Chapter 1
Blake
This is how I die. Not in some grand, cinematic way. Just… alone with the biggest fuckwad in all of Northgate, melting inside this poor life decision of a sweater, trapped in a tin can suspended by a couple of flimsy cables.
Okay, so they’re probably not that flimsy, but tell that to my nervous system.
I’m already picturing the headlines: Tragic elevator failure cuts short promising career in biomechanical engineering.
Which is such bullshit, because I actually like what I do, despite what led me here.
I like figuring out how bodies move and how to build things that help them move better: joints, braces, prosthetics—the kind of stuff that changes lives.
Nobody expected me to end up here, least of all the people back in my hometown.
Where I’m from, girls didn’t get shiny new cleats or club travel teams—we got hand-me-down uniforms and the reminder that sports were just a hobby until we grew out of them.
I spent years training in the dark with a beat-up ball, the kind of thing most kids would’ve ditched after a season.
It got me a partial scholarship, though, and I wasn’t about to waste it.
I was supposed to graduate next year. That was the plan—be responsible, keep my head down, push through like I always do.
Now I’ll be a cautionary tale in someone else’s lecture.
And fuck me for trying to force fall fashion when it’s still seventy-five degrees and humid enough to steam vegetables.
But did that stop me from putting on wool trousers and a moody turtleneck so I could pretend it’s already Halloween and I’m the main character in a cozy murder mystery? No. No, it did not.
The moment the elevator lurched and froze, my hands went numb. Then my legs. Then the part of my brain that knows how to stay calm. Because if there’s one thing I’m scared of, it’s being stuck in an enclosed space. And if there are two? It’s heights.
This is literally my own personal nightmare.
They say elevators are statistically safe. Whoever they are, they can come scrape me off this carpeted floor after I pass out from hyperventilation.
I try to glare at Mads, and to his credit, he at least has the decency to look mildly guilty.
Which is how I know this is his fault somehow.
The shift in his posture—shoulders drawn up, jaw tight—screams guilty conscience.
But I can’t stay angry for long, because my chest is tight and my lungs are failing, and I can’t fucking breathe.
My vision goes dark at the edges. Just a little fuzz around the perimeter at first, then a full blackout reel loading behind my eyes.
I sway, and suddenly Mads is in front of me, hands on my arms, voice low and steady. “Hey. Hey, look at me. You’re okay.” Which is rich, considering he’s the reason I’m stuck in this box of death to begin with.
His grip is steady but careful, and I’m reminded just how much bigger he is than I am—a full foot taller, built the exact way a goalie has to be.
Broad shoulders, solid muscle, the kind of frame that blocks out the rest of the world, whether he means to or not.
It should make me feel small, even more trapped.
Instead, it’s grounding, infuriatingly so.
I hate him.
I do.
But his hands are warm and firm and annoyingly comforting, and his face is obnoxiously symmetrical—strong jaw, dark hair, those reckless blue eyes that always look like they’re planning something.
There’s a tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve, his forearm solid where it rests against mine, and Jesus Christ, I think I’m going to pass out into the arms of the world’s hottest asshole.
Except I don’t do that. I don’t lean on people.
Not in elevators, not in life. I learned a long time ago that no one’s going to catch me when I fall, so I trained myself not to fall.
To push through sprains, bad seasons, and worse family drama, all without anyone’s steady voice telling me I was okay. I made myself okay.
Which is why the fact that my pulse actually slows under his grip makes me furious.
“Breathe with me, yeah?” he says. And I want to slap him, because of course he sounds exactly the same as always: calm, annoyingly patient, and armed with that English accent of his that makes everything sound way more reasonable than it is.
Then he takes my hand and presses it against his chest. “Right here. Match me.” His heartbeat is steady, unfairly even, like he didn’t just sabotage my entire afternoon by trapping me in an elevator.
I try to yank my hand back, but he tightens his grip, gentle but firm.
“C’mon, you can hate me later. Just breathe now. ”
I do, because apparently my body listens to him more than it listens to me. After a few shaky inhales, the black spots start to fade. My lungs unclench.
“You back?” he asks, still maddeningly close, his voice a shade softer. I nod, barely.
Then—finally—he lets go of me, pulls out his phone, and mutters, “Let’s get us the hell out of here.”
“Oh, fuck you,” I snap, the dizziness dissolving completely in a wash of fury. “I know this was your fault.”
He blinks at me, eyes wide with innocence. “Sorry—come again?”
“Don’t ‘cahm agayn’ me,” I spit, mocking his accent and stepping out of his reach. “This has your fingerprints all over it. Trapping me in here? Classic Madsen Keller bullshit. Just another one of your absurd games.”
“Are you seriously accusing me of—what, rigging the lift?” he says, arms thrown out. “Oh, right, ‘cause risking our lives for a laugh sounds dead smart.”
“Yes! Because you think ‘what’s the worst that could happen’ is a solid risk assessment strategy!”
“Well, you do keep up rather impressively, don’t you?” he bites out, stepping forward, eyes sharp. “Because I know my cleats didn’t fill themselves with glitter.”
“Not comparable to zip-tying my locker shut from the inside!” I snap, jabbing a finger at his chest.
“You replaced my protein powder with confectioner’s sugar!” His voice lifts with mock outrage, jaw clenched as he towers over me, just barely holding back a grin.
I’m glad one of us is entertained by this.
“My hair is fucking blue because you put Kool-Aid in my purple conditioner!” I shove past him, turning quickly, too close, breath caught between fury and disbelief.
“You nicked my whole laundry bag and hoisted it up the bloody flagpole!” He crowds in behind me.
“That was retaliation for my gym bag! I still can’t find my damn shin guards!” I whirl to face him again, chests nearly touching, and the sudden drop in distance makes the air snap with heat.
We’re both yelling now, breathless and red-faced and way too close in a very enclosed space. His chest is heaving. Mine is, too—but from rage.
Mostly rage.
This is what happens when the Rites get out of hand. Every year, the senior guys pick a junior girl to “challenge” in a series of lighthearted, unofficial hazing rituals—pranks, sabotage, public humiliation, the usual misogynistic bullshit wrapped in school spirit.
The coaches pretend not to know. The girls pretend to be good sports about it.
But retaliation is fair game, and no one hits back harder than me.
I’ve been Mads Keller’s target since the beginning of September.
And if he thinks glitter in his cleats and protein sabotage is the worst of what I will do to him if he doesn’t back off, he seriously underestimates my creativity. And my rage.
Still, I remind myself it could be worse. At other schools, hazing isn’t pranks and glitter—it’s dangerous. Ugly. I’ve heard enough horror stories to know that what happens at Northgate doesn’t even register on the same scale. No hospital visits, no police reports, no lives ruined.
So yeah, I’m grateful for that. I know how lucky we are that the Rites are mostly petty sabotage and public embarrassment.
But that doesn’t mean I’m about to shrug off Mads’ bullshit just because it isn’t technically life-threatening. Annoyance is still annoyance. And the fact that he’s made me his personal project is still enough to make me want to snap his disgustingly perfect jawline in half.
“God, you’re such a child,” I hiss.
“Well, you match my child like wonder,” he says, way too cocky for his own good.
“You started it!”
“You escalated it!”
“You literally put Icy Hot in my sports bra!”
“And I’d do it again!”
There’s a beat of silence.
I lunge for the emergency call button before I commit an actual felony.
A burst of static crackles through the speaker. “Emergency services have been notified. Please remain calm.”
Too late for that.
We stand there—fuming, breathless, too close—for what feels like a hundred years until the faint sound of voices and metal tools scraping against the door frame jolts us both into a calmer silence. Mads moves back just half a step, enough to break the gravitational pull between us. Barely.
Then the doors groan. Something pops. Bright light floods in, blinding after the dim yellow glow of elevator purgatory.
“Hang tight,” someone calls. “We’re prying it the rest of the way.”
The metal gives with a final screech, and then we’re staring into the suited-up faces of the local fire department, one of whom raises an eyebrow like we were the cause of his interrupted lunch break.
To be fair, one of us probably was.
I step out first, wiping dust off my pants and trying to look anywhere but at Mads.
He climbs out behind me, just in time for the real horror to set in.
Standing a few feet away, arms crossed and expressions tight with fury, are both our coaches.
Coach Carmichael is already pinching the bridge of his nose, like he’s bracing for a migraine that hasn’t hit yet.
And then there’s Doc. The guys’ coach.
She’s five-foot-two of pure intimidation, with the kind of conventionally attractive face that would absolutely be cast in a sportswear ad—if that ad required the model to glare down the camera and make you question your life choices.
Her blonde hair is in a tight ponytail, her cheekbones unfairly chiseled, and her skin is annoyingly flawless for someone who spends ninety percent of her life outdoors yelling at a bunch of twenty-something-year-old goofballs.
There's a vein ticking at her temple. Just one.
And I know this because it pulsates when she’s angry.
The entire men’s team is low-key in love with her, but none of them are unwise enough to admit it out loud. And me? I wouldn’t say I have a crush, exactly. I just think she could ruin my life, and I’d say thank you.
She takes one look at us—sweaty, rumpled, and still slightly flushed from shouting—and doesn’t even blink.
“My office. Now.”
Her tone isn’t loud. It doesn’t need to be. It’s the kind that travels through your bones and makes every bad decision you’ve ever made line up for judgment.
Mads exhales beside me, the beginning of a word forming on his lips.
“Don’t,” I mutter before he can say anything.
We start walking.
And for the first time since the elevator stopped, I kind of wish it had dropped.
It would’ve been less painful than whatever’s waiting for us in that office.