Chapter 1
Kylie
If you asked anyone at Westfield High who had the most perfect life, they’d probably say my name without even thinking.
Which is funny, because I never actually remember volunteering for that job.
By seven-thirty a.m., my day already looks like a résumé.
Student council meeting.
Cheer practice.
AP Calc quiz.
Valedictorian speech edits.
Game night tonight.
And, of course—girlfriend of Myles Anderson.
Like it’s an extracurricular.
The hallway smells like lemon cleaner and burnt coffee when I push through the front doors, the fluorescent lights already buzzing overhead. My white cheer sneakers squeak against the tile as I walk, and at least three people call my name before I even make it to my locker.
“Ky! You coming to early practice?”
“Don’t forget the banners!”
“You’re still tutoring after school, right?”
I smile automatically. I’m good at smiling automatically.
“Yeah.”
“Got it.”
“Of course.”
My cheeks hurt before first period even starts.
Westfield is big on traditions, and apparently I’m one of them.
Head cheerleader. Straight A’s. Never been to a party that got busted. Never missed curfew. Never dated the wrong guy.
Especially not the wrong guy.
Because the right one is currently leaning against my locker like he stepped straight out of a teen movie.
Myles Anderson.
Letterman jacket. Perfect hair. That easy, politician smile he’s been practicing since middle school. He looks like the kind of guy colleges put on brochures.
Senior class president. Hockey star. Future business major. My mom calls him “such a nice young man” like he’s already running for office.
He pushes off the locker when he sees me and wraps an arm around my waist like it belongs there.
Like I belong there.
“Morning, Valedictorian,” he says, kissing my temple.
I laugh. “You don’t even know that yet.”
He shrugs. “Please. You were born knowing that.”
Compliments roll off him so smoothly they almost sound rehearsed. Maybe they are.
He smells like his stupidly expensive cologne. Cedarwood. Clean. Safe.
Everyone watches us when we walk down the hall together. Not staring exactly — just noticing. Like we’re the school mascot or something.
Westfield’s golden couple.
It’s been that way since eighth grade. Back when he passed me a folded note in science that said:
Do you want to go out with me or are you going to break my heart? Check one.
I checked yes. I always check yes.
“So,” he says, squeezing my hip lightly, “big game tonight. Peters is starting. Should be fun watching him choke.”
I roll my eyes automatically. “Do you ever talk about him without sounding personally offended by his existence?”
“He is personally offensive,” Myles says. “Guy thinks he’s God’s gift to hockey.”
“Maybe he’s just good,” I tease.
Myles stops walking. Just for a second. It’s small. Most people wouldn’t notice. But his hand tightens a little.
“Trust me,” he says, smile still there but thinner now, “you don’t want anything to do with Colsten Peters.”
Like it’s a warning. Not a joke.
I nod because that’s the right answer. “Obviously.”
I’ve never actually talked to Cole Peters. Not once. But I’ve been told I hate him for years. So I do. That’s how this works. You inherit enemies the same way you inherit last names.
We reach my first period door and Myles leans down to kiss me properly this time. Slow. Possessive. The kind of kiss that makes people look away.
“See you at the game,” he says. “Wear my jersey tonight, yeah?”
I smile. “When do I not?”
He grins like he’s already won something. Like I’m a trophy he gets to carry around.And I don’t know why—but for the first time in five years—the thought makes my stomach twist just a little. Like something isn’t sitting right. Like maybe perfect isn’t the same thing as happy.
I shake it off. Because that’s ridiculous. My life is fine. Great, actually. Perfect. Nothing is about to fall apart. Right?
Game nights at Westfield feel less like sporting events and more like small-town holidays.
By six-thirty, the whole house smells like hairspray and popcorn.
Mom’s yelling from downstairs that we’re going to be late even though we’re never late. Dad’s already wearing his Westfield Hockey sweatshirt like he personally trained the team. And I’m standing in front of my mirror, holding Myles’s jersey like it weighs more than it should.
White. Blue numbers. ANDERSON across the back.
Number ten.
I’ve worn this thing so many times it practically counts as a second uniform. It should feel comforting. Familiar. Instead, I just stare at it for a second too long.
“You’re dissociating over fabric,” Aria says from my bed.
I glance back. She’s sprawled across my comforter, halfway through a bag of Sour Patch Kids, watching me like I’m a reality show.
“What?” I say.
“You’ve been holding that jersey for, like, a full minute. Either put it on or propose to it.”
I snort. “Shut up.”
Aria Bennett: best friend since kindergarten, professional instigator, the only person on earth who calls me out on literally anything.
If I’m the golden retriever of Westfield High, she’s the feral cat.
Black eyeliner. Ripped jeans. Zero fear.
She eyes the jersey. “Still wild to me that you have to dress like his merch.”
“It’s supportive,” I say automatically.
“It’s branding,” she counters.
I throw a sock at her.
But the word sticks. Branding. Like I’m advertising him. Like people see the number before they see me.
I shake it off and tug the jersey over my head anyway. It falls past my jean clad thighs, sleeves too long like always. It smells faintly like his cologne and laundry detergent.
There. Perfect girlfriend costume: complete.
Aria softens a little when she looks at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
She gives me a look that says you’re too chirpy. “I don’t know. You’ve just seemed… tense lately.”
“I’m fine,” I say, smiling again. Automatic. Always automatic. “Let’s go before my dad sends a search party.”
The rink is already packed when we get there. Cold air. Bright lights. The scrape of skates on ice echoing off the walls. The whole place hums with energy. Westfield blue everywhere. Signs. Face paint. Foam fingers. It feels like being inside a soda can someone just shook.
Aria and I squeeze into the student section, and immediately someone yells, “KY! ANDERSON’S GIRLFRIEND’S HERE!”
A few people cheer like I’m part of the roster.
I wave awkwardly.
Trophy. Mascot. Girlfriend. Same difference.
The teams skate out a minute later.
Westfield first — everyone screaming. Then the visitors.
Black jerseys. Red trim. Peters’ number at the front of the line. Even if you didn’t know who he was, you’d know.
Colsten Peters doesn’t skate onto the ice like everyone else. He owns it. Tall. Broad shoulders. Dark hair curling out from under his helmet. Moves like he’s not even trying and still faster than everyone. Effortless. Annoyingly effortless.
He taps sticks with his team, jaw set, eyes sharp. And then—he smirks. Right at our section. Like he already knows something we don’t.
Ugh.
I cross my arms. “God, he looks cocky.”
Aria leans forward. “That’s the rival captain, right?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Not gonna lie,” she says, squinting, “he’s kind of—”
“Don’t,” I warn.
She grins. “—hot.”
“Aria.”
“What? I have eyes. He looks like he’d ruin someone’s life in a fun way.”
I shove her shoulder, but heat creeps up my neck for absolutely no reason. Doesn’t matter. I hate him. By association. Always have.
The game is brutal.
Fast. Loud. Checking hard enough to rattle the glass.
Every time Myles scores, the crowd loses it. Every time Peters steals the puck, the visitor section explodes.
By the third period it’s tied.
And Myles looks… frustrated. Not focused. Frustrated. He keeps glancing at Peters like this is personal. Like winning isn’t enough—he needs Cole to lose.
Then, with thirty seconds left—
Breakaway.
Peters. Straight down the ice. Clean shot.
Goal.
Their side erupts. Our side goes dead quiet except for the awful red glow of the scoreboard.
Westfield: 3 Ridgeview: 4
Game over.
“No way,” Aria groans.
My stomach drops.
I hate losing. I hate that he looks happy about it more.
After the handshake line, things get tense fast. Players muttering. Shoving. Sticks hitting the ice harder than necessary.
I’m leaning over the railing when it happens.
Myles and Cole stop in front of each other. Too close. Talking. Definitely not friendly. Even from here, I can see Myles’s jaw ticking. Cole just looks amused. Like this is funny.
He says something I can’t hear. Myles snaps back. Then Cole laughs. Actually laughs. Slow. Smug. Infuriating.
He skates backward and calls out, loud enough for half the rink to hear—
“Scoreboard, Anderson.”
A few of his teammates whoop. Myles looks like he might punch him.
I feel that old, automatic anger rise.
God, I hate him. Such an arrogant jerk.
Then—Cole’s eyes flick up.
Toward the stands. Toward me. And they stop. Like he just noticed something unexpected. Not a glance. Not a scan. A full stop.
His gaze drags over me — the jersey, the number, my face — slow and deliberate. Like he’s actually seeing me. Not Myles’s girlfriend. Not the cheer captain.
Me.
My breath catches.
It’s weird. Unsettling.
No one ever looks at me like that. Like I’m a question he wants the answer to. He tilts his head slightly. Almost curious. Then—the smallest smirk.
Not mean. Not mocking.
Something else.
Something that makes my stomach flip in a way I absolutely refuse to analyze.
Aria leans into me. “Uh… rival captain is totally staring at you.”
“He’s not.”
“He absolutely is.”
I look away first. Because obviously. Because gross. Because he’s the enemy. Because I hate him. Right?
Still…walking out of the rink later, I can’t explain why it feels like something shifted tonight. Like a crack just formed somewhere I didn’t know existed. Like the universe quietly moved one piece on the board and I didn’t even notice.
Not yet.
By the time I get home, the house is quiet in that heavy, late-night way that makes everything feel smaller.
Dad’s asleep in the recliner with ESPN still murmuring. Mom left the kitchen light on for me like always.
I microwave leftover pasta, change into sweatpants, and sit cross-legged on my bed with my laptop open, half-focusing on calculus homework and half-replaying the game in my head.
The loss. Myles’s face. Cole laughing.
God, he was obnoxious.
That stupid smirk.
The way he looked at me after—I shake my head and scribble another problem.
Why am I even thinking about him?
My phone buzzes.
Myles ❤️
I smile automatically and answer on the second ring.
“Hey.”
“Hey, you,” he says, voice warm and easy. “Miss me already?”
“Obviously. Devastated, actually.”
He chuckles. There it is — the familiar rhythm. Comfortable. Scripted. Safe.
“You get home okay?” he asks.
“Yeah. You?”
“Coach kept us late. Film. Torture. The usual.”
I tuck my hair behind my ear and stare at the half-solved equation in front of me.
“So… what were you guys arguing about?” I ask.
“Who?”
“At the rink. You and Peters. It looked kind of intense.”
There’s a pause. Short. But noticeable.
Then he laughs. “Seriously? It was nothing, Ky.”
“Didn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s just Peters being Peters. Trash talk. Guy thinks he’s hilarious.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t tell me you’re defending him now,” he teases lightly.
“No. God. I just— it looked personal.”
“It’s always personal with him,” Myles says, sharper now. “He’s an ass. Don’t waste brain space on him.”
Something about the way he says it makes me feel stupid for even asking.
So I drop it. “Yeah. You’re right.”
I erase the thought like it never happened. Like I always do. There’s a beat of silence, then his tone shifts — softer.
“So… my parents are going out tomorrow night.”
“Yeah?”
“Anniversary dinner. They won’t be home till late.”
My stomach does a weird little flip. I know where this is going before he even says it.
“You should come over,” he adds. Casual. Too casual. “We could actually, you know… hang out without everyone around for once.”
“Oh.”
I stare at the blinking cursor on my laptop.My pulse suddenly feels too loud.
“We haven’t had alone time in forever,” he continues. “Just us. No curfews. No friends. No distractions.”
His voice drops a little. Suggestive.
My cheeks heat. “Myles…”
“What?” he says gently. “It’d be nice.”
I pick at the thread on my sleeve.
He’s not being mean. He never is. That’s what makes it hard.
“I just… I don’t know,” I say quietly.
“You don’t know what?”
“I’m not ready.”
Silence. Not angry. Just… confused.
“Ky,” he says, softer now, like he’s explaining something obvious, “we’ve been together five years.”
“I know.”
“I love you.”
“I know that too.”
“You love me.”
“I do.”
“So what’s the hold up?”
And there it is. Not pressure exactly. Just logic. Like we’re solving for X. Like this is math. Like the answer should be simple. Five years + love = next step.
My brain starts doing what it always does.
He’s right. It makes sense. People expect it. We’re basically the perfect couple. Isn’t this just… what happens? A box you check? Another milestone? Like prom. Graduation. College apps.
But something tightens in my chest.
Because when I picture it, it doesn’t feel romantic. It feels like performing. Like proving something. Like I’m handing over a trophy instead of a piece of myself. And I don’t know how to explain that without sounding ridiculous.
“I just…” I swallow. “I don’t want it to feel like something we’re supposed to do.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. I just want it to feel… right. Not scheduled.”
He exhales, quiet but frustrated. “I’m not scheduling you, Kylie.”
“I know. I just— maybe we could grab food instead? Or see a movie? Just hang out?”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “Maybe. I might actually have tutoring tomorrow night though. I forgot.”
“Oh. With who?”
“Just… someone from chem,” he says quickly. “It’s nothing. Coach wants our grades up.”
“Oh. Okay.”
He never says names. He never really has. I don’t know why that suddenly bothers me tonight.
It shouldn’t. He’s always helping people. That’s just Myles. Perfect. Responsible. Reliable. I’m being weird.
“Rain check then?” he says.
“Yeah,” I force a smile he can’t see. “Rain check.”
We say goodnight. I set my phone down. The room feels too quiet again. Too still.
I stare at my reflection in my dark laptop screen. Hair messy. Mascara smudged. Oversized jersey folded on my chair from earlier.
I should feel lucky. Everyone says I’m lucky. Perfect boyfriend. Perfect life. So why does it feel like I just failed some kind of test? Like I said the wrong answer? Like love shouldn’t feel like convincing yourself?
I close my laptop and turn off the light. But when I crawl into bed, my brain won’t shut up. And for some reason—completely out of nowhere—I think about the rink.
About the way Cole Peters looked at me like I wasn’t already decided. Like I wasn’t already claimed. Like I was something he hadn’t figured out yet. Like I was… interesting.
It’s stupid.
I roll over and bury my face in my pillow.
I hate him. Obviously.
Still. Sleep takes a lot longer than it should.
