1. Riggs
Riggs
T he ice hums beneath my skates as I glide out onto the rink, the familiar chill seeping through my gear. It's been a year since that fucked-up night, but the memory still hits me like a body check to the boards. I shake it off, focusing on the satisfying scrape of metal on ice as I pick up speed.
Coach Calloway stands at center ice, his whistle dangling from his neck like a noose. He's nothing like Harrington. Still, I can't help the twist in my gut every time he calls me into his office. Old habits die hard, I guess.
I carve lazy figure eights as I warm up, my muscles remembering the rhythm. A year ago, I never thought I'd be back here. I was a dead man walking, rage and despair eating me alive. Now? I'm team captain, and top of my class. Funny how things work out.
I skate past the glass, catching glimpses of the cheerleaders huddled on the bleachers.
Brittany with her perpetual smirk, Tasha's bright red hair damn near blinding. But the face I'm really looking for isn't there.
Maren.
I shouldn't be surprised. She's barely shown her face on campus, but somehow she's still on the squad.
No one dares to question it, not with her uncle Matteo Marino looming in the background like some mafia boogeyman.
The guy's got half the town in his pocket, and the other half too scared to breathe wrong.
Not that I’ll say shit because me keeping my fucking mouth shut got me right back here.
The cheerleaders giggle and wave as I skate by, their enthusiasm almost comical.
A year ago, I would've basked in their attention, maybe even winked at a few of the hotter ones.
Now, they might as well be cardboard cutouts.
There's only one girl who occupies my thoughts, and she's about as present as a fucking ghost.
I push harder, picking up speed as I round the corner. The cold air whips against my face, a welcome sting that grounds me in the present. But even as I focus on the burn in my muscles, the satisfying glide of my skates, my mind drifts back to her.
The girl who saved me and damned me in the same breath.
Executing a sharp turn, I spray ice as I change direction. Coach Calloway barks out instructions, but I barely hear him.
Nobody talks about what happened to Harrington and I’m thankful for it because the less I think about him, the better.
I snap back to reality as Coach Calloway's whistle pierces the air, echoing off the rink's high ceiling. “Rhodes! Get your head out of your ass and run the drill!”
“Yes, Coach,” I mutter, skating into position. My teammates are already lined up, sticks at the ready. I take my place at the front, gripping my stick tighter.
We run through drills like a well-oiled machine. Pass, shoot, score. Rinse and repeat. The satisfying thwack of stick against puck, the scrape of blades on ice, the grunts and shouts of my teammates.
I weave through the defense, my stick an extension of my arm as I deke left, then right. The goalie's eyes widen as I approach, but he's too slow. I flick my wrist, sending the puck sailing over his shoulder and into the net. The red light flashes, and a cheer goes up from my teammates.
“Nice one, Rhodes!” Coach Calloway calls out, a hint of approval in his gruff voice.
We move on to scrimmage, splitting into two teams. The competitive fire that's always simmering in my gut roars to life. This is what I live for. The rush of the game, the thrill of outsmarting my opponents, the pure adrenaline of it all.
I lose myself in the rhythm of play, my body moving on autopilot. Time becomes meaningless, measured only in the space between breaths and the arc of the puck through the air.
My legs burn, sweat dripping down my back beneath my jersey. Coach’s voice echoes off the rafters, a constant stream of critique and instruction.
“Rhodes! Cover your man!”
“Jenkins, watch that blue line!”
“Martinez, get your head out of your ass and block that shot!”
Before I know it, his whistle is blowing again, signaling the end of practice. My lungs burn and my muscles ache, but it's a good kind of pain. The kind that reminds me I'm alive, that I've earned my place here.
“Hit the showers, boys,” Coach Calloway barks. “Good work out there today.”
We file off the ice, the tension of practice giving way to easy banter and laughter. I trail behind, savoring the last moments on the rink. This is where I belong, where everything makes sense. Out here, I'm not the guy who almost lost it all. I'm just Riggs Rhodes, team captain, top scorer.
In the locker room, the air is thick with the smell of sweat and body spray. Guys strip off their gear, comparing bruises and rehashing plays. I peel off my own sweat-soaked jersey, wincing as I discover a new bruise blooming on my ribs.
I shower quickly, letting the hot water sluice away the stink and grime. The guys are still bullshitting. I nod along, mumbling agreements as I towel off and pull on my jeans.
“See you at Theta Chi tonight?” Martinez calls as I shoulder my bag.
“Yeah, maybe,” I lie, knowing damn well I won't show.
Throwing my hand up in a wave, I walk out of the locker room, pulling my hoodie on as I go. My hair's still damp, sending a chill down my spine as the wind whips past.
Ducking my head to avoid eye contact as I cut across the grass, my steps falter when I see someone off the side of the quad. My heart does the weird-ass stutter-skip thing it always does when I think about her.
She's standing under a massive oak tree, its branches nearly bare now. Dead leaves crunch under her feet as she shifts her weight, her eyes fixed on something in the distance.
She looks…different. Her hair is darker now, almost black in the fading light.
It falls in messy waves around her face, like she couldn't be bothered to run a brush through it.
But it's her eyes that really get me. They're emptier somehow, like someone scooped out whatever light used to be in there and left nothing but shadows.
Fuck, she looks like a ghost. Like something out of one of those artsy black and white photos, all pale skin and dark hair against the backdrop of skeletal trees.
As I get closer, I notice more details. The dark circles under her eyes, stark against her skin. The way her clothes hang a little too loose on her frame, like she's lost weight she couldn't afford to lose. There's a cigarette dangling from her fingers, the smoke curling up into the air.
She takes a long drag, her cheeks hollowing out as she inhales. When she exhales, the smoke comes out in a steady stream, like she's breathing out all the oxygen in her lungs. It's weirdly mesmerizing, watching her slowly kill herself one puff at a time.
Maren turns her head, and our eyes lock for the first time in a year. It's like a fucking gut punch, knocking the wind right out of me. Even like this, she’s still the hottest girl I’ve ever seen.
She doesn't look away, and I can't help but take a step closer. It's like there's an invisible string between us, pulling me in. My heart's pounding so hard I swear she must be able to hear it.
Maren takes a step towards me too.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but before I can, I hear the whispers.
“There goes Bloody Mary.”
The words drift across the quad, carried on the autumn breeze. I see Maren flinch, just slightly, like she's been slapped. But she doesn't back down, doesn't look away from me.
The whispers grow louder, swirling around us like poison. “Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary.” I want to scream at them to shut the fuck up, but my throat feels tight, choked with words I can't say.
“Speak her name in a mirror, and she'll appear,” some asshole mutters as he walks by. I clench my fists, fighting the urge to knock his teeth out.
Maren doesn't flinch this time. She just stands there, taking another long drag.
The smoke curls around her face like a veil, making her look even more ghostly.
Her eyes never leave mine, and I feel like I'm drowning in them.
They're the color of a storm-tossed sea, like those damn North Sea videos.
“Look into her eyes too long, and you'll drop dead,” a girl whispers to her friend as they hurry past. I want to tell them they're wrong. But are they? There's something in her gaze that makes my heart stutter, makes my breath catch in my throat.
“She's cursed. She's crazy.” The words echo across the quad. Maybe they're right. Maybe Maren is cursed. Maybe we both are.
My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to reach out and touch her. Maren tilts her head slightly, just like she did that night a year ago. It's a small gesture, barely noticeable, but it hits me like a freight train. Something inside me snaps, and suddenly I'm drowning in memories.
I want to go to her. No, I need to go to her. My feet feel like they're made of lead, but I force myself to take a step forward. The whispers fade into white noise as I focus on Maren, on the curve of her neck and the way her lips part slightly as she exhales another plume.
I want to hear her say my name. I wonder if her voice still sounds the same—that husky, slightly raspy tone that used to make my skin tingle. Will it be cold and empty now, like her eyes? Or will there still be a hint of the girl from before, buried beneath all that pain and darkness?
My heart's pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. I open my mouth to speak, to call out to her, but no sound comes out. It's like all the words I've been holding back for a year are stuck in my chest, fighting to get out but unable to break free.
I take another step, and another. The distance between us shrinks, but it still feels like miles.
She watches me approach, her eyes never leaving mine. There's a challenge in her gaze, daring me to come closer, to bridge the gap between us. I want to. God, I want to. But my feet won't move any faster, and time seems to stretch out infinitely.
And then, just as I'm about to reach her, just as I'm close enough to see the flecks of silver in her stormy eyes, Maren's lips curl into a smirk. It's not a happy expression. There's too much pain and bitterness behind it for that.
Before I can react, before I can finally force the words out of my throat, Maren turns on her heel. The movement is fluid, almost graceful, like a cheerleader spinning out from sticking her landing.
Just like that, she's walking off, her sneakers crunching through the leaves. Her dark hair swings with each step, hypnotizing me. I stand there, frozen, watching her retreat.
She doesn't look back. Not once.
I watch until she disappears around the corner of the science building. Only then do I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding.
The whispers are still going, but now they're about me too. I hear my name mixed in with hers, speculation running wild. I should care. I should be worried about what this will do to my carefully reconstructed reputation.
But all I can think about is the way Maren looked at me. Like she could see right through me, like she knew every dark thought I've had this past year. And that smirk…was it an invitation? A challenge?
I shake my head, trying to clear it. This is dangerous territory. Maren Marino is like nitroglycerin—beautiful, powerful, and liable to blow up in my face if I'm not careful.