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“Which one is she?” Dash, my so-called best friend, asks, his eyes scanning the stream of students filing into my economics class.

His knee knocks mine again in a subtle attempt to get my attention.

Yeah, he’s trying real hard to act like there’s nothing weird going on between us, but even he can’t deny the festering tension.

He fucked my sister.

God, that’s an image I don’t need in my head this morning.

They’re dating . There, that’s a little less abrasive on my poor brain.

The point is, he and my sister snuck around behind my back for fuck knows how long and everyone, my entire team included, expects me to bounce back from it.

To just pretend the bro code meant nothing.

Yeah, I’m not that good of a guy.

Never have been.

I lean forward, hawking the entrance like a debt collector waiting for his mark.

My pulse stays steady. My breathing is stable.

Yeah, she’s not here. Pathetic doesn’t begin to cover what I’ve become.

We’ve exchanged maybe ten words outside of our study group, but my body reacts to her like a fucking tuning fork that only vibrates on her frequency.

“She’s not here yet,” I mutter.

Last one in, first one out: Her signature move. Be seen by as few people as possible and maybe, just maybe, people might forget she exists. Everyone else might lose her in the crowd. I never will. My watch says we’ve got two minutes before class starts, so she’ll be here soon.

And… there.

My gaze locks in, easily picking out the long, dark hair shifting through the crowd, parting the sea of mediocrity with her greatness.

Her green eyes dart from face to face and her shoulders hunch as if she’s trying to fold herself into nothing.

Wasted effort. I haven’t stopped staring since I first spotted her last year…

right before her waste-of-oxygen boyfriend claimed his territory.

My jaw clenches just thinking about that asshole and how undeserving he is of that title.

Doesn’t she realize she’s a supernova in a universe of burned-out matchsticks?

“She’s here now,” Dash mutters, watching me like I just missed an open net.

I glare at him and he looks pissed that I’ve mentally evicted him from the conversation.

Apparently, drilling my sister hasn’t done shit for his perpetual bad mood.

And, fuck , there it is. The mental image that makes me want to bleach my brain.

I can’t look at my best friend without my mind serving up horror reels of him with my sister’s legs wrapped around his waist.

“You were eye-fucking her like she was the Stanley Cup,” Dash says.

Eye-fucking? Really?

“Did you have to bring that up?” My stomach roils at the thought, and this is why I’m thankful I moved out of the hockey dorms last month. I don’t want to see it. I’d never meddle with my sister’s happiness, but that doesn’t mean I have to watch it either.

Dash leans back, stretching like a smug cat who just knocked your favorite mug off the counter. “It’s her, right?”

“Yup,” I pop out. She’s rocking blood-red lipstick and enough eyeliner to ward off evil spirits, which only means one thing.

Work night. Soon that midnight hair will be covered with a cheap red wig while she entertains drunk assholes who collectively aren’t worth the gum stuck to her platform heels.

“What’s her name?”

“Which one?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I tear my gaze from her like it physically hurts and glare at my friend. “Savannah.” I’ve told him this at least five times, so he’s either fishing for conversation or his brain cells are dying faster than my patience.

He nods, taking her in. “And she hates your guts?”

I shrug my shoulder, bristling a little at the assertion.

“Hates my guts is a little strong, but yeah, I wouldn’t say she’s my biggest fan after I tried to talk to her one night.

” I lift my brows, laughing as I think about that for a second.

“She’s actually… weirdly pleasant when we’re in our study group.

You know, blandly polite. I’m guessing it’s because she’s afraid if she acts any different, I’ll mention her alter ego. ”

“Alter ego? Is she a superhero?” he asks. If you didn’t know my friend, you’d think he was making a joke, but unfortunately, he’s not that funny.

“No. I met her at Behind Closed Doors last year.”

“Oh, yeah.” He goes silent, knowing exactly what that means.

Behind Closed Doors is a club I shouldn’t be hanging around.

Not because of the pretty girls dancing there, but because it’s where I used to beat men into bloody pulps.

Illegally. Underground and hidden away from everyone except those with enough cash to watch or bet.

I made good money. Really good money.

Sure, I have a sweet deal with the Atlanta Anglerfish, but that cash might as well be locked in a vault with a timer set for when I decide to leave Covey U.

Fighting? That made it possible to escape the hockey dorm hellscape where the walls are thin enough to hear my best friend’s headboard symphony starring my sister as the lead fucking performer.

Some things you can't unhear, and some mental images are worth paying rent to avoid, even if that means I had to split open a few skulls to make the deposit.

I clench my fists, white-knuckled and hungry, ignoring the phantom itch beneath my skin.

Landing the perfect right hook is the only high that’s ever come close to what I feel on the ice.

Fast, vicious and addictive. If anyone, including Dash, finds out how much I miss that hobby, I’d be fucked six ways to Sunday.

The college would kick my ass to the curb faster than you can say “scholarship violation,” and the Anglerfish would tear up my contract like I was contaminated.

Professional hockey only wants fighters when the scoreboard demands it, after all.

“What did you do?” Dash is glaring at me as I watch Savannah step into the room. I’m going to be late, which is fine. I’ll just blame hockey like I always do. It’s the magical get-out-of-jail-free card on this campus.

Slowly, I turn to my friend, cracking a smile as I remember the first time I laid eyes on her.

She was on that stage wearing this white diamond body suit, looking out into the crowd with sheer horror.

Her dancing was endearing at best, gangly at worst. I couldn’t look away, though.

She kept her eyes screwed shut the entire dance, pretending the catcalls and crude propositions weren’t raining down on her like toxic confetti.

She was lost in her own world, and fuck me sideways, all I wanted was to get lost with her.

“I didn’t do anything bad,” I say, standing and hauling my book bag over my shoulder. I like to be late, but I don’t want to lose my seat. “I just tried to talk to her, and it didn’t end well.”

“What happened?” Dash raises one of his thick eyebrows, skepticism dripping from every pore.

“Her boyfriend gave me two black eyes,” I say with a grin.

Dash blinks. Once. Twice. His brain is buffering like a shitty internet connection. It takes a solid three seconds before he finally scoffs. “You get a black eye every other week from hockey. Why does this sound different?”

I lift a shoulder. “Because it is. I was there to pick up my money, and things didn’t go to plan. Thankfully, Henry followed me and helped me out.”

Dash’s expression shifts, and I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. “Wait, are you talking about that time before HockeyFest? When you showed up on the plane looking like you went twelve rounds with a meat grinder?”

“I’m surprised you noticed. Weren’t you busy sneaking around behind my back, hiding the fact you were balls-deep in my sister?”

That shuts him up.

Regret flickers over his face, quickly masked with the same manufactured guilt I’ve seen on him since the night I redecorated his face and gave the ER staff something to talk about.

“Yeah, I’m, uh… sorry about that.”

It’s the closest we’ve come to talking about it since I broke his nose, but I don’t have time for a heart-to-heart right now. I need to get into that classroom and see my girl, even if she doesn’t think that’s what she is.

“Not sorry enough to stop dating her,” I tease, turning on my heel and heading to the class door.

“Do you want me to?” The self-righteous motherfucker actually sounds like he'd fall on his sword if I commanded it.

As if breaking up with my sister would somehow erase the mental image of them together that's permanently seared into my brain.

But who am I to play God with my sister's happiness?

Even if watching them together makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon.

“No, of course not.” I wave him off. “You make her happier than I’ve ever seen her, and I suppose your miserable ass is slightly less unbearable now.”

His lips quirk on one side, that delirious look shining across his face. “Thanks, I think.”

“See you later.” I leave him there like abandoned luggage and stride toward my class. When I open the door, I feed the professor some half-assed apology about practice running late and head straight for my seat.

The same seat that’s been mine since I bribed the dude sitting in it last semester to switch.

Next to her. Savannah Barnett.

She doesn’t look up when I pull out my chair, doesn’t flinch when I drop into it with a quiet, “Hey.” As if my entire day hasn’t been building to that single syllable.

Too busy. Too focused. Too fucking perfect.

Her pen scratches furiously against the page, ink smudging at the base of her palm, and I can’t help but stare.

Why doesn’t she bring a laptop like every other person born in this century?

She persists in writing everything out, and it’s goddamn infuriating because it gives me zero excuse to interrupt her bubble of concentration.