Chapter One
Sophia
If there's one thing I've learned in my twenty years on this planet, it's that precision is everything. The difference between a perfect triple lutz and a face-plant into the boards? Three degrees of blade angle and two milliseconds of timing.
I'm twenty minutes early. Always twenty minutes early.
It gives me time to inspect the ice conditions, check that the sound system is working properly, and mentally review the practice routine I've already choreographed on graph paper using a ruler and three different colored pens.
Yes, I choreograph on graph paper first. No, I don't care if that makes me a control freak.
Control freaks get into medical school. Spontaneous people get hypothermia because they forgot to pack extra socks.
I slide my key card through the reader—one of the perks of being Figure Skating Club president—and push open the heavy arena doors, breathing in that familiar scent of cold air and zamboni exhaust. There's something almost sacred about an empty ice rink in the early morning.
The pristine white surface stretches out like a blank canvas, unmarked by blade scratches or—
"What the hell?"
I stop dead in my tracks, nearly dropping my perfectly organized equipment bag. The ice looks like a war zone.
Black puck marks scar the surface like acne on a teenager's face.
Deep gouges from hockey skates crisscross the rink in chaotic patterns that make my graph-paper-loving heart want to weep.
And scattered across MY pristine ice—ice that I personally requested the zamboni driver resurface last night—are approximately fourteen hockey pucks, three water bottles, and what appears to be a piece of someone's broken stick.
"Those absolute barbarians," I mutter, pulling out my phone to document the carnage. This is definitely going in my practice log under "Obstacles to Success: Hockey Team's Continued Existence."
I'm busy photographing a particularly offensive gouge near center ice when I hear the arena doors bang open behind me.
"Yo, Gabs! You see my spare gloves anywhere? I think I left them—"
The voice cuts off abruptly. I turn around to find myself face-to-face with six feet of rumpled hockey player, dark hair sticking up like he just rolled out of bed (which, knowing hockey players, he probably did), wearing a UW Hockey hoodie that's seen better decades and holding what looks like a gas station coffee in a cup that definitely violates several environmental protection laws.
Matt Gable. Hockey team captain. My nemesis.
The bane of my perfectly organized existence.
We stare at each other for a moment, like two gunslingers in an old western movie, except instead of tumbleweeds, there are hockey pucks scattered between us, and instead of a dusty main street, we're standing on ice that looks like it survived a small apocalypse.
"Turner." He nods at me like we're casual acquaintances instead of sworn enemies locked in an eternal battle for ice supremacy.
"Gable." I gesture dramatically at the devastation surrounding us. "I don't suppose you'd know anything about this... this crime scene that was supposedly my practice ice?"
He takes a sip of his coffee—black, of course, because apparently adding cream and sugar requires too much effort—and surveys the rink with the casual indifference of someone who's never color-coded anything in his entire life.
"Crime scene's a little dramatic, don't you think? Looks like hockey to me."
"Hockey," I repeat slowly, "is scheduled for evening practice slots.
This ice was supposed to be resurfaced at eleven PM last night.
My practice starts at six AM. It is currently—" I check my phone, "—five forty-two AM.
Which means you and your team of..." I search for an appropriately scientific term, "...
puck-wielding chaos agents were here during YOUR scheduled time and left this disaster for ME to deal with. "
"Puck-wielding chaos agents?" One corner of his mouth twitches up in what might be amusement. "That's new. Usually you just call us knuckle-draggers."
"I've never called you knuckle-draggers."
"You called us 'evolutionary throwbacks who solve problems by ramming into things.'"
"That was last week, and it was scientifically accurate."
"And the week before that, you told Coach Shanahan we were 'Neanderthals with coordination issues.'"
I adjust my equipment bag strap and lift my chin. "Again, scientifically accurate."
Matt laughs—actually laughs—like I've said something funny instead of simply stating observable facts. "You know, Turner, most people would just say 'hey, you guys left a mess.'"
"Most people don't have Biochemistry midterms in six hours and figure skating practice that needs to be perfect because Regional Qualifiers are in three weeks and Brooke Reynolds still can't land her double axel consistently, which means I need to modify the group routine, which I can't do if the ice surface looks like a meteor shower hit it. "
I realize I've said all of this in one breath and force myself to stop talking. There's something about Matt Gable that makes me word-vomit my thoughts, like my brain-to-mouth filter just gives up and goes on vacation.
He's staring at me with an expression I can't quite read. "You have a Biochem midterm in six hours?"
"Yes, and I need to review protein synthesis pathways after practice, which is why I can't waste time cleaning up your mess."
"What did you eat for breakfast?"
I blink. "What?"
"Breakfast. What did you eat?"
"I don't... why does that matter?"
"You're taking a Biochem midterm in six hours and you've been up since—what, five AM? When did you eat?"
"I don't eat before exams. Food can cause digestive upset which can lead to decreased cognitive function and—"
"Jesus, Turner." He runs a hand through his messy hair. "You can't take a midterm on an empty stomach. Your brain needs glucose to function."
"My brain functions perfectly well on my carefully calculated pre-exam protocol, thank you very much."
"Which involves starving yourself, apparently."
"It involves optimizing my performance by eliminating variables that could impact my concentration."
"Right." He pulls out his phone and starts typing something. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to practice your... spinny things, or whatever—"
"Triple toe loops."
"—triple toe loops, and I'm going to grab the guys and clean up the ice. Then you're going to go eat something before your exam."
I stare at him. "You're going to clean up the ice?"
"Shocking, I know. Turns out some of us evolved opposable thumbs."
"But... but you're not supposed to be here for another twelve hours."
"Yeah, well, I forgot my backup gloves and we have an away game this weekend." He shrugs like this is a perfectly normal explanation for arriving at the ice rink before sunrise.
"You have backup gloves?"
"I have backup everything. Gloves, sticks, helmet, skates..." He trails off, looking slightly embarrassed. "What? You think you're the only one who plans ahead?"
This is unexpected. In my mental file labeled "Matt Gable: Essential Characteristics," there's definitely no folder marked "preparedness" or "consideration for others.
" There's a large folder marked "causes chaos," a medium-sized one labeled "allergic to punctuality," and a tiny one that just says "surprisingly good hair for someone who doesn't try. "
I'm still processing this new information when the arena doors bang open again and three more hockey players stumble in, looking like they've been dragged through a hedge backwards.
"Gabs, please tell me you found the—oh." The tall blond one (I think his name is Josh? Or maybe Jason? They're all interchangeably large and loud) stops when he sees me. "Hey, Ice Queen."
"Don't call me that."
"Sorry. Hey, Your Royal Ice-ness."
"That's worse."
"Hey, Turner," Matt says casually, like we're continuing a normal conversation instead of standing in the middle of our regular cold war.
"Meet the guys. Guys, you remember Turner.
She's the one who wrote that article in the campus paper about how hockey is 'a thinly veiled excuse for socially acceptable violence. '"
"That was journalism class," I protest. "I needed a controversial topic."
"And last month you left a note on our locker room door suggesting we 'evolve beyond our primitive territorial instincts,'" adds a redhead whose name I definitely don't know.
"That was after you guys practiced during our time and left a half-eaten pizza on the penalty box."
"That wasn't half-eaten," protests the blond one. "There were at least three slices left."
"The point," Matt says, holding up a hand before I can launch into my prepared lecture about proper ice rink etiquette and basic human decency, "is that we made a mess, and we're going to clean it up. Right, guys?"
The three hockey players look at him like he's suggested they take up competitive ballroom dancing.
"We're going to... clean?" asks the redhead.
"With, like, effort?" adds the blond.
"Before sunrise?" finishes the third one, who hasn't spoken yet but apparently felt this was his moment to contribute.
"Yes, before sunrise. Turner has practice, and then she has a Biochem midterm she's going to fail because she hasn't eaten anything."
"I am not going to fail—"
"When's the last time you ate actual food?" Matt interrupts.
I think about this. "Yesterday. Dinner. Grilled chicken breast, steamed broccoli, and exactly half a cup of brown rice."
"Yesterday," Matt repeats flatly.
"It was a very substantial meal."
"Turner, it's Thursday morning. When was this substantial meal?"
"Tuesday."
The four hockey players stare at me in horror, like I've just admitted to drowning puppies for fun.
"Tuesday," Matt says again, very slowly.
"I've been living on energy bars and green tea," I say defensively. "It's a perfectly adequate nutritional strategy for exam preparation. Minimizes digestive load while maintaining stable blood sugar levels."
"Energy bars," says the blond one, "are not food. Energy bars are what you eat when you're lost in the wilderness and considering eating tree bark."
"That's... actually not inaccurate," I admit.
Matt pulls out his phone again. "Change of plans. Tyler, Josh, Connor—you guys start picking up pucks and fixing the ice. I'm taking Turner to get breakfast."
"You are not taking me anywhere," I sputter. "I have practice in exactly fourteen minutes, then I have to review my notes, then I have my exam. My schedule doesn't have room for impromptu breakfast adventures with—"
"With what?"
"With..." I gesture vaguely at him, trying to find words that won't get me in trouble with the student conduct board. "With agents of chaos."
"Agents of chaos," Tyler (or Josh or Connor) snickers. "That's going on the team t-shirts."
"Turner," Matt says, and there's something different about his voice now, gentler somehow. "When's the last time you got more than four hours of sleep?"
I open my mouth to lie, then close it again.
The truth is, I can't remember. Between studying for midterms, choreographing new routines, and making sure the Figure Skating Club doesn't completely fall apart without my constant supervision, sleep has become more of a theoretical concept than a practical necessity.
"That's what I thought." Matt turns to his teammates. "Ice cleanup. Now. Make it look like a skating rink, not a battlefield."
"What about you?" asks Connor (I think).
"I'm going to force-feed Turner some actual food so she doesn't pass out during her midterm and make us look bad by association."
"We're not associated," I protest weakly.
"We're both Division I athletes representing the University of Washington," Matt points out. "If you collapse during an exam because you forgot how to eat like a human being, it reflects poorly on all of us."
This is logic. Irritating, somewhat condescending logic, but logic nonetheless. And the truly horrifying part is that he might be right. I can feel the beginning edge of that shaky, lightheaded feeling that means my blood sugar is starting to crash.
"Fine," I say, with as much dignity as I can muster. "But I'm not missing practice, and I'm not being late for my exam, and if this is some elaborate hockey player prank involving putting maple syrup in my coffee or something equally juvenile—"
"Turner," Matt interrupts, already heading toward the doors. "Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot when you're nervous?"
"I'm not nervous. I'm strategically cautious."
"Right. Come on, strategically cautious. Let's get some food in you before you fall over."
As I follow him out of the arena, clutching my perfectly organized equipment bag and trying to figure out how my carefully planned morning went completely off the rails, I can hear his teammates behind us, still grumbling about having to clean up at dawn.
"This is all your fault, Gabs," one of them calls out.
"How is this my fault?" Matt calls back without turning around.
"You're the one who decided to develop a conscience."
I glance sideways at Matt, who's holding the door open for me with a slightly embarrassed expression.
"A conscience?" I ask.
"Ignore them," he says. "They think basic human decency is a character flaw."
Which is not what I expected him to say. At all. This is going to complicate things.