chapter 3

Grace's POV:

I saw him take the water, and that meant my task was complete.

There was no point in lingering here to endure more humiliation. I nodded briefly, already turning to leave when Sebastian's teammates' laughter followed me like a pack of hyenas.

"Look at that, Seb! You've broken another heart!" one of them called out, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Check out how defeated she looks walking away."

"Poor little princess," another chimed in. "Bet she was hoping for a different answer. Look at those shoulders—absolutely crushed!"

Their cruel amusement echoed across the ice, but I kept walking, my spine straight despite the weight pressing down on it.

As I made my way back through the crowd, I nearly collided with someone emerging from the locker room corridor.

The scent hit me first—clean ice and expensive cologne, a combination that somehow made the arena's recycled air feel sharper. I stepped aside quickly, but not before I heard him mutter under his breath.

"No taste whatsoever. Playing like garbage and still getting water delivered."

The words were spoken with such casual disdain that I found myself looking up in surprise, but he was already moving away. All I caught was his retreating back and the number on his jersey—7—before he disappeared into the tunnel leading to the ice.

His voice, though dismissive of Sebastian, held a quality that made even contempt sound refined.

It wasn't exactly defending me, but in a day filled with nothing but mockery and degradation, the fact that he hadn't joined in the chorus of ridicule felt like a reprieve.

I watched his broad back disappear into the sea of players, wondering who would dare speak so dismissively about St. Jude's golden boy.

But none of that was my concern anymore. I needed to get back and collect my remaining five hundred dollars.

I forced myself to continue walking, desperately ignoring the various stares that followed my path like searchlights in a prison yard.

Some were pitying, others curious, but most held that particular brand of cruel satisfaction people reserved for watching someone fall from grace.

Jessica and her crew were practically vibrating with glee when I returned to their vicinity.

"Well, well, look who completed her first assignment," Jessica drawled, her phone already out. "Oh, Grace, I had no idea Sebastian would be so... direct with you. If I'd known he'd reject you like that in front of everyone, I never would have asked. You must be so embarrassed."

She made a show of transferring the remaining five hundred dollars, her smile sharp enough to draw blood. "Same rate for next time, errand girl. This was too entertaining."

I said nothing, simply checking that the full payment had cleared before turning to leave. But just as I reached the exit, a collective gasp of shock rippled through the arena, followed by stunned murmurs.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I glanced back toward the ice.

The game had resumed after the intermission, and a new player wearing number 7 had taken the ice as center forward. Within seconds of the puck drop, he'd already scored, moving with a lethal precision that made the other players look like they were skating through molasses.

"Who the hell is that?" someone near me demanded.

"Probably just a lucky shot," another voice dismissed. "No way he's better than Sebastian."

"One goal doesn't mean anything. Just watch—Seb will show him how it's really done," a girl insisted loyally.

But as the game continued, the scoreboard told a different story.

Number 7 wasn't just lucky—he was systematically dismantling the opposing team's comfortable lead. Each goal was executed with surgical precision, and the gap that had seemed insurmountable was shrinking with alarming speed.

When number 7 slammed the final goal home, securing victory in the dying seconds of the game, the entire arena fell silent for a heartbeat before erupting in chaos.

He'd single-handedly turned certain defeat into triumph, and as he pulled off his helmet in celebration, the crowd's shock transformed into something else entirely.

Dark hair fell across his forehead, damp with exertion, and underneath was a face that belonged in classical sculpture—all sharp angles and perfect symmetry.

His jaw could have been carved from marble, his eyes an unsettling shade of gray-blue that seemed to pierce through the arena lights. There was something almost predatory in his beauty, a raw masculinity that made the air feel charged with electricity.

Even from this distance, you could see the way his chest heaved with controlled breaths, the way his hockey gear clung to what was obviously a perfectly honed physique beneath.

"Oh my God," the same girl who'd been defending Sebastian breathed, her loyalty evaporating instantly. "He's... he's gorgeous."

"Forget everything I said," her friend gasped. "That face, those skills—sorry Sebastian, but my heart just found a new home."

"Who needs Sebastian when we have THIS?" someone else squealed. "Look at those cheekbones! And did you see how he moved? It's like he was born on the ice!"

"Beauty and talent in one package—I think I'm in love."

"Someone better get me his name, major, and relationship status in the next five minutes or I'm going to lose my mind!"

"Already on it," another girl said, furiously typing on her phone. "I need his Instagram, his class schedule, his favorite coffee order—EVERYTHING."

"Dibs! I call dibs!"

The defections came swiftly and mercilessly, Sebastian's fanbase crumbling in the face of this devastating combination of skill and beauty.

I watched the figure on the ice—proud, almost arrogant in his victory, drinking in the adoration like it was his birthright. And perhaps it was.

Everything about him screamed that this was exactly where he belonged, at the center of attention, victorious and untouchable.

Then his gaze swept upward toward the stands, and for one heart-stopping moment, our eyes met across the distance. He raised an eyebrow at me, the gesture so casually arrogant it seemed to validate every word of his earlier dismissal.

I found myself thinking that yes, he definitely had the skills to back up his disdain—Sebastian really had been playing like garbage compared to this.

"Holy shit, I found him!" A girl nearby practically screamed, waving her phone. "His name is Maverick Cross—as in THE Cross family. He is a transfer student starting this week."

The arena seemed to collectively lose its mind.

"You're telling me he's gorgeous, plays like a god, AND he's heir to Cross Empire?"

"That's not fair! How is one person allowed to have EVERYTHING?"

"The Cross family? They practically own half this city!"

"God really has favorites."

"But why would someone who plays like that transfer in the middle of the season?"

"Who cares? He's here now, and did you see those eyes? I think my ovaries just exploded."

The Cross family name carried weight in this city—the kind of weight that made buildings shake and doors open without question. They didn't just have money; they had the kind of power that rewrote rules.

Even before my family's downfall, the Crosses had existed in a different stratosphere entirely—the kind of untouchable that made our former wealth look like pocket change.

Without another glance at the chaos below, I turned and walked toward the exit.