8. Riggs
Riggs
T hursday afternoon finds me hunched over my laptop, trying to focus on my Sports Management assignment while my brain keeps replaying Friday night's events on an endless loop.
The words on the screen blur together, meaningless academic jargon that can't compete with the memory of Maren's fishnets tearing under my teeth.
It's been almost a week, and I haven't seen her since. Not in the dining hall, not crossing the quad, not in the one class we supposedly share. It's like she's taking this fucking ghost shit seriously now.
I rub my eyes, exhaustion making them burn. I haven't been sleeping well. Every time I close my eyes, I see her—blood on her pale skin, that knife appearing in her hand like magic, the casual way she nudged a corpse with her toe.
My knuckles have mostly healed, the splits closing up into fresh pink scars. I flex my hand, feeling the pull of new skin. Another set of scars to add to my collection. Hockey has left me with plenty. A roadmap of violence etched onto my body.
I glance at the clock. Two hours until I need to be at the rink for the Little Jaguars practice.
Coaching eight-year-olds how to skate and handle a stick is usually the highlight of my week, a reminder of why I fell in love with the game in the first place.
Today, though, it feels like an obligation, something to endure rather than enjoy.
A knock at my door is followed immediately by it swinging open. Martinez strolls in without waiting for an invitation, because of course he does. Personal boundaries aren't really his thing.
“Sup, asshole,” he greets me cheerfully, taking a bite of the apple in his hand. The crunch seems unnaturally loud in the quiet of my room. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, not looking up from my laptop. “Just what every guy wants to hear.”
Martinez flops down on my bed, making himself comfortable among the rumpled sheets. He's wearing his standard uniform of jeans and a faded band t-shirt, his dark hair sticking up in all directions like he just rolled out of bed. Knowing him, he probably did.
“Ever heard of waiting for someone to say 'come in'?” I ask, not looking up from my textbook.
“Why start now?” He takes another loud bite of his apple, the crunch setting my teeth on edge. “Besides, you've been holed up in here like a fucking hermit. Thought you might've died.”
“Studying,” I say, gesturing vaguely at the open book. “Some of us actually care about passing our classes.”
Martinez finishes his apple and tosses the core into my trash can. He misses. Doesn't bother to pick it up.
“Classes are whatever, bro,” he says, leaning back on his elbows.
“I'm here to play hockey. At least you haven't been sucking ass at that these last few days.” He eyes me with that look that says he's about to dig deeper.
“Coach would hand your ass to you if you brought this zombie vibe to the ice.”
I slam my laptop shut, giving up the pretense of productivity. “I'm fine.”
“Bullshit. You wanna tell me what the fuck is up with you and Bloody Mary?” he asks, and the nickname makes my jaw clench. “She's fucking hot but crazy as fuck, man. Word around campus is she once stabbed a guy in the hand with a mechanical pencil for touching her backpack.”
“Don't call her that,” I mutter.
“I'm just saying.” Martinez leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His dark eyes bore into mine, uncharacteristically serious. “She's liable to fuck you then Lorena Bobbitt you in your sleep.”
My jaw clenches so tight I can feel my molars grinding. “Don't call her that either.”
He sits up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Holy shit. You're actually into her. Like, for real.”
“I'm not into anyone,” I say, but even I can hear the lie in my voice.
“Yeah, and I’m a virgin and ain’t ever touched a single puck bunny in my entire ass life. You’ve got a look. Let’s call it the 'I'd-jump-off-a-cliff-if-she-asked-me-to' look.”
“I don't have a look,” I growl, shoving my laptop into my backpack with more force than necessary. The zipper catches, and I yank it so hard the teeth nearly break.
“You've got a whole fucking catalog of looks, bro. And this one?” He points at my face like he's identifying a specimen. “This is your 'I'm about to make a catastrophically stupid decision about a girl' look.”
I flip him off, but he just laughs.
“Real mature, Rhodes.”
“Says the guy who drew a dick on Coach Calloway’s whiteboard last week.”
“It was anatomically correct. That's educational.” He reaches for my psychology textbook, flipping through it with zero interest. “So what happened Friday night? You went missing for like an hour after your fight.”
“Nothing happened.”
“Yeah? Then why's your face doing that thing?”
“What thing?”
“That thing where you look like you're constipated and horny at the same time.” He tosses the textbook aside. “Did you fuck her?”
“Jesus Christ, Martinez.” I rake a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling under my skin. “Why are you so obsessed with my sex life?”
“Because yours is way more interesting than mine right now. Coach has me on such a short leash I can't even look at a girl without him materializing out of thin air like some kind of cockblocking demon.”
I can't help the laugh that escapes me. “Maybe if you hadn't been caught with Tiffany and—what was the other one's name?”
“Jessica,” he supplies, a dreamy look crossing his face. “Worth it, though. Those twins could?—”
“I don't need the details,” I cut him off, glancing at my watch. “C'mon, it's time for Little Jaguars.”
Martinez flops back on my bed with a theatrical groan, throwing an arm over his eyes like he's a Victorian lady about to faint. “Fuck me sideways. Can't we skip? Those little shits are exhausting.”
“They're eight, not the spawn of Satan.” I grab my hockey bag from the floor, slinging it over my shoulder. “And no, we can't skip. Coach would have our asses.”
“Coach already has my ass. I'm practically his property at this point.”
“That's because you can't keep it in your pants,” I say, tossing his jacket at him. “Now move it. We're gonna be late.”
Martinez grumbles but follows me out the door, bitching the whole way to the rink about how eight-year-olds should be banned from holding hockey sticks. I let his complaints wash over me, a familiar white noise that's easier to focus on than the churning in my gut every time I think about Maren.
Two hours later, I'm watching little Aiden Michaels attempt his fifth breakaway drill. The kid's determined as hell, even though he keeps tripping over his own skates. Martinez is at the other end of the ice, demonstrating a slapshot to three wide-eyed boys who look at him like he's a hockey deity.
“Keep your knees bent, Aiden,” I call out, skating backward to give him room. “That's it. Eyes up!”
The kid manages to stay upright this time, wobbling toward the goal with his tongue poking out between his teeth in concentration. He takes the shot and actually gets it in. His face lights up like it's Christmas morning.
“I did it, Coach Riggs! Did you see?”
“Saw the whole thing, Aid. That was sick.” I bump his helmet with my gloved fist, and he beams up at me, missing tooth and all.
There's something pure about these kids and their uncomplicated love for the game. No scholarships on the line, no scouts watching from the bleachers, no pressure to perform. Just the ice beneath their blades and the puck on their sticks.
When we finally blow the whistle to end practice, there's the usual chaos of small bodies scrambling off the ice, parents calling out reminders about forgotten water bottles and gloves. Martinez and I hang back, collecting stray pucks and moving the goals to the side.
“I swear to god, that Parker kid is going to be the death of me,” Martinez says, scooping up a pile of orange cones. “He asked me if I knew how babies were made. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?”
I snort, dumping a bucket of pucks into the equipment bag. “What did you tell him?”
“That he should ask his parents. I'm not getting fired because some eight-year-old goes home and tells his mom that Coach Martinez said babies come from fucking.”
“Solid call.” I glance around the now-empty rink, but something catches my eye.
At first, I think I'm hallucinating. My brain finally cracking under the weight of a week's worth of sleep deprivation and obsessive thoughts. But Martinez's sudden stillness beside me confirms I'm not seeing things.
Maren fucking Marino is gliding onto the ice.
She moves with eerie grace, like she's not even touching the surface.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, wisps framing her face.
She's wearing black leggings and an oversized gray hoodie that hangs off one shoulder, revealing the black strap of what looks like a sports bra.
No hockey gear, just a pair of beaten-up figure skates.
“Holy shit,” Martinez whispers, his voice uncharacteristically hushed. “Is that?—”
“Yeah,” I manage, my throat suddenly dry.
She hasn't seen us yet. We're standing in the shadows by the equipment room, and her eyes are focused straight ahead, something distant and unreachable in her expression. Like she's somewhere else entirely.
“Well, well, well,” Martinez drawls, finding his voice again. “If it isn't the Ice Princess herself. Didn't know the dead could skate.”
I elbow him hard in the ribs, but it's too late.
Maren's head turns toward us, those haunting gray-blue eyes locking onto mine.
For a split second, I see something flicker across her face—surprise, maybe even vulnerability—before the mask slides back into place.
That familiar empty look that makes my chest ache.
“I need food,” Martinez announces, rubbing his stomach dramatically. “I'm fucking starving. Those little demons drained my life force.”
“So go eat,” I tell him, not taking my eyes off Maren. She's still watching us, but she's started to move again, making slow, deliberate circles on the ice.
“You coming?” Martinez asks, but there's a knowing tone in his voice. He already knows the answer.
“Nah, I'll catch up with you later.”
“Your funeral, bro.” He claps me on the shoulder, leaning in to murmur in my ear. “Try not to get stabbed. Blood's a bitch to get out of the ice.”
I shove him away, and he laughs, the sound echoing off the high ceiling of the rink. He gives Maren a mock salute as he passes the edge of the ice. “Later, Morticia.”
She doesn't acknowledge him, just continues her circular pattern, each stroke of her skates precise and controlled.
I've never seen her on the ice before. Never even heard a rumor that she could skate.
But watching her now, it's obvious she's spent years on blades.
There's a fluidity to her movements that can't be faked.
She ignores me completely now, like I'm not even there. Like she didn't just catch me staring at her like some lovesick fucking idiot. She picks up speed, her movements shifting from those lazy circles into something with purpose. Something that makes my breath catch in my throat.
I've spent my life on the ice. Learned to skate before I could properly run. Spent countless hours crashing into boards and other players, turning the pristine white surface into a battlefield. But what Maren's doing isn't a battle.
She launches into a spin, her body a blur of black and gray against the ice.
Her arms pull in tight to her chest, and she's spinning so fast I can barely track her face.
Then suddenly her arms open, one leg extends, and she slows like she's controlling time itself.
The edge of her skate carves the ice with precision, leaving perfect arcs in her wake.
This is something raw and painful and beautiful.
Her face is different now. The mask has slipped, or maybe she's forgotten I'm here.
She flows into a jump, her body twisting in the air—once, twice—before landing on one foot, the other leg extended behind her in a graceful arc.
The sound of her blade hitting the ice echoes through the empty rink.
I find myself holding my breath, waiting for her to fall, but she doesn't even wobble.
It hits me then. This is what Maren looks like when she's not pretending. When she's not playing at being a ghost or a monster or whatever the fuck she thinks she is. This is Maren, stripped down to her essence.
Her movements tell a story I can't quite read.
There's anger in the way she attacks certain jumps, launching herself into the air like she's trying to escape gravity itself.
There's grief in the slow, reaching motions of her arms, like she's trying to hold on to something or someone that's no longer there.
And there's a wild kind of joy in the speed she builds, racing around the perimeter of the rink like she's outrunning demons.
I've never seen anything so fucking beautiful in my life.
Her ponytail has come loose, dark strands of hair whipping around her face as she spins. There's a sheen of sweat on her skin now, making it glow under the harsh fluorescent lights. She's breathing hard, chest rising and falling rapidly.
Then, slowly, deliberately, Maren brings her hand to her mouth. Her eyes never leave mine as she presses her fingers to her lips. She's blowing me a kiss.
The gesture is so unexpected, so fucking surreal coming from her, that for a moment I think I've imagined it. But there it is—floating across the ice between us, this invisible token that feels heavier than it should.
Without thinking, I reach up and close my fist in the air, catching it. I feel like a complete fucking idiot as soon as I do it—like some lovesick teenager in a cheesy movie—but the smile that spreads across her face makes it worth the embarrassment.
My phone buzzes in my pocket—probably Martinez wondering where the fuck I am—but I ignore it. I'll deal with his shit later, his knowing looks and crude comments. Right now, I just need a minute to process what I've seen. What I've been allowed to see.
I shove my feet into my sneakers, not bothering to tie the laces. I grab my hockey bag and glance once more at my little nightmare taking up the entire rink, the one place I feel at home no matter what’s going on.
If I thought I had even a chance of stopping this obsession I’ve developed for her, this just stopped that entire thought.
I want her, and I’m going to have her, in any way she allows.