CHAPTER 1: “Spill Something Sweet”
Game nights feel like standing in the throat of something alive.
The arena doesn’t breathe right. It roars, it chokes, it swallows people whole and spits them back out louder, drunker, meaner. By the time the first puck hits the ice, the concession stand is already drowning.
“Two pretzels!”
“Three sodas!”
“Nachos, extra cheese!”
“Hey—HEY—miss—!”
I don’t look up unless I have to.
My hands move faster than my brain. Cup, ice, soda. Pretzel, salt, wrap. Swipe card, hand receipt, next. It’s muscle memory now, the kind that settles into your bones when you don’t have time to think about how tired you are.
The fryer hisses like it’s pissed off. The soda machine leaks. Someone dropped a whole tray of popcorn five minutes ago and it’s still stuck to the floor in a sad, buttery graveyard.
And the noise—God.
It bleeds through everything. The crowd screaming, skates carving ice somewhere beyond the concrete, whistles, horns, music that never quite lines up with anything. It presses into my skull until my thoughts feel thin and stretched.
I hate it.
I need it.
Because this is what pays for ice time.
This is what keeps the lights on.
This is what keeps Lou in school with lunches that aren’t just whatever I can throw together.
So I keep moving.
“Miss, can you hurry up?”
I slide a drink across the counter without looking at him. “You’ll survive the wait.”
He doesn’t like that. I can hear it in the silence that follows. Good.
Next.
The line curls around the corner, restless and loud. Oakwood colors everywhere. Jerseys, face paint, people acting like this game is life or death instead of twenty guys chasing a puck.
The Oakwood team has a name people chant like it means something sacred.
The Oakwood Vipers.
Fast. Aggressive. Built to strike.
Fitting.
They win a lot. That’s what people care about.
And tonight? It’s a home game.
Which means the crowd is worse. Louder. Closer to feral.
“Lila, we’re out of lids!”
“I grabbed more ten minutes ago.”
“Well, we’re out again!”
Of course we are.
I duck under the counter, grab another sleeve, pop back up without missing the rhythm. My fingers are sticky. My back aches. I haven’t eaten since… yesterday? Maybe.
Doesn’t matter.
A whistle screams from the rink. The crowd erupts so loud the counter vibrates under my hands.
Goal.
I don’t look.
I don’t care.
“FOUR BEERS!”
Wrong stand, idiot.
“Next,” I say flatly.
People surge forward like the line might collapse into itself if they hesitate. It’s all motion. All pressure. No space to breathe.
And then—
The line shifts.
Not forward.
Sideways.
Like something just cut through it.
I feel it before I see it. That subtle change, the way people go quiet for half a second, the way bodies move out of the way instead of pushing forward.
I look up.
And there he is.
Tall enough to block out the light behind him. Broad shoulders, dark hoodie, Oakwood Vipers logo stamped across his chest like a warning. Hair damp like he just came off the ice or the locker room, I don’t know, I don’t care.
But I know who he is.
Everyone does.
Nikolai Sokolov.
Kolya.
The golden boy. The captain. The reason half this crowd is screaming themselves hoarse.
He doesn’t even glance at the line he just walked through.
Doesn’t apologize.
Doesn’t hesitate.
He just steps up to the counter like the rest of the world rearranges itself for him.
And the worst part?
It does.
No one says anything.
No one complains.
They just let him.
Like it’s normal.
Like he’s allowed.
His eyes flick to me for half a second. Dark. Sharp. Already bored.
“Coke,” he says, accent thick, voice low. “No ice.”
Not a question.
Not even a full sentence.
Just expectation.
Something in my chest tightens. Not fear.
Something sharper.
The girl next to me freezes like she’s been blessed by his presence or something equally pathetic.
I don’t.
I stare at him.
Then at the line behind him.
Then back at him.
“You skipped,” I say.
It comes out flat. Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just… there.
A few people in line shift uncomfortably.
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s not used to being spoken to like that. Like he’s trying to decide if I’m stupid or just not worth the effort.
“I am in hurry,” he replies.
Cool.
I’m not.
“Get in line,” I say.
Silence.
Actual, real silence in the middle of this chaos.
For a second, the world pauses just enough to notice.
His jaw tightens. Barely. Most people wouldn’t catch it.
I do.
Because I’m already watching him like he’s a problem I haven’t decided how to solve yet.
“You know who I am?” he asks.
There it is.
I shrug. “Guy who can’t wait his turn.”
A couple people behind him snort before immediately pretending they didn’t.
His eyes darken, something colder slipping in.
And for a second—just a second—I think he might actually step back.
He doesn’t.
Of course he doesn’t.
He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the counter like he owns it.
“Coke,” he repeats, slower this time. “No ice.”
Like I didn’t understand him the first time.
Like I’m the problem.
Fine.
You want a Coke?
I smile.
Sweet. Polite. Perfect.
The kind of smile people trust.
I grab a cup.
Fill it.
No ice.
Exactly what he asked for.
I even put a lid on it.
Slide it across the counter, right into his hand.
Our fingers don’t touch.
Good.
For half a second, it looks like that’s it.
Transaction done. World continues. He walks away like he always does.
But something in me—something small and sharp and so tired of being stepped over—refuses to let it end like that.
So when he lifts the cup—
I reach forward.
And shove it.
Hard.
Soda explodes up into his face. Dark liquid, sticky and cold, dripping down his hair, his hoodie, his jaw.
The crowd behind him gasps.
Someone laughs.
Loud.
Phones come up like reflex.
And for the first time since he walked up to my counter—
Nikolai Sokolov looks at me like I’m not invisible.
Like I’m not small.
Like I’m not something he can just move past.
His expression doesn’t explode.
It freezes.
Shock first.
Then something slower.
Darker.
More dangerous.
I don’t flinch.
My heart is pounding so hard it feels like it might crack my ribs, but my face stays calm, my hands steady against the counter.
“You missed the line,” I tell him quietly.
The arena roars again in the background, completely unaware that something just shifted.
Because this?
This is the moment everything tilts.
And I just threw the first hit.
