Chapter 4 POOR PRETTY BOY.

~~~AVERY.

The cold air hit my face the moment I stepped out of the tunnel, and my heart hammered violently against my ribs.

I was actually doing this. I was standing on Ridgeway University ice.

My skates bit into the frozen surface, and I took a deep breath, reciting the three rules I had made for myself before leaving the locker room.

Don’t fall. Don’t speak too much. Don’t let anyone get too close.

But as I looked out at the massive empty rink, something shifted inside my chest. The heavy weight of the disguise, the binder, and the lies seemed to lift just a fraction. 

For the first time since Jon died, I felt at home. This was the ice. This was where I belonged.

A sharp whistle shattered my thoughts.

“Warm-up laps!” the coach barked from the center circle. “Move it, Wolves!”

The team immediately took off, a blur of blue and white practice jerseys flying across the ice. I joined the back of the pack, keeping my head down.

“Watch Pretty Boy eat shit,” a guy whispered loudly as he skated past me.

Another guy laughed, tapping his stick on the ice. “Five bucks says he falls before the first turn.”

I ignored them. I tightened my grip on my stick and leaned forward, pushing off the ice with a burst of speed.

“Line up!” The coach yelled ten minutes later. “Drills! Let's see some edge work!”

The team lined up along the boards. We started with backward skating, crossovers, and tight turns. I could feel the eyes of the veteran players waiting for me to mess up. They expected the tiny transfer to stumble. They expected me to struggle.

Instead , I rolled my shoulders once, took a slow breath and then, let muscle memory take over.

I glided effortlessly. My turns were sharp, my transitions were smooth, and my speed was completely controlled. I moved through the cones faster than half the guys on the roster, keeping the puck glued to the blade of my stick.

When I finished the run and stopped sharply, sending a spray of ice into the air, the line was dead quiet.

“…Damn,” someone muttered.

Another guy nodded slowly. “Okay.”

I glanced toward the center of the ice. The coach was watching me, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn’t say anything.

Then I looked to the side. Cassian was leaning against the boards, his dark eyes locked onto me. He didn’t look angry, and he didn’t look impressed. He just… stared.

“One-on-one drills!” The coach shouted, blowing his whistle again. “Pair up!”

Before I could find a corner to hide in, Coach pointed his clipboard at me. “Quinn. You’re up.” Then he pointed to a massive defenseman who looked like he ate bricks for breakfast. “Miller. Take him.”

Miller grinned, showing off a missing tooth. He skated out to the center, his sheer size casting a shadow over me. “Sorry, Pretty Boy,” he taunted. “Nothing personal.”

Miller charged at me like a freight train. Everyone expected me to get flattened. They expected my helmet to bounce off the glass.

Instead, I dropped my shoulder, faked left, and slipped right past him.

My hands moved quickly, tapping the puck side to side. Perfect edge control. I didn't even look back as I approached the net, flicking my wrists and sending the puck right into the top corner.

Goal, and silence fell over the rink.

Miller turned around slowly, staring at the puck in the net. “What?”

A few guys on the bench burst out laughing.

“He broke your ankles, Miller!” the blond guy yelled.

The locker room bully was officially humbled. I skated back to the line, keeping my face blank, but inside, I was screaming with victory.

“Alright, settle down,” Coach called out. He looked around the ice before his eyes landed on the tall, dark figure near the boards. “Captain. Your turn.”

The whole team instantly reacted.

“OHHHHH!”

“RIP Pretty Boy.”

“Someone call a medic!”

I froze.

Not him. Anyone but him. I didn't want to be near him. I didn't want him looking at me that closely.

Cassian pushed off the boards and skated over lazily. He didn't look aggressive. He looked completely bored. He twirled his stick once in his gloved hands and stopped right in front of me.

“Ready?” Cassian asked, his rough voice carrying over the ice.

I lowered into position, forcing my eyes to meet his. “Yeah.”

Cassian moved fast, but I expected it. I matched his pace, staying right on him. He tried to sweep the puck past me, but I extended my stick and knocked it away.

I stole the puck.

Cassian stopped perfectly still for a fraction of a second. One dark eyebrow slowly raised. 

I pushed toward the net, but before I could even set up my shot, Cassian was there. He didn't hit me. He didn't use his size to crush me. He just smoothly, elegantly hooked my stick, took the puck back, and scored. 

Coach blew the whistle. “Again.”

This time, Cassian actually tried.

The moment the whistle blew, he was a blur. I couldn't keep up. He was too fast, too strong, and too experienced. I tried to pivot, but my skate caught an edge, and I went crashing down hard onto my knees.

Cassian scored again.

I sat on the cold ice, catching my breath, expecting him to laugh or skate away. Instead, a large, black-gloved hand appeared in my vision.

I looked up. Cassian was standing over me, offering his hand.

I hesitated, but with the whole team watching, I grabbed it. He pulled me up effortlessly, like I weighed absolutely nothing.

Cassian looked down at me, his eyes searching mine. “Good hands,” he murmured.

That was it. He let go of my hand and skated away.

I stood there, completely confused. I had expected arrogance. I had expected him to rub it in my face. 

It messed with my head, and I hated it.

As we gathered back near the benches, the team’s energy had shifted.

“Pretty Boy almost stole from the Captain,” the blond guy said, shaking his head.

“Kid’s got hands,” Miller admitted, tapping his stick against mine.

“Still pretty though,” another guy teased.

I let out a breath. They were still teasing me, but the mockery was gone. 

Two hours later, practice finally ended. My legs were burning, and everyone was exhausted.

The coach blew his whistle one last time. “Gather up!”

We circled around him near the bench, leaning heavily on our sticks.

“Good practice today,” Coach said, looking over his clipboard. “Now, before you hit the showers… housing assignments.”

Groans erupted everywhere.

“Please not Brooks,” a guy pleaded. “He doesn't wash his gear.”

“Anybody but Jensen,” another begged.

Coach started reading names down the list. Pairs went one after another. Players complained, traded jokes, and shoved each other. Everything felt relaxed. The hard part of the day was over.

Then, the coach reached the last paper.

He looked up, a small smile playing on his lips. “Captain.”

Cassian, who was staring blankly at the ice, barely looked over. “Yeah?”

Coach grinned. “You’re taking the transfer.”

I blinked after a few seconds of silence. Excuse me?

One teammate burst out laughing. “No way.”

Another shook his head. “Poor Pretty Boy.”

Coach continued reading the paper. “Dorm 3B. One room. Two beds.”

My heart stopped. My blood turned to ice.

“Excuse me?” I finally spoke, my voice cracking slightly.

Every single head turned to look at me.

Coach raised a thick eyebrow. “Problem, Quinn?”

Before I could even open my mouth to answer, Cassian finally looked directly at me. His gaze was long, calm, and completely unreadable.

Then, he tilted his head. “Problem?”

It was the exact same word the coach used, but with a completely different meaning. It was a challenge.

My mind was screaming. 

YES. EVERYTHING IS THE PROBLEM.

But I couldn't say that. I couldn't blow my cover. I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. “No. No problem.”

Coach clapped his hands once. “Congratulations. You’re roommates.”

The team started laughing again as they headed for the locker room.

“Captain babysitting Pretty Boy!” Miller whistled.

“Don’t corrupt the rookie, Hayes!” the blond guy shouted.

Cassian picked up his heavy gear bag. He walked past me, not even bothering to look in my direction as he passed.

“Try not to snore,” he said flatly.

Oh, how about you try not to murder anybody.

Then he walked away.

I stood completely frozen on the ice, the cold seeping through my skates. One terrifying thought repeated in my head over and over again.

I came here to investigate the man I believed killed my brother.

And now… I was going to be sleeping in the exact same room as him.