Chapter 2

Emma's POV

The driver was a middle-aged guy who didn't try to make conversation, which I appreciated. I spent the thirty-minute ride staring out the window, watching the city change around us. We passed through commercial districts with their identical chain restaurants, then residential neighborhoods where the houses got bigger and the yards got greener. The buildings started to spread out, and suddenly I could see more sky, more of those insane mountains in the distance. They'd been visible from the airport, but now they felt closer, more real.

When we turned onto the main campus drive, I saw them.

Banners. Everywhere. Hanging from every lamppost, ice blue fabric with a snarling white wolf head in the center. The same logo repeated on building sides, on benches, on what looked like every available surface.

"Big hockey school," the driver commented, catching me staring in the rearview mirror.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm starting to get that impression."

He dropped me off exactly where Victoria said—right in front of a brick building with a sign that read "Campus Safety." I hauled my suitcases inside, my arms already aching, and found a bored-looking student worker at the desk. He was maybe nineteen, scrolling through his phone.

"Can I store these here for a bit?" I asked, gesturing at my bags. "I need to find someone."

He barely looked up. "Sure. Sign here."

I scribbled my name on his clipboard and dragged my bags behind the counter. When I stepped back outside, I heard them.

A cluster of girls, maybe five or six, walking past the safety building. They were all staring at their phones and talking over each other, voices high and excited.

"Did you see the PuckTok video from this morning?" one of them said. She had long dark hair and was wearing a Frost Wolves jersey. "Caleb's one-timer was fucking insane."

"I'm telling you, he's going first round in the draft," another girl responded. This one was blonde, shorter. "The Avalanche would be stupid not to take him. He's going to make them so much money."

"Forget hockey." A third girl laughed. "Did you see him at Tyler's party last weekend? That man is walking sex. I would let him do unspeakable things to me."

They dissolved into giggles, and I stood there on the sidewalk processing what I'd just heard.

Caleb. They were talking about Caleb. My Caleb. Except he wasn't my anything—he was just the asshole who'd left me stranded at the airport.

But apparently he was also some kind of campus god.

The girls were still walking, and I realized they were heading toward a large building at the edge of campus. I followed them, keeping enough distance that it didn't look weird.

The hockey arena was massive. All glass and steel, with "FROST WOLVES HOCKEY" written across the front in letters that had to be three feet tall. I pulled open one of the heavy glass doors and stepped inside.

The temperature dropped immediately. Cold air hit my face, sharp and biting, carrying the smell of ice and rubber and sweat. The rink stretched out in front of me, blindingly white under massive overhead lights. Bleachers rose up on either side, mostly empty except for scattered groups of people with cameras and phones pointed at the ice.

Everyone was watching the same thing.

I found myself watching too.

There were maybe fifteen players out there, running drills. They moved fast, their skates cutting sharp lines across the ice, the sound of it echoing through the arena. A coach was yelling from the bench, his voice bouncing off the walls.

But my eyes kept getting pulled to one player.

Number nine.

He took a pass from another player—smooth, no hesitation—and spun so fast it looked effortless. Then he fired the puck at the goal. It went in so hard and fast the goalie didn't even move. Just stood there. The sound of it hitting the back of the net cracked through the air like a gunshot.

"Fuck yeah!" someone shouted from the bench.

The player skated backward, and I could see him clearly now.

Tall. Probably over six feet, maybe six-two. Broad shoulders that filled out his jersey, the fabric dark with sweat and clinging to his chest. His legs were pure muscle, thick thighs pushing him across the ice. Dark brown hair stuck out from under his helmet, messy and damp.

And his eyes—even from this distance I could see them. Ice blue. Focused. Intense in a way that made something twist in my chest.

My heart did this stupid flutter thing in my chest.

I thought, Wow, number nine is really...

Then he turned, and I saw the name on his back.

CLAFFEY.

Everything in my chest went cold.

That was Caleb. The guy who'd ditched me at the airport. The guy who'd spent four years treating me like I'd personally ruined his life. The guy I was supposed to be living with for the next year.

And I'd just been—

No. Absolutely not. Not happening.

I looked away, forcing myself to focus on anything else. The coach was still yelling instructions. Other players were running passing drills. A few people in the stands were filming on their phones, probably for more TikTok videos.

No one was paying attention to me.

I scanned the arena, looking for someone—anyone—I could ask. But there was no one at the entrance desk. No staff visible anywhere. Just the coach and the players on the ice, and the scattered fans in the stands who were way too absorbed in filming to notice me.

I could wait until practice ended, but who knew how long that would take? And then I'd have to approach Caleb in front of all these people, with their cameras, and have some awkward conversation where he'd probably ignore me or make some comment about the hockey stick, and—

My eyes landed on a door on the far side of the arena, half-hidden behind the bleachers.

A sign: "PLAYERS ONLY."

His stuff had to be in the locker room, right? And if his stuff was there, his keys were probably there too.

I glanced at my phone. Battery at fifteen percent. My legs were aching from dragging those suitcases around, and my head was starting to pound from the altitude or the stress or both. I could stand here like an idiot waiting for practice to end—which could be another hour for all I knew—or I could just... look. Just peek inside. If I saw his bag, I'd grab the key and leave a note. If not, I'd walk right back out. Thirty seconds, tops.

It was stupid. Definitely stupid.

I looked around one more time. Everyone's attention was still locked on the ice. The coach was gesturing wildly, demonstrating something. The players were regrouping for another drill.

No one was watching the door.

I took a breath and started walking, keeping my steps casual, like I had every right to be there. My hand closed around the cold metal handle. I could feel my pulse in my fingertips, fast and hard.

One more breath.

Then I pushed the door open and stepped inside.