Chapter 2 THE MISSING GLOVE

CHLOE'S POV

“By the blood of the earth and the light of the mind, open the door to the wisdom I…”

BRRRRRRRRING!

A sharp, ear-splitting bell blasted through the dorm hallway, cutting my chant right down the middle.

I flinched hard, blowing out a lungful of air as the purple flame on the candles flickered out with a tiny, miserable puff of gray smoke.

“Yes! Game time!” Sienna squealed from her bed.

Before I could even curse, she scrambled off her mattress, ran over, and grabbed both of my arms, violently dragging me up from the rug.

“Come on, Chlo! Up, up, up! We’re going to be late!”

I snatched my hands back, smoothing down my cropped top and glaring at her like she’d just handed me a glass of poison.

“Are you out of your mind? I am not going to sit on cold metal bleachers to watch some stupid sport,” I snapped, waving a hand toward my open textbook on the desk. “I’d literally rather sit here and stare at this damn book all night.”

“It’s not just any sport, Chloe! It’s hockey!” Sienna cheered, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she’d just consumed five espresso shots. “And Ethan will definitely be on the ice tonight. Plus, they’re playing against the Warlocks’ team today! It is going to be absolutely lit.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost saw the back of my brain. “I don’t care, Sienna. Wolves hitting a tiny rubber puck around ice sounds like my personal version of hell.”

“Well, I am not going alone. Hell no!” Sienna grabbed my oversized designer coat off the chair and shoved it directly into my chest. “Throw on a coat and let’s go. Besides, you know sports attendance counts toward general campus involvement. It might actually add a little bit of extra credit to your already absurdly low grade.”

I froze, holding the coat against my chest. My jaw twitched.

“That is low,” I muttered, shoving my arms through the soft sleeves of the coat. “Gosh, I hate you, Si.”

Sienna blew me a kiss, swinging our dorm room door wide open. “I love you more, bitch! Now move your pretty legs!”

We stepped out into the chilly night air, joining a small stream of students all heading down the cobblestone path toward the Silverwood Arena. As we turned the corner near the athlete entrance, a group of massive guys in black athletic gear came marching out.

Right at the front was Ethan Silver.

He was in full gear minus his helmet, his jaw tight, his dark eyes focused entirely on the ground ahead of him. He looked terrifyingly cold, like he was about to step onto the ice and fight a war instead of play a game.

As he walked past us, his heavy wooden hockey stick swung slightly to the side, tapping hard against my thigh.

I stumbled back a step, catching my balance. Ethan didn't even flinch, didn't slow down, and didn't look back. He just kept walking, his broad back disappearing through the double doors.

“OMG!” Sienna squealed under her breath, clutching my forearm so tight her nails dug through my coat. “Did you see him?! He’s so intensely focused!”

Didn't he fucking know he hit me?! I yelled in my head, glaring at the back of his head. Zero manners. Absolute barbarian.

“Come on, let’s get close to the glass!” Sienna yelled over the noise of the crowd.

She grabbed my hand and dragged me through the narrow arena doors. The place was packed to the brim. Screaming students, mostly girls wearing silver face paint, were crammed into the bleachers. The cold air hit my face instantly, smelling heavily of ice, melted snow, cheap popcorn, and way too much body spray.

We shoved our way through the loud, cheering crowd until we finally squeezed into two spots in the third row, right near the penalty box.

I let out a harsh sigh, pulling my coat tighter around myself. “Honestly, giving perfumes out at the entrance might actually be a good thing for this school. These people stink.”

Sienna didn't even bother replying. She was already glued to the glass, her eyes wide as she scanned the white ice rink below.

The cold air was making my shoulders shiver, so I reached up to pull my heavy coat further over my neck. It had shifted off my shoulders from pushing through the packed crowd. As my fingers slid down the smooth fabric, I felt something thick, heavy, and bulky stuck to the left side of my torso.

“What the hell?” I muttered.

I reached down and pulled at it. It didn't fall off easily, the thick, industrial Velcro adhesive strip on the edge had snagged hard into the soft wool of my designer coat. I yanked it loose with a loud rip, holding it up to the harsh arena lights.

It was a heavy, black-and-silver padded hockey glove.

I blinked at it in total confusion. “Whose trash is this?”

I turned the glove over in my hands, looking for a tag, a sharpie name, or literally any clue as to who it belonged to, but there was nothing on it except a faint smell of mint leather and cedarwood.

“Whatever,” I grumbled, tossing the heavy glove onto the empty metal seat right next to me.

FWIIIIIIT!

The referee’s sharp whistle blasted through the arena, and the crowd erupted into a deafening roar. The game had officially started. Players slammed into the glass walls, ice sprayed into the air, and sticks clacked loudly against the hard rubber puck.

I didn't care. I pulled my phone out of my handbag, tilted the screen away from the bright ice, and opened Instagram, scrolling through fresh nail art ideas.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. The crowd screamed every time a wolf checked a warlock into the boards, but I kept my thumb flying across my screen.

Beside me, Sienna suddenly stopped cheering. She leaned forward, pressing her hands against the cold glass, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“Huh...” Sienna whispered, her voice barely carrying over the noise. “That’s weird.”

“What’s weird?” I asked without looking up from a video of a French tip tutorial.

“Ethan,” Sienna said, pointing down toward the ice. “Why does Ethan have just one glove on?”

I scoffed, my thumb still scrolling. “He’s probably just trying to show off or whatever. You know how guys like him are.”

“No, Chlo, look,” Sienna insisted, nudging my arm. “He’s playing with his left hand completely bare. His right hand has his black wolf glove, but his left hand is just bare skin holding the stick.”

My thumb froze on my screen.

His left hand.

My brain suddenly clicked into overdrive, piecing together the last twenty minutes like a row of falling dominoes.

Ethan had brushed right past me in the hallway. His heavy stick had hit my leg. I found a heavy black-and-silver hockey glove stuck to the Velcro on my coat. And Ethan was currently out on the ice, playing a brutal game with only one glove.

Slowly, I turned my head to look at the empty seat beside me, staring down at the solitary black glove sitting on the cold metal.

My heart did a strange, sudden flutter in my chest.

Oh, fuck.

It was Ethan’s glove.