowbank. The wooden planks were chipped, the paint faded, but the carved figure of a skating girl still stood proudly at the top. Once upon a time, that had been her silhouette.
The engine idled as if reluctant to continue. She didn’t blame it.
She hadn’t been back to this town in nearly ten years. And now here she was, dragging her tired body and heavier heart back to the one place she’d promised herself she would never return to. But Gran had fallen—literally, a slip on black ice while collecting firewood—and Ember’s mother had guilt-tripped her into coming home, just for a few weeks.
“Just until she’s back on her feet,” her mother had said over the phone. “She misses you, Ember.”
They all missed her, except maybe the ice.
With a sigh, Ember shifted the gear into drive and rolled into town. Ember Hollow hadn’t changed much. The snowbanks still towered above the sidewalks, icicles dangled dangerously from rooftops, and the town square had already transformed into its usual winter wonderland—twinkling lights, wreaths, and the scent of pine wafting through the air. Nostalgia curled in her chest like smoke from a chimney, warm and choking all at once.
She passed the old bookstore, the diner where she used to sneak in for late-night pancakes, and finally, the place she avoided looking at: The Ember Rink.
It stood like a memory she hadn’t yet forgiven. The boards looked older, the neon sign buzzed weakly above the entrance, and the large mural of ice skaters on the side wall had peeled badly over the years. Still, it stood—stubborn and undefeated, like the town itself.
Her grip tightened on the wheel. She didn’t slow down.
Gran’s house smelled like cinnamon, old books, and the faint medicinal trace of menthol cream. The familiar scent hit Ember the second she walked through the door, snow-damp boots squeaking on the hardwood.
“Is that my girl?” called a voice from the living room.
“I hope you mean me,” Ember called back, dropping her bags by the door.
A moment later, her grandmother appeared in the hallway, leaning heavily on a floral cane, her white hair tucked into a bun as usual. “Who else would I mean? Come here.”
Ember stepped into her arms gently, mindful of the brace still on Gran’s leg. “You look good for someone who claims she slipped off a porch step.”
“I did slip,” Gran huffed. “I just didn’t bounce like I used to.”
Ember chuckled and kissed her cheek. “You could’ve just told me you missed me. Faking an injury is a bit extreme.”
“I didn’t fake it. But I won’t deny it worked.”
They settled into the kitchen where Gran made tea, shooing Ember away from the stove despite her protests. “I may be injured, not dead,” she said. “Besides, you just got here. Let me fuss over you.”
Ember leaned against the counter and watched her grandmother work. Her heart softened. It was easy to forget how much she’d missed this—quiet warmth, the sound of snow tapping against windows, a kitchen that always smelled like comfort.
“So,” Gran said as she poured water into mugs, “what are you going to do with yourself while you’re here?”
“Hide from the townspeople. Catch up on Netflix. Avoid all contact with anything that glides on metal.”
Gran gave her a pointed look. “You know they’re looking for a new instructor down at the rink.”
“Nope.”
“They’re desperate. Marlene broke her wrist last week teaching the Sunday kids’ class.”
“Still nope.”
Gran smiled into her tea. “You loved it once.”
“I loved a lot of things once,” Ember said softly, taking her cup. “Doesn’t mean I want them back.”
Gran didn’t argue, but her silence was the kind that lingered, full of quiet hope and motherly manipulation.
Three days later, Ember found herself at the rink.
Not by choice, of course. She’d meant to stop by the market, but the parking lot was full, so she detoured through town and accidentally drove past it. Then, as if guided by some twisted force of fate, her car decided to stutter and cough—then die completely—right outside the rink’s parking lot.
She cursed, tried the ignition again, and got nothing but a wheeze.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The tow truck was on its way, but the dispatcher said it’d be at least an hour. She stared at the rink’s glass doors and scowled. Might as well wait inside out of the cold. She wasn’t going to skate. Just sit. Maybe judge whoever was brave enough to be on the ice in the middle of the afternoon.
The familiar chill of the rink greeted her as she stepped inside, mingled with the sharper scent of Zamboni fluid and old popcorn. For a moment, she stood there, transported—hearing echoes of music, blades carving ice, the sound of applause.
“Can I help you?”
Ember turned toward the voice. A tall man leaned against the front counter, clipboard in hand. He wore a dark jacket with a team logo she didn’t recognize, and a scowl that looked permanently etched into his face.
“I’m just… waiting,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Not here for open skate?”
“God, no.”
“Shame. You look like you could use it.”
She narrowed her eyes. “And you look like you could use a personality.”
He chuckled. “Touché.”
There was a beat of silence. Then he said, “You’re Ember Lake, right?”
Her stomach tightened. “Depends who’s asking.”
“Jackson Cole. I coach the Hollow Hawks now. Local minor league team.”
“Never heard of them.”
“You wouldn’t. We’re last in the league.”
“Well, that’s… honest.”
He gave a tired smile. “That’s hockey.”
Something about his tone softened her irritation. She glanced at the rink. A handful of kids were skating awkwardly, a young coach trying desperately to get them into formation. They looked like baby deer on ice—wobbly, wide-eyed, and enthusiastic.
Jackson followed her gaze. “That’s supposed to be our development group. But most of them can’t even stop without hitting a wall.”
Ember smirked. “Yeah, I noticed.”
“We need help.”
“Good luck with that.”
He turned to her, eyes sharp and direct. “You used to teach, didn’t you? After you retired.”
Ember stiffened. “I don’t do that anymore.”
“Why not?”
She met his gaze with a practiced, icy stare. “Because the last time I was on the ice, I fell in front of a national audience and shattered my ankle.”
He didn’t flinch. “Yeah. But that wasn’t the last time you taught.”
She hated that he knew. Hated that anyone still remembered.
“I’m not interested,” she said, turning toward the exit.
“Think about it,” he called after her. “Skating doesn’t stop being part of you just because it broke you once.”
Back in her car—after the tow truck jump-started it—Ember couldn’t get Jackson’s words out of her head.
Skating doesn’t stop being part of you just because it broke you once.
She drove away, but her hands itched the whole time. Not for Netflix. Not for tea. For the feel of blades beneath her feet and the rush of wind in her hair.
She told herself it didn’t mean anything.
But the next morning, she found herself lacing up her skates
