Legacy Next Door (Ridge Cross Ice House #1)

Chapter 1 - Karter

Ilooked over the crushed beer cans littering the dead front lawn and smiled, knowing exactly how much my father was going to hate this place.

The sharp smell of rotting wet leaves drifted up from the uncut grass.

I grabbed the strap of my over-sized duffel bag and pulled the tailored leather from the trunk of Elliot’s pristine SUV.

This old Victorian house was a massive step down from our family estate.

The white paint peeled in large flakes, and the dead trees cast long, ugly shadows over the sagging front porch.

“I still don’t get it,” Elliot said. He stood with his hands on his hips, wearing his Ridge Cross hockey quarter-zip like a uniform. “Why are you staying in this crap shack?”

“Isn’t this the official team house? Living here builds camaraderie.” I dropped the bag onto the cracked pavement and rolled my shoulder loose. “And character.”

“Bullshit.” Elliot pointed at the duffel. “Dad offered to pay for an apartment. You could be at the new complex with me and the other legacy guys. Hot water. Working heat. And a kitchen that doesn’t smell like shit.”

“Tempting sales pitch.”

“I’m serious, Karter.”

“So am I.” I leaned against the bumper, keeping my posture deliberately relaxed. “That legacy bubble is too predictable.”

Elliot ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair, leaving it sticking up in the front. “And this place is what, character development? Some gritty freshman experiment?”

“Maybe I just like peeling paint.”

“Nobody likes peeling paint.”

“I’m expanding my horizons.”

“You’re being a pain in my ass.” Elliot grimaced, and for a second he looked less like the polished team captain and more like my frustrated older brother.

“Dad’s satisfied enough that you made the roster.

Keep your head down, put in time at practice, and he’ll stay off your back.

There’s no reason to play the martyr here. ”

Satisfied. The word grated against my ribs, right where the sharp corner of a pre-med biology textbook was stabbing me through the canvas of my duffel bag. I shifted the strap higher on my shoulder. “He wasn’t that satisfied. If he was, I wouldn’t be a nineteen-year-old freshman.”

Elliot’s hands dropped from his hips. A tired exhale left him. “The PG year wasn’t a punishment, Karter. Dad just wanted you physically ready to take college-level hits. He was looking out for you.”

“He was looking out for the Johnston legacy. He couldn’t stand the thought of his youngest son stepping onto the same ice as you and looking like a failure.”

“He wasn’t wrong to worry. You were a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet.”

“And now I’m a hundred and seventy. Growth spurt. Miracles happen.”

Elliot didn’t laugh. He just stared at the dead lawn, mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’m staying here,” I said.

“It makes zero sense.”

“Good thing it’s my decision.”

“You’re going to hate it.”

“Then I’ll hate it.” I hoisted the bag onto my shoulder. “But at least it’ll be my mistake.”

Three guys stood on the front porch. They stopped their conversation the second we pulled into the driveway.

Looking past the scattered beer cans, I locked onto one guy in particular.

He stood perfectly still. His dark, watchful eyes tracked our every move.

The sheer width of his broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a frayed gray hoodie.

Elliot shifted his stance, stepping in front of me to block my view. “Don’t look at him.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Aleksey Zotov.” Elliot kept his voice low. “He likes to play enforcer. He’s a scholarship psycho.”

“He’s just standing there.”

“He’s got a huge chip on his shoulder.” Elliot pointed a subtle finger over toward the porch. “He takes stupid penalties, starts fights, and doesn’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. Seriously, Karter. Just steer clear.”

Turning back to the porch, I met Aleksey’s dark eyes. He didn’t look away.

“He’s not like us,” Elliot added, his voice hardening. “And he hates everything we are.”

Biting my bottom lip, I automatically swallowed my retort, letting my face slip into a practiced, neutral mask as I nodded at Elliot. But beneath the agreeable exterior, my pulse jumped. I refused to look away from the enforcer, a bright, dangerous spark of curiosity settling deep in my stomach.

Grabbing the thick strap, I hoisted the luggage onto my shoulder.

It was time to escape my brother’s lecture.

I walked straight toward the dilapidated house.

Crossing the threshold meant passing the porch, and I endured the oppressive heat of Aleksey’s gaze tracking me the entire way until I finally pushed inside.

The harsh scent of industrial cleaner coated the stale air on the first floor.

And the narrow staircase walls scraped against my oversized duffel bag.

When my shoulder pushed the flimsy wooden door open to my room, it revealed an attic space.

Slanted ceilings turned the converted room into a claustrophobic box.

Two twin beds faced each other across a faded rug.

Matt’s mattress sat bare. We’d only exchanged a handful of texts since the coaching staff paired us up over the summer, mostly him asking what winter gear he needed to survive outside of California.

He had messaged earlier to say his flight was delayed, leaving me alone for the night.

Regret hit me hard. I swallowed it down and dropped my bag onto the mattress. The zipper caught for a second before I tugged it open to inspect my folded shirts. Putting my things into the battered dresser was too permanent a commitment. Leaving the clothes in the bag was easier.

My textbooks offered a much better distraction.

I pulled them out and stacked them on the small desk in the corner.

The spines lined up perfectly. Stacking them gave me something to do, keeping me grounded in a place where I was otherwise totally adrift.

I was just putting on a brave face for an audience of one.

The mess bothered me, but organizing my books helped me keep my edge.

Heavy boots trudged up the narrow staircase, pausing a second before a door opened and closed. Floorboards groaned in the room next door. Booted steps moved slowly on the other side of the uninsulated drywall.

A low voice spoke.

“Da, ya znayu.”

I froze, hands hovering over my books. The language was Russian, low and rough. I remembered the name Elliot had dropped in the driveway: Aleksey Zotov.

All of a sudden, the footsteps made sense: the enforcer was my neighbor.

He didn’t sound dangerous, though. The unhinged psycho Elliot had just warned me about was gone. This guy sounded exhausted. His tone dipped, hushed and incredibly strained. He sounded like a guy running on zero sleep.

“Ya skazal net.”

Reaching away from the desk, I pressed my palm flat against the cheap white paint of the shared wall. The drywall vibrated as Aleksey let out a long sigh, followed by another string of rough consonants.

I jerked my hand back, heat flushing up my neck. Standing frozen in the cramped room, I caught a sharp breath as my racing heartbeat thudded in my ears. The intense lack of privacy unsettled me, but the sudden, sharp shame of my own eavesdropping was far worse.

Aleksey was inches away. I could actually hear him breathing through the plaster. This crossed a boundary I wasn’t ready for.

“It’s just a wall,” I muttered to myself.

Snatching my phone from the desk, I shoved the device into my pocket. Coach Corby had scheduled a mandatory house meeting downstairs in ten minutes. Turning my back on the thin wall, I used the upcoming meeting as a quick excuse to flee the attic.

Thirty guys crammed into the first-floor living room, their loud voices bouncing off the peeling wallpaper. The stale smell of old beer baked into the corduroy couch cushions filled the stuffy space.

I stopped just inside the archway.

The social divide in the room wasn’t just distinct.

It was practically a physical barrier. Elliot and the other legacy kids had claimed all the couches, sprawling out in expensive golf polos and designer sneakers as if they owned the place.

Across from them, the scholarship players leaned against the far wall.

They wore faded team hoodies and scuffed shoes, keeping their arms crossed and their expressions guarded.

“Karter, grab a seat.” Elliot patted the armrest of the main sofa.

“I’m good standing.”

Trenton Wright, a senior whose family owned car dealerships throughout Connecticut, lounged next to my brother. He stretched his arms across the back of the couch, taking up space like he’d been born on it.

“More room for us, right?” Trenton grinned. “Don’t pull a hamstring standing over there, freshman. First week’s a killer.”

“I’ll stretch.”

“Smart. Gotta protect the assets.” He looked me over, his gaze snagging on my sneakers. “Nice shoes. You running track or playing hockey?”

“Hockey. You running your mouth or playing defense?” I snapped back.

A few guys on the couches snorted. Trenton’s grin sharpened like the edge of a blade. “Careful, Johnston. You’re new. We’re just getting to know you.”

“I’m an open book.”

“Yeah?” He checked his phone, scrolling with his thumb. “What chapter? The one where Daddy made you repeat senior year?”

The back of my neck went hot. I didn’t let it touch my face. “Prep school. There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is.” He flashed a patronizing smile at my brother. “Suit yourself. Just don’t block the TV.”

I stayed planted in the middle of the carpet. The heat creeping up my spine didn’t show. A year of prep school hockey had taught me how to take a cheap shot without flinching.

Coach Corby stood near the busted television, rocking back and forth on the heels of his sneakers. The dull roar of thirty guys died down the second he cleared his throat. He looked around the room, his pale blue eyes squinting as if he were trying to see through a stony glare on the ice.