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I don’t let go. Instead, I push her back — just enough to pin her against the wall.

Her eyes widen, just a fraction.

“Here’s a tip,” I say, leaning in slightly. “Watch where the fuck you’re going next time. Got it?”

She opens her mouth to retort, but I don’t stick around to hear it.

I step back and take off down the hallway, not bothering to look back.

By the time I reach the classroom, the door’s already shut. I push it open, breathing heavily.

“Caleb,” Professor Daniels says without looking up. “You’re late.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, dropping into the nearest seat.

“Your quiz is on the desk,” she says, her tone clipped.

I grab the paper, glancing around the room. Everyone’s heads are down, pens moving across their papers like they’ve got this in the bag.

Meanwhile, my brain’s stuck replaying the image of that girl.

Green eyes. Auburn curls. That stupid pout.

Who the hell was she?

Chapter 4

Coach Jacobs’ office smells like old leather and sweat — like every other coach’s office I’ve ever been in. Except this school’s different. Fancy as hell. The kind of place where the parking lot’s full of shiny cars, and the kids look like they’ve never worked a day in their lives. But Blackridge’s hockey program? One of the best. So, it’ll have to do.

Coach leans back in his chair, his desk cluttered with papers and an old coffee mug. He’s got this intense look, like he’s sizing me up.

“Here’s the deal, Grayson,” he says, voice gruff. “We’ve got tryouts tomorrow. Just ‘cause you’re a transfer doesn’t mean you’re guaranteed a spot.”

I nod. “Got it. What time?”

“Six sharp. Ice time’s at a premium here, so don’t be late.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He grunts, not looking convinced. “We expect discipline here. Good grades, no skipping practices, no screwing around. You give me any trouble, I’ll bench you. Clear?”

“Crystal,” I say, leaning back in my chair. This guy’s intense, but I get it. He’s got a program to protect, and I’m the outsider.

He’s mid-rant about team dynamics when the door flies open, slamming against the wall.

“Fucking unbelievable!” a voice explodes into the room.

I glance over and freeze.

A girl storms in, clutching an empty to her chest. Her hair’s a wild mess of reddish-brown curls — not like those fake glossy curls you see on Instagram. These are untamed, like she just rolled out of bed. There’s a spray of freckles across her cheeks, and her lips are moving a mile a minute as she curses under her breath.

“I spent all goddamn afternoon on this, and some asshole just—” She stops mid-rant, eyes locking on me.

Her face goes bright red.

“Oh,” she stammers, clutching the folder tighter. “I didn’t know you had someone in here.”

Coach sighs, like this isn’t the first time she’s barged in. “Sienna, this is one of my new transfer students. Elliot Grayson. Eli, this is my daughter, Sienna.”