Page 2

CHAPTER 1

THREE MONTHS LATER

The clock winds down. One minute left, and the Devils are trailing by two. The odds aren’t great, but truth be told, I don’t really care. Yeah, it’s my school’s team, and yeah, I should probably want them to win, but hockey isn’t exactly my thing.

I only come to these games for Brogan—my best friend, my roommate, my ride or die since high school. When she asks me to freeze my ass off in an arena while a bunch of dudes chase an Oreo across the ice, I show up. Not because I care about the game, but because I care about her, and she loves this shit. The energy, the fights, the sheer brutality of it all. Sure, she’s here to watch her boyfriend, Hayes, but let’s be real, Brogan lives for the violence.

Not me, though. Most people don’t know this about me, but I want silence and focus. Give me a compound bow, an arrow, and a target in the middle of nowhere. That’s where I find my thrill.

Archery was never supposed to be more than a box to check. It was an elective I picked up my freshman year that unexpectedly sank its hooks into me. Now, I’m a member of a collegiate club, slinging arrows like I belong there.

All that to say, I stumbled upon something I like to do with my free time that doesn’t involve swiping a credit card. In doing so, I’ve mastered a weapon with sharp edges that would bring anyone to their knees if I wanted it to.

I’m pretty damn good at it, too. In fact, I took second place in the women’s compound competition last semester, and at the end of this month, I plan to take first.

Brogan jumps to her feet, eyes pinned to the brute force unfolding on the ice. “Come on, Hayes,” she hollers as her boyfriend drives the puck toward the net. He swings and shoots, sending it straight to the Lords’ goalie who blocks it and sends it right back.

Damn. That was embarrassing.

Hayes is a damn good center, but the Devils are down a man tonight. One of our second-string centers, Evan, had a brutal accident two nights ago that left him in the hospital, fighting for his life. Before the game, they announced they were playing in his honor.

I know Evan. Maybe not as well as I once did, but well enough for my heart to ache for him and his family.

I’m not a hockey fan, but back in freshman year, I actually enjoyed watching Evan play. Feels like a lifetime ago, though it’s only been two years. We weren’t exactly dating, but we were talking.

That’s a lie. We didn’t talk—we fucked, and I showed up to his games. Evan wanted more, but I had nothing else to give. I have nothing to give anyone . On the outside, I’m polished and put together. On the inside? I’m fractured beyond repair. That’s why I keep my heart locked up. Vulnerability feels more like a death sentence than a connection, so when Evan reached for more, I pulled away.

A win in his honor would be cool, but the Lords seem hell-bent on making sure that doesn’t happen.

As if the stakes weren’t high enough, Brogan’s caught in the middle of this war. Her stepbrother, Callan, plays for the opposing team. The Lords and the Devils have been bitter rivals for years. Only thirteen miles and a railroad track separate our two campuses, but on the ice, it might as well be a battlefield.

I actually considered North Ridge University at one point because of their reputable psychiatry program. But when Brogan committed to Rosewood University to cheer for their football team, I followed.

Suddenly, one of the Lords’ players slams into Hayes, driving him hard into the glass barrier right in front of us. The boards rattle, the impact echoing through the arena.

Brogan shoots to her feet, hands flying. “What the hell, Callan!”

Damn. Her brother just leveled her boyfriend.

Callan is an asshole. I’d never say that to Brogan’s face because she coddles the fuck out of him, but it’s the truth.

At one point, I thought he might be different from the usual jock stereotype. Back in high school, he was a ghost, always lingering on the outskirts. Smart. Athletic. Silent. He never said much, never showed much either. At first, I figured he was just shy. But then, little by little, his walls started to crack. Piece by piece, he let me in.

I’d bump into him in the hallway at Brogan’s house, half asleep in my pajamas, and he’d poke my side, smirk, toss out some offhanded comment about how I didn’t need makeup because I was naturally beautiful. The kind of thing any girl would kill to hear from someone as devilishly sexy as Callan Cromwell.

Then everything changed.

After one too many bottles of hard lemonade, I took a walk down the hall with him into his room. Before I could talk myself out of it, we were having sex. The second it was over, regret sank its claws into me. He was my best friend’s brother. Stepbrother, technically, but Brogan loves him like he’s blood. I couldn’t do that to her. Not when I knew it would end with me walking away.

Callan and I agreed it could never happen again and that nothing between us would change.

But everything changed.

The easy hallway flirtation twisted into sharp-edged insults and lingering glares. He got weird. Then, just like that, I became the most despicable person on the planet in his eyes.

He fell in with the wrong crowd. His grades tanked. Trouble followed him like a damn shadow. He was breaking and entering into houses and getting in fights. There was even a grand theft auto charge that miraculously disappeared.

I went out of my way to avoid him, knowing full well he’d jump at any chance to cut me down. He became my own personal bully, a constant reminder of the mistake I wished I could erase. If I could go back and un-fuck him, I would.

I told him that once when he cornered me. It didn’t end well.

I went home that weekend, told Brogan I was sick, and locked myself in my room to cry. To this day, I have no idea how he found out about one of my most carefully guarded secrets, but he did. And the following week, he spiraled into drugs and drinking. Before long, he was someone I no longer recognized.

Callan’s dad forced him into rehab his senior year of high school. He might have cleaned up, but let’s be real, Callan Cromwell is anything but saved.

I never told Brogan, and I never will. She’d spin a hundred and one excuses for him, each one more desperate than the last. But none of them explain how someone’s heart can turn so completely ice cold.

Yes, he lost his mom before his dad married Brogan’s mom. But so did his brothers, and they don’t walk around acting like everyone is indebted to them.

Just as Callan lets up on Hayes, giving him an out from where he’s pinned, his eyes lock on to mine. A wave of unease rolls through me.

He looks away, but only for a second before his gaze snaps back, darker this time.

My brows knit together, head tilting slightly as I try to decipher whatever storm is brewing behind his sultry green eyes. But his scowl only deepens, like he’s daring me to look away first.

I get it, our team is his rival, and we had a meaningless one-night stand years ago, but I’m still his sister’s best friend. A little respect wouldn’t kill him.

As fast as his glare landed on me, he snaps his focus back to the game, controlling the puck with calculated precision. But before he sends it soaring across the ice, he looks at me one last time, dead in the eye.

Brogan blows out a sharp breath as she sits back down. “He’s such a little shit.”

“He’s more than that,” I grumble, while holding back any elaboration.

I’ve made up my mind about her brother. Not only because of the way he treats me, but also because of all the shady shit he did when he had his asshole awakening in rehab. Brogan has no clue that he once threatened to spill my secret if I didn’t play nice—partly because she doesn't know my secret. So I’ve learned to keep my mouth shut when it comes to him.

She insists he’s doing better, that hockey has given him purpose. But the look in his eyes just now? That wasn’t the gaze of a reformed man. That was something darker. Something far from the saint she believes he is.

Four seconds left…and we lose. Damn . I can practically hear the sarcasm dripping from my own thoughts.

Brogan groans, dragging a hand down her face before perking up and adjusting her ponytail like she didn’t just spend the last minute sulking. “That was depressing, but at least Callan’s team won. Ready to get out of here?”

I slap the arms of my seat and push myself up. “I thought you’d never ask. I need to pee.”

Brogan slings her purse across her chest, slipping her phone into the front pocket. “I’m gonna try to catch Callan before he leaves so I can see how he’s been. I know he was struggling during preseason.” She shifts on her feet. “Meet me by the guest locker room when you’re done?”

I sigh, but only after she turns away. If I never had to talk to her brother again, it’d still be too soon.

We weave through the maze of seats, and at the top of the stands, we split up. Brogan heads left and I go in the opposite direction toward the glowing blue sign above the restrooms.