Chapter 1 #2
I knew that face. Everyone at Sterling Falls knew that face. It was plastered on banners in the Student Union. It was on the front page of the campus paper every Monday.
Jerry Vane. The Captain. "The Judge."
He was terrifyingly handsome in a way that made you want to run away and hide. High, sharp cheekbones that looked like they could cut glass. A jawline carved from granite. And eyes...
Even from down here on the floor, his eyes were striking. A pale, icy gray. They were cold. Empty. Devoid of any human warmth or sympathy.
He looked down at me, sprawled in a puddle of soapy water and shame, with the same expression one might use to look at a squashed bug.
He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't offer a hand.
He just tilted his head to the side, his gaze tracking the slide of water down my leg.
"You're loud," he said.
His voice was a low rumble, like gravel grinding together deep underground. It vibrated through the rubber matting and straight into my spine.
I blinked, my brain rebooting. You're loud? That was it? I could have broken my coccyx.
Indignation flared in my chest, hot and bright, overriding the embarrassment. My "armor" slammed into place.
I scrambled to sit up, pushing my wet hair out of my face. "And you're lurking," I snapped, the words tumbling out before I could filter them. "Do you make a habit of standing in the dark watching people work, or is that just a hobby for the rich and bored?"
Jerry Vane didn't blink. He didn't even look surprised. He just stared at me, his eyes narrowing slightly, analyzing me like I was a math problem that didn't add up.
He skated closer. The sound of his blades carving the ice was a sharp shhhkt that made the hair on my arms stand up.
He stopped right at the threshold, towering over me.
Up close, he smelled like winter air, expensive cedarwood, and the sharp tang of fresh sweat. It was intoxicating. It was dangerous.
"I live here," he said simply. The arrogance in those three words was staggering.
"You literally do not," I countered, struggling to my feet.
My leggings were soaked. I felt ridiculous and small, but I refused to cower.
I grabbed my mop bucket, gripping the handle like a shield.
"The schedule said the ice was clear until 5:00 AM.
That means this is my time. To clean. So you're trespassing in my office. "
One corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. It was a micro-expression of... annoyance? Amusement? I couldn't tell.
"Your office," he repeated, his gaze flicking to the bucket, then back to my face. He looked at my mouth, and for a split second, the air between us grew heavy, charged with a sudden, suffocating electricity.
"Yes," I said, lifting my chin. "My office. So unless you're going to grab a squeegee, you're in the way."
Jerry stepped off the ice.
He moved from the smooth glide of the rink to the rubber matting with a heavy, purposeful weight. He was so big. He filled the space, sucking all the oxygen out of the tunnel. I had to crane my neck back to keep eye contact.
He took a step toward me. I took a step back, my back hitting the cold cinderblock wall.
Trapped.
He leaned in, bracing one hand on the wall next to my head. His glove was off, and I saw the tattoo—a thick black band around his ring finger. His hand was massive, his fingers long and calloused.
He lowered his head until his face was inches from mine. I could feel the heat radiating off him, a furnace against the chill of the arena. My heart wasn't just hammering now; it was trying to escape my throat.
"You missed a spot," he whispered.
His breath brushed against my ear, sending a shiver violently down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "Where?"
He pulled back, his gray eyes locking onto mine, pinning me in place.
"Everywhere," he said. "Do it again. And do it quietly."
Jerry
Control is not a preference. It is a requirement.
My life is a series of calculated variables. The angle of the blade against the ice. The velocity of the puck. The stock prices of Vane Industries. The caloric intake required to maintain 225 pounds of muscle.
Chaos is the enemy. Chaos loses games. Chaos loses money.
I come to the ice at 2:00 AM because it is the only place in the world that is perfectly sterile. Perfectly controlled. No noise. No demands. No Bianca trying to climb into my lap to secure her father’s donation. No Coach Miller riding my ass about the upcoming draft.
Just the cold. Just the sound of my breathing and the scrape of steel.
Until tonight.
Tonight, the silence was murdered by... Britney Spears.
I had stopped mid-drill, drifting toward the boards, tracking the source of the noise. And then I saw her.
A tiny, chaotic blur in oversized gray coveralls that looked like a prison uniform. She was dancing. If you could call it that. It looked more like she was fighting a swarm of invisible bees.
She was singing into a squeegee. Off-key. Horribly, painfully off-key.
I should have been annoyed. I was annoyed. My jaw had clenched so hard I felt a headache forming at my temples. I should have skated over, banged on the glass, and told her to get out.
But I didn't.
I watched.
I stood there in the dark for ten minutes, watching this girl spin and slide and make a fool of herself.
There was something... unsettling about it.
She was entirely unselfconscious. She looked exhausted—her skin was pale, there were shadows under her eyes that spoke of sleep deprivation—but she was vibrating with this manic, desperate energy.
And then she saw me.
The scream was piercing. The fall was pathetic.
When she landed in that puddle of dirty water, I expected tears. Girls usually cried when they were embarrassed in front of me. Or they apologized. They stammered. They tried to be cute.
She didn't do any of that.
She looked up at me, soaked and shivering, and she glared. Her hazel eyes, wide and startled, narrowed into slits of pure defiance.
“You’re lurking.”
The audacity hit me like a check into the boards.
Nobody spoke to me like that. Not the coaches. Not the Dean. Certainly not the cleaning staff.
I skated closer, needing to see if she was real or a hallucination brought on by insomnia.
She was small. Tiny. The top of her head barely cleared my chest. Her hair was a mess of honey-blonde waves escaping a frayed elastic. She smelled like cheap soap and... something sweet. Vanilla? No. Brown sugar.
She smelled warm.
She challenged me. She claimed the rink was her office. She told me I was in the way.
My blood, usually running at a cool, regulated temp, spiked. A distinct throb of irritation mixed with something darker, something heavier, settled in my gut.
I stepped off the ice, needing to intimidate her. Needing to remind her of the hierarchy. I cornered her against the wall.
Her pulse was visible, fluttering wildly in the hollow of her throat. Her pupils were blown wide, swallowing the hazel. She was terrified.
But she didn't look away.
She held my gaze, her chin tilted up, her lips parted. She had a nervous mouth. A mouth that talked back. A mouth that needed to be taught a lesson.
“You missed a spot.”
I said it to mess with her. To assert dominance. To see if she would break.
She didn't break. She just swallowed, that little hitch in her throat betraying her body’s reaction to my proximity.
I pushed off the wall, turning my back on her before I did something irrational, like reach out and wrap my hand around that defiant throat.
"Clean it up," I ordered, skating back onto the ice without looking at her. "I don't want to see a single streak on this glass when I'm done."
I snapped my helmet back on, sliding the visor down to hide my eyes.
I started my drills again. Left cross. Right cross. Sprint.
But the silence was gone.
I could feel her behind me. I could feel her eyes on my back. I could hear the squelch of her wet sneakers and the aggressive slap of her rag against the glass.
I shot the puck. It hit the crossbar with a deafening clank.
I missed.
I never missed.
I looked over my shoulder. She was there, scrubbing furiously, muttering to herself, casting hateful glances at my back.
My grip tightened on my stick until the carbon fiber creaked.
This girl was a problem. She was noise. She was a variable I hadn't accounted for.
And I realized, with a jolt of dark, possessive adrenaline, that I didn't want her to leave.
I wanted to see just how much pressure it would take to make that defiant little mouth stop sassing me and start begging.
I skated harder, the ice carving under my feet.
The game had just changed.