32. Riggs
Riggs
I 'm crossing the quad when I notice a small crowd gathered near the bulletin board outside the student center. There's a nervous energy I can feel from twenty feet away. A campus security officer stands at the edge, looking important but useless as usual.
“What's going on?” I ask some random girl on the fringe of the crowd.
She turns, eyes wide with the excitement of drama. “Emma Whitaker. She's missing. She didn't come back to her dorm last night.”
The name's vaguely familiar. Blonde and in a sorority. One of those girls who's in every club and knows everyone's name.
“Maybe she just crashed at her boyfriend's,” I suggest with a shrug.
“They found her purse by Lakeside Hall. Phone, keys, everything still in it.” The girl lowers her voice. “And there was blood.”
Relief washes over me, followed immediately by guilt. It wasn't us. It’s a girl first of all, but second of all Maren's been with me every night this week. We've been too wrapped up in each other for her to change her style.
But old habits die hard. I find myself scanning the post for details, looking for any connection to us, any loose thread that could unravel.
I force myself to walk away, pushing through a group of freshmen who look appropriately scared.
The west hallway of the humanities building is empty this time of day. My footsteps echo against the polished tile, and as I pass by the wall of windows, my reflection walks alongside me, distorted by the late afternoon sun. The glass is so clean it's almost a perfect mirror.
Something pulls me to stop. A feeling.
“Maren,” I whisper, half to myself, not expecting anything.
The glass shows only me, standing alone in the corridor.
“Maren,” I say again, louder this time, feeling stupid and exposed.
Nothing but my own reflection staring back at me.
“Maren.”
The air shifts behind me. My reflection is no longer alone. She's there, her dark hair falling across her face, lips curved into that smile that's always meant trouble.
“Think I'm a ghost?” She asks, her voice sliding over me like honey and hellfire.
“I think you're the devil I'd die for,” I tell her reflection, meaning every word.
I grab her wrist and spin her around, backing her against the glass wall with my body pressed against hers. My hands find her waist as her back meets the cool surface.
“You think that's funny, don't you?” I growl, my lips hovering just above hers. “Sneaking up on me like that?”
Her eyes dance with mischief. “Your face was worth it, and you did speak my name thrice.”
I capture her mouth with mine, desperate and hungry, like I'm drowning and she's oxygen. Her fingers thread through my hair, pulling just hard enough to hurt in that way that drives me crazy. I press her harder against the glass, my hand sliding up her ribcage.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Maren puts a hand against my chest, creating an inch of space between us.
“Golden boy,” she whispers, “you have practice in twenty minutes.”
“Fuck practice,” I mutter, leaning in again.
She turns her face slightly. “And I have Abnormal Psych in fifteen.”
I groan, dropping my forehead to her shoulder. “Skip it. Come watch me instead.”
“Can't. I actually like this class.” Her fingers trace patterns on my neck. “Professor Miller’s lectures are interesting.”
My head snaps up, something hot and ugly coiling in my gut. “Miller? That new guy? The one who wears those stupid fucking sweater vests?”
Maren raises an eyebrow. “What's it to you?”
“The way he looks at you,” I spit out. “I've seen him. If that pretentious asshole keeps eye-fucking you during lectures, I swear to god I'll pop his eyeballs out and use them as fucking pucks at practice.”
“Jesus, Riggs.” She laughs, but it's not a denial. “Graphic.”
“I'm serious.” I press my palm against the glass beside her head, caging her in. “Is he why you won't skip? You got a thing for professors now?”
“Don't be stupid.” She slides her hand up my chest to my jaw, her touch gentler than her words. “I don’t have a thing for anyone but tall, annoying blond hockey players with little scars on their eyebrow.”
I kiss her again, softer this time. “Go to class, then. But I'll be waiting after.”
“You better win today,” she says against my lips. “I hate fucking losers.”
“It’s literally only practice, but for you? I'll crush them.” I finally step back, letting her slip away from the glass. “Don't let Miller get too close. I wasn't kidding about the eyeballs.”
She walks backward down the hall, with that smile that haunts my dreams playing on her lips.
Practice is a fucking bloodbath.
The second I hit the ice, I'm looking for someone to destroy. My whole body is so full of rage, thinking about Miller’s eyes on Maren while she sits there taking notes, hanging on his every pretentious word.
When Parker cuts in front of me during drills, I cross-check him so hard his helmet flies off. He crashes into the boards with a satisfying thud.
“What the fuck, Rhodes!” he screams, scrambling to his feet.
I just smile. “Sorry. Didn't see you there.”
Coach blows his whistle, but I'm already skating away, adrenaline singing through my veins. Two minutes later, I slam my stick into Perkins ankles during a scrimmage, sending him sprawling across the ice.
“Rhodes! That's enough!” Coach bellows from the sidelines.
I ignore him, circling back around. When Perkins tries to steal the puck, I drive my shoulder into his chest so hard I hear the air rush from his lungs. He drops like a stone.
“RHODES! BENCH! NOW!”
Coach's face is purple with rage as I skate over, smirking. The rest of the team gives me a wide berth, like I'm radioactive. Maybe I am.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Coach demands, voice low and dangerous as I drop onto the bench. “You just took out three of your own teammates in less than five minutes.”
I shrug, removing my helmet. “They were in my way.”
“This isn't you.” He stares at me, and for a second, I see concern beneath the anger. “You're not the same, Rhodes.”
The words hit me harder than they should. I stare at the ice, at the scrimmage continuing without me. My teammates cast nervous glances my way. I used to be their golden boy, their captain, their future NHL star.
Now I'm just dangerous.
“I'm done,” I tell him, the words coming out flat. Not angry or sad. Just fact.
Coach blinks, like he's waiting for more, but I've got nothing else to give. I stand up and head for the locker room without looking back.
Under the shower, I let scalding water pound my skin until it's red and raw. My knuckles are bleeding from where I punched a locker. I don't remember doing it.
The door creaks open. Through the steam, I see Coach standing there, arms crossed.
“You want to tell me what's really going on?” he asks.
“Not particularly.”
“Rhodes, throwing away your career isn't going to fix whatever's broken inside you.”
I shut off the water and grab a towel. “Nothing's broken.”
“Bullshit.” He steps closer. “You've always been intense on the ice, but this—this is something else. This is self-destruction.”
I stare at Coach; the towel wrapped loosely around my waist, water still dripping from my hair. Something inside me just gives up the fight.
“My heart's not in it anymore,” I say flatly. “Hockey. All of it.”
Coach's expression shifts from anger to concern. “What are you talking about? This is your life, Rhodes. Your future.”
“Is it?” I laugh without humor. “Because it feels like a fucking prison sentence. The star player. The golden boy. Everyone watching, everyone expecting. I'm so fucking tired of it.”
He studies me, his eyes narrowing. “Is this about that girl? The one they whisper about? Marino, right? You're throwing everything away for her?”
The mention of Maren's name makes something protective flare in my chest, but I shake my head.
“This isn't about her, Coach. It's about me.” I run a hand through my wet hair. “I've been changing who I am to fit what everyone wants for so long I don't even recognize myself anymore. I've been a fucking chameleon my whole life, and I'm exhausted.”
“Rhodes—”
“None of them matter,” I continue, my voice getting louder. “The scouts, the team, the fucking alumni association. No offense, but you don't matter either. Not to the real me. I'm just…done. I need to be done.”
Coach's face hardens, then softens again. He sighs heavily.
“Take the rest of the season,” he says finally. “Think about it. Really think. Don't make a decision you'll regret for the rest of your life.”
I just shrug. What's there to think about? I already know.
He looks at me one last time before walking away; the door swinging behind him.
I dress quickly, then start emptying my locker. Jerseys, extra clothes, the stupid good luck charm my cousins gave me before I left for college. I stuff it all into my duffel bag, not bothering to be careful.
The door closes behind me with a final thud. No dramatic echo, no sense of gravity. Just a door closing on a chapter of my life that was never really mine to begin with.
Outside, the sky has turned a purple-blue. Campus is quieter now, most students at the dining hall or in their dorms.
For the first time in years, my chest doesn't feel tight. Like something's been cut loose inside me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
where are you?
coming to find you. class over?
yes. meet me at the water.
I start walking, the weight of my bag suddenly nothing compared to what I've been carrying.
When I reach the stream, I see her sitting on a fallen log, her back to me.
“Hey baby.”
She doesn't turn. “Did you win?”
I drop my bag and sit beside her. “I quit.”
Maren finally turns to face me, her expression unreadable in the dim light. “Quit? As in walked away? Just like that?”
“Just like that.” I nod, feeling strangely calm despite what I've just done. “It's been coming for a while.”
“Your scholarship?—”
“Fuck the scholarship.” I grab a stone and hurl it into the water, watching the ripples spread outward. “I can't do it anymore, Maren. Every time I step on that ice, it's like I'm drowning. The game used to be everything to me, but now...”
She's studying me with eyes that see right through the bullshit. “Now what?”
“Now it feels like a fucking job. Going through the motions for people who don't even see me. They see Riggs Rhodes, hockey star. Future draft pick. Their ticket to bragging rights.” I run my hands through my hair, still damp from the shower. “I'm just a fucking product to them.”
“And to me?” she asks, voice soft but cutting.
I turn to her, my chest aching with something I can't name. “To you, I'm just…me. The real me. The fucked-up, angry, lost version that no one else wants to see.”
Maren's lips curve into a half-smile that makes my heart race. “And you think that version is worth more?”
“I know it is.” I reach for her hand, threading my fingers through hers. “I'd rather bleed for something that matters than keep pretending to be someone I'm not.”
She laughs, but it's not cruel. “You're walking away from everything for me? That's a dangerous game, Riggs.”
“I'm not walking away from everything. I'm walking toward something real.” I grab her chin, forcing her to look at me. “For once in my fucking life, I'm choosing. Not letting other people choose for me.”
Maren's eyes darken, and she leans in until our foreheads touch. “And if I destroy you? What then?”
“Then I'll have been destroyed for something I actually wanted.”
Maren doesn't answer with words. Instead, she moves like a predator, sliding onto my lap and straddling me. My hand automatically finds her waist and pulls her closer until I can feel our heartbeats syncing.
She kisses me, and it’s not desperate or hungry. It’s soft and gentle as her fingers carve invisible lines into my jaw.
“Let's just go,” she whispers, her breath warm against my lips. “Leave this place. Leave St. James behind. All of it.”
I freeze, searching her face for any sign she's fucking with me. “You serious?”
“Dead serious.” Her fingers tangle in my hair. “We don't belong here, Riggs. We never did. This place, these people are just placeholders and background noise.”
I kiss her like I’m burying the boy I used to be.
And just like that, we stop being theirs.
No longer the hockey player and the cheerleader. No longer the golden boy and Bloody Mary.
We don’t belong to St. James. We don’t belong to anyone.
We’re not running. We’re claiming what’s ours.
And if the world burns in the process.
Good.
Let it fucking burn.