Chapter 3 003

Skylar POV

The hockey arena sat at the edge of campus like a sleeping beast. Concrete walls, blue and silver banners flapping wetly in the rain, the distant thump of music leaking from inside. Students streamed toward the entrance in packs, wearing school colors and waving foam fingers. I walked alone, hands shoved in my jacket pockets, wishing I had stayed home.

Maya had offered to come. I told her no. This was something I needed to do by myself—like ripping off a Band-Aid. Show up. Let my dad know I went. Leave.

Simple.

Inside, the arena was loud and cold. The ice gleamed under the harsh lights, smooth as glass. Bleachers rose on both sides, already packed with students, families, and alumni. The air smelled of popcorn, sweat, and the sharp chemical bite of the rink. I found a seat near the top, as far from the crowd as I could get, pulled out my anatomy textbook, and balanced it on my lap. If I was going to be here, I might as well study.

The teams skated out for warm-ups. I didn’t look up. I highlighted a paragraph about the cardiovascular system and tried to ignore the roar of the crowd.

Then the announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers.

“Your Hartwell Huskies! Led by captain, number seventeen, Damon Cole!”

The name hit me like a slap. I looked up.

He was hard to miss.

Damon Cole skated onto the ice like he was born there. Tall and broad-shouldered, dark hair peeking out from under his helmet. He moved with a controlled power that made the other players look clumsy. The crowd cheered. He raised his stick in a quick salute before launching into drills.

I hadn’t seen him in two years. At the wedding he had been sharp-edged and sullen, jaw tight, eyes hard. Now he looked older. Harder. There was a scar on his chin that hadn’t been there before. His shoulders seemed broader, his presence heavier.

He looked like a man, not the angry boy who had shared a cigarette with me behind the venue.

I forced my gaze back to the textbook. The words blurred.

The game started. I tried to focus on cardiovascular pathways and systemic circulation. I really did. But every time the crowd erupted, my eyes flicked upward. Every time the announcer called his name, my stomach tightened.

Damon played like a storm. He was everywhere—skating hard, checking opponents into the boards, stealing the puck. In the second period he scored a goal that brought the entire arena to its feet. The sound was deafening. I watched him skate past his teammates, accepting fist bumps, his face unreadable.

Then it happened.

An opponent slammed into him from behind. A cheap, dirty hit. The ref’s whistle shrieked, but Damon was already up, gloves off, helmet hitting the ice. He grabbed the other player by the jersey and threw a punch that connected with a crack I heard all the way up in the stands.

The arena exploded.

The fight was brutal and short. Damon landed three solid hits before the refs pulled them apart. Blood streamed from a cut above his eyebrow, running down his face in a thin red line. He didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were wild, blazing with something that looked like rage and felt like something else entirely.

The penalty box door slammed shut behind him.

He sat down hard, chest heaving, blood dripping onto his jersey. The cut was deep; I could see it from my seat, a dark gash against his skin. He didn’t press a towel to it. He just sat there, breathing, staring out at the ice as if he wanted to tear it apart with his bare hands.

And then his head turned.

His eyes found mine.

I don’t know how he saw me. I was near the top, surrounded by hundreds of people, half-hidden behind a textbook. But his gaze cut through the crowd and locked onto me like a heat-seeking missile. His eyes were dark, almost black under the harsh lights. The blood kept running. He didn’t blink.

Neither did I.

Something moved in my chest—a strange, fluttering sensation, like a bird beating its wings against my ribs. My skin felt too hot. My pulse hammered in my throat. I gripped the textbook so hard the pages crumpled under my fingers.

I told myself it was fear. Adrenaline. The shock of seeing him like this—violent and bleeding—when the last time I’d seen him he was just a bitter teenager in a too-tight suit.

But it wasn’t fear.

It felt like recognition. Like my body knew something my mind didn’t.

The referee’s whistle blew. The penalty was over. Damon stood, grabbed his stick, and skated back onto the ice without wiping the blood from his face. He didn’t look at me again.

I stayed for the rest of the game. I don’t know why. The textbook sat forgotten on my lap. The Huskies won four to two. The crowd cheered. The players filed off the ice.

I should have gone home.

Instead I found myself walking down the concrete stairs toward the locker-room hallway. I told myself I was just going to say hello. Our parents would want me to. A quick wave, a polite smile, then I could leave with a clear conscience.

The hallway was crowded with players’ families, girlfriends, and reporters. I stood near the wall, out of the way, and waited.

The locker-room door opened. Players trickled out, sweaty and exhausted, greeted by hugs and slaps on the back. I watched for Damon. When he finally appeared, my breath caught.

He had a bandage over his eyebrow now. The blood was cleaned away. His hair was wet from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. He wore a dark jacket and had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. He looked tired—like he hadn’t slept in days.

He saw me.

The hallway was packed, but his eyes went straight to me as if I were the only person there. He stopped walking. The player behind him nearly bumped into him.

“Cole, what the—oh.” The guy followed his gaze and saw me. “Who’s that?”

Damon didn’t answer. He started walking again, straight toward me. People moved out of his way without seeming to realize they were doing it. He stopped a foot away, close enough that I could smell his soap—something woodsy and sharp.

“Skylar.”

His voice was deeper than I remembered. Rougher.

“Hey,” I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. “Good game. Our parents made me promise I’d come.”

“Did they.”

“Dad called me three times.”

He didn’t smile. His eyes stayed on my face, intense and unreadable. I felt like I was being studied, catalogued, filed away. I clutched the textbook to my chest like a shield.

“You’re bleeding again,” I said.

He touched the bandage. His fingers came away with a smear of fresh red. “It’s nothing.”

“It’s still bleeding. That means it’s not nothing.”

I don’t know why I said it. I don’t know why I reached into my bag and pulled out the small first-aid kit I always carried—nursing student habit. I took out an antiseptic wipe and a fresh bandage.

Damon watched me with that same unreadable expression. “You carry that around?”

“I’m a nursing major. It’s basically a personality trait.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Not quite amusement. But close.

I handed him the wipe. Our fingers brushed.

The contact was small—fingertips against fingertips, barely a second.

Heat shot up my arm like I’d touched a live wire. My skin tingled. My pulse jumped. I jerked my hand back, and the wipe fell to the floor between us.

Neither of us picked it up.

Damon’s jaw tightened. His nostrils flared slightly, as if he were scenting the air. His eyes seemed darker now, pupils blown wide despite the bright fluorescent lights.

“Skylar.” He said my name differently this time. Slower. Like he was tasting it.

“I should go.” The words tumbled out. “I have a test tomorrow. I just wanted to say hi. So… hi.”

I turned and walked away fast. I didn’t look back. I pushed through the exit doors and out into the cold night air. The rain had stopped. The pavement was wet and gleaming under the streetlights.

I stood there, breathing hard, heart pounding for reasons I didn’t understand.

What was that?

Nothing. It was nothing. I was tired and stressed, and my imagination was running wild.

I walked home with my hands shaking in my pockets.

That night I dreamed of a creature I didn’t recognize.

It ran through moonlit woods—running toward something. Running toward me.

I woke at three in the morning, gasping, skin slick with sweat. The place where Damon’s fingers had touched mine still tingled like a bruise.

Something was wrong with me.

Something was changing.

And I didn’t know how to stop it.