Chapter 2 Welcome to hell

Ivy

The words landed like a slap.

For a second, the entire locker room seemed to hold its breath. Then a few of the guys chuckled, glancing between us like they’d just walked into the middle of an interesting movie. One of them—tall, broad, with a scar through his eyebrow muttered,

“Damn, Hayes. You know her?”

Asher’s smirk widened. He didn’t even glance at the guy. His eyes stayed locked on mine as he answered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Yeah, we went to the same high school. Remember the girl I told you about? The one who needed the church to pay her tuition?” He let out a low chuckle. “Turns out she cleaned up nice.”

Welcome to Northbridge, Ivy. You’ve got nice shoes by the way.”

Laughter exploded around me. Some of the guys slapped Asher on the back like he’d just told the funniest joke of the year. My stomach twisted so sharply I thought I might be sick.

For one humiliating second, I was sixteen again.

Flashback

The cafeteria had been packed that day. Every table was full, and every seat taken.

I remembered trying to squeeze through the crowd with my lunch tray, when someone bumped my shoulder from behind and the tray slipped.

The bowl of pasta sailed straight out of my hands and landed all over Asher Hayes.

The sauce splattered across his jersey, his lap, and the brand-new sneakers he’d been bragging about all week.

The entire cafeteria went silent.

“Oh my God.”

“Did she just do that?”

“Those shoes cost like eight hundred dollars.”

My heart had nearly stopped.

“I’m sorry,” I’d blurted immediately, trying to clean the mess with my napkin. “I didn’t mean to—someone pushed—”

“Sure.” Asher said as he moved away from me sharply.

“She’s been staring at those shoes for weeks.”

A few people snickered.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Come on,” another student said. “Everybody knows you're obsessed with expensive stuff because you couldn't afford one.”

I could still remember how hard my hands shook as every pair of eyes in the cafeteria had turned toward me.

Nobody seemed interested in hearing what actually happened, so I just kept my mouth shut, and my eyes glued to Asher.

Not because I thought he’d defend me.

But because I thought he’d at least understand me and tell them it was an accident.

Instead, he’d stared down at his ruined sneakers before letting out a short, humorless laugh.

One word from him could have ended it.

Just one.

Instead, he slowly untied the shoes.

Then slipped them off.

My stomach dropped.

“Asher…”

He ignored me.

“Here,” he’d said loudly, tossing them onto the floor in front of me. “You wanted them so badly, right? You can have them. But next time, you should beg for them instead of ruining them and making me hand them over to you easily.”

The cafeteria exploded with loud laughter as he walked away with his friends.

Through it all, I kept trying to speak, but the words were out of reach.

End of Flashback

I lifted my chin and met Asher’s gaze head-on, even as my hands trembled around the camera strap.

History wouldn't repeat itself a second time.

“I’m here to do a job, Asher,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “The university assigned me as the team’s photographer for the semester. So, I’d appreciate it if we could keep things professional.”

The laughter died down into scattered chuckles, but the damage was done. A few players exchanged looks, still amused.

Asher just raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained. “Professional,” he echoed, tasting the word. “Sure thing, Ivy.”

The door at the far end of the locker room banged open before I could respond. Coach Harlan strode in, clipboard in hand, Northbridge polo stretched across his broad chest. His sharp eyes swept the room and landed on me.

“Hart?” he barked. “You’re early. Good. Saves me the introduction.” He jerked a thumb toward the team. “Boys, this is Ivy Hart, our official team photographer for the season. She’ll be shooting practices, games, and media content. Treat her with respect or you’ll be running suicides until Christmas. Understood?”

A few half-hearted “Yes, Coach” murmurs rose, mixed with lingering snickers. Asher stayed quiet this time, but his smirk never faded as he watched me.

Coach launched into the semester schedule—practice times, exhibition games, upcoming media days, and charity events. I nodded along, forcing myself to focus on the details instead of the way my cheeks still burned. My camera felt like the only solid thing in the room. I turned it on with a soft click, using the familiar weight to ground myself.

When the meeting broke up, the players started pulling on practice jerseys and heading out toward the ice. I lingered near the door, pretending to adjust my settings while my mind raced.

Asher walked past me slowly, close enough that his arm nearly brushed mine. “Don’t worry,” he murmured, voice low so only I could hear. “I’ll make sure the guys behave. Wouldn’t want anything to mess up that precious full ride of yours.”

I finally looked him dead in the eyes. “I’m not the same person you remember.”

His gaze flicked over me—slow, assessing. For a split second, something almost like surprise crossed his face. Then the mask was back.

“We’ll see about that,” he said.

He pushed through the door toward the rink, leaving me standing there with my heart hammering and the echo of laughter still ringing in my ears.

I let out a shaky breath, lifted the camera, and snapped a quick test shot of the empty benches.

By the end of the practice I had taken nearly six hundred photos and wanted to commit murder. Every player cooperated except one. Asher deliberately skated out of frame, ignored instructions, and ruined shots while making it look accidental.

Once it was break, I escaped to the administration building to submit my report.

“Everything going well?” the woman at the volunteer office asked with a smile.

“Yes ma’am.” I lied.