Chapter 3
Let me get one thing straight: hockey isn't just a game for me—it's a cage. Being a goalie means watching life happen from behind bars. Every game spent trapped in the crease, confined to my little corner of ice while others chase glory. My body knows exactly how far it can move in any direction—the same way it learned the limits of being a Reaper's errand boy. Always watching. Always waiting. Never quite free.
"Heads up, Black!" Dylan fires a shot at the top corner. I track the puck's rotation, reading the slight hesitation in his stick handling that telegraphs high glove side. Kid's getting predictable. My catch is lazy, deliberate—a message that says I'm not even trying.
The ice at Blackridge Arena holds a certain edge today. First official practice of the season, and everyone's got something to prove. Especially me. The net behind me feels like another set of bars, another reminder of being trapped while others take what should be mine. But not for much longer.
"Line change!" Coach Jacob's voice bounces off the rafters. "First string, show me what you got."
The team splits into their usual hierarchy. First string—the golden boys with their custom gear and private coaching history. Then there's us. Second string. The ones who actually had to fight to be here. I watch them through my mask, cataloging weaknesses like I catalog secrets for the Reapers. Every player has a tell, a weakness, a pressure point waiting to be exploited.
Thatcher glides to center ice, stick tapping an arrogant rhythm. His father's name is plastered across half the campus buildings, including this rink. Trust fund baby playing at being an athlete. His shot selection is as predictable as his weekend plans—all flash, no substance.
"Try to keep up, Black," he sneers, setting up for a shot.
I adjust my mask, settling into my stance—knees bent, glove ready, stick angled. Just like the Reapers taught me: appear submissive while planning your strike. "Try not to cry when I send it back twice as hard."
The scrimmage starts ugly. Noah and Zane work their synchronized routine—two years of playing together shows in their no-look passes and preset plays. But patterns mean predictability. Jack tries screening me, but his positioning is amateur. I track the puck through his legs, deflect it to the boards with enough force to sting if he tries to play it.
Caleb hangs back, patient. He's different from the trust fund crowd. Actually earned his spot, and it shows in how he reads the ice. Still, nobody's position is safe. Not with what I have planned.
"Rotation!" Coach's whistle shrills. "Thatcher, wing. Zane, take center."
The next shot comes in hot—a one-timer from the slot that would beat most goalies. I don't just save it—I catch it clean, hold it for a beat to make sure everyone sees, then send it rocketing back down the ice. Message delivered: I'm better than this position. Better than all of them.
Coach ends practice with his usual mix of compliments and criticism. I half-listen, more focused on my real mission. Somewhere on this campus, Rick Kemper's daughter is starting her freshman year. My fingers itch to scroll through student photos again, hunting for her face. The search is part of the thrill—like tracking prey before the kill.
The locker room buzzes with post-practice chaos. Steam from the showers clouds the air while guys snap towels and blast music. The familiar stench of gear and sweat fills the space, but I barely notice it anymore. Just like I barely notice the divide between first and second string—the subtle way they cluster, the inside jokes I'm not meant to hear.
"Nice save back there, Black." Thatcher throws a balled-up tape roll at my head.
I catch it without looking and whip it back harder than necessary. "Someone's got to keep your ego in check." Just like someone needs to remind these privileged fucks that money can't buy skill.
Caleb and Zane share some inside joke while Noah does his usual post-practice stretching routine. Jack sits quietly, texting someone—probably another girl who thinks she's special. They're all so fucking predictable.
"First party's this weekend," Thatcher announces, pulling on his Blackridge hoodie. "Who's coming?"
I zip up my bag, mind already mapping possible places to start my search. I glance at Noah because we already have a party planned that night with the Reapers. He nods at me to confirm what I’m thinking.
I already have an invitation stored nicely in a thick envelope with Lola’s name on it. I’ll need to hand deliver it at some point.
I mutter, "We'll see. Got stuff to handle."
"Stuff?" Zane looks up from his phone. "It's the first weekend, man. What could be more important than free beer?"
If they only knew what kind of power I'm really chasing.
Zane watches me closely and says quietly, "Ah, just so you know, it’s the pre-party. You can make it."
I smack both him and Caleb on the back as I head out. "Try not to miss me too much, ladies."
The fresh air hits my face as I step outside. Campus is alive with the usual between-class rush. I scan faces automatically now, like a predator learning its hunting grounds. The goal wasn't just to become a Reaper—it was to become the kind of monster that makes other monsters nervous.
"Wait up, man."
Shit. It’s Dylan. He’s an innocent one.
"What's up?" I slow my pace, barely.
"Where you headed?"
"The quad."
He laughs like I just told a joke. "The quad?"
"Yeah." I keep my voice neutral, eyes still searching the passing faces. Looking for one specific face that doesn't know she's already my target.
Dylan falls into step beside me as we cross campus. The September sun feels good after the chill of the rink, but I'm too focused to enjoy it. Somewhere in this sea of students, Rick Kemper's daughter is going about her day, completely unaware that her world is about to shatter.
"I'm gonna meet up with a friend," Dylan checks his phone. "You good?"
I nod, watching him jog off toward the student center. Finally. Alone with my hunt.
The library looms ahead, and I adjust my course like I have a destination in mind. But my eyes are working overtime, searching for one specific face in the crowd. Finding Lola Kemper without raising suspicion is going to be tricky. Nobody knows Rick Kemper had a daughter—that information took weeks to dig up. If anyone realizes I haven’t found her yet, it'll raise suspicion that I don't know what I’m doing. And I don’t need that.
This is just the first stake out. I've got time to find her, confirm her identity. To learn her patterns, her weaknesses, her pressure points. Just like studying opponents on the ice—everyone has a tell, everyone has a breaking point.
And when I find hers...
Well, that's when the real game begins.
Movement near the library steps catches my eye—a girl with a cello case. Something about the way she carries herself makes me pause. No designer clothes or manicured confidence like the other girls here. She holds that instrument like it's her lifeline, not just an accessory.
My pulse quickens as she turns. Brown hair falls straight past her shoulders, nothing fancy about the cut. Clear skin that's never seen expensive creams. But it's her eyes that make me still—determined, haunted, hiding something dark behind all that innocence. I know that look. I see it in my mirror every fucking day.
Lola Kemper.
It’s her.
I hang back, watching her navigate the crowd. She doesn't try to blend in—doesn't know how. Everything about her screams scholarship student: the way she counts her steps, the careful distance she keeps from others, how she clutches that cello case like she's afraid someone will take it.
But there's something else. Something that makes my skin prickle with recognition. Under all that careful control, I sense a familiar kind of damage. The type that comes from growing up with monsters.
She claims a spot under an oak tree, fishing out a textbook and what looks like a pack of cheap crackers. My fingers itch to grab my phone, document this moment. Rick Kemper's secret daughter, sitting alone on campus, completely unaware she's being hunted. The predator in me wants to approach now—start the game, make first contact.
But I force myself to wait. To watch. To learn.
She pulls out sheet music, marking it with careful precision. Everything about her is controlled, measured, like she's spent her whole life trying not to draw attention. It would be almost admirable if it wasn't so fucking useful to me.
Some rich bitch walks by with her crew, whispers something that makes Lola's shoulders tense. Oh shit, that’s Amanda. We went to high school together, and she’s the last person I thought would be at Blackridge with me. And instead of shrinking, Lola's spine straightens. There it is—that flash of steel I was looking for. Daddy's little girl has teeth.
This is going to be more interesting than I thought.
I expected some spoiled princess, soft from daddy's money and protection. Instead, I find this—a girl who's clearly fought her own battles, who carries darkness like a second skin. Breaking her won't be as simple as I planned.
Good. I was hoping for a challenge.
My phone buzzes with a text from Noah about Reaper business, but I ignore it. I can't look away from her yet. Something about the way she holds herself, like she's both hiding and daring the world to notice her...it's fucking fascinating.
She glances up suddenly, like she can feel my stare. Interesting. For a split second, I think our eyes meet through the crowd. My blood hums with anticipation. But she looks away, gathering her things with quick, nervous movements.
Watching her hurry across the quad, I smile. Run all you want, little girl. You're already mine. You just don't know it yet.