Chapter 2
Haverhill, Massachusetts is vastly different from Los Angeles, California. Haverhill is a quintessential New England city that sits along the Merrimack river. It is a dense suburb with a quieter, community atmosphere to it. LA is none of that.
Before me, the house rises like something out of a magazine. Nothing like the condo we’d left behind in California. This one has character and history. A sprawling manor tucked behind wrought-iron gates.
The entire property is enclosed by a fence that starts with three feet of weathered red brick, topped by elegant black iron bars and brick pillars capped with lanterns I could already picture glowing at dusk.
The driveway curves through the lush grounds and up to the front steps, watched over by a gatehouse and guard.
The house itself matches the fencing with a brick foundation and porch, white wooden walls, and broad white pillars supporting the roof.
Beyond the house, a full-size pool shimmers in the backyard and grass unfurls as far as I can see.
Back in California, our apartment overlooked concrete and asphalt.
Here, I could hardly see the back fence past the trees.
“Beautiful, huh, kid?” Dad asks as he comes to stand beside me.
Dad looks a lot like me, or rather I look like him.
Same auburn hair but his is threaded with the occasional silver.
His hazel eyes mirror my own, taking in every detail like they were part of a checklist for his next big project.
Even after a cross-country trip, his tailored coat hangs perfectly from his arm, and that usual polished air clung to him like it was part of his DNA.
“Your mom says she’s ready to start hosting parties and spending summers poolside,” he says with a warm chuckle, one hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks.
“That sounds like her,” I replied, glancing up at him as movers haul boxes and furniture up the front steps.
Dad was already pulling out his phone again, voice dipping into that smooth, confident register as he murmurs to someone on the other end.
I take one last, long look around. This was going to be home and somehow, I wasn’t sure whether to be excited or scared. I start to walk away but Dad grabs my elbow softly.
“Yeah?” I ask, looking from his hand up to meet his eyes.
“I’m heading to the medical center,” he says. “There’s a great ice rink across the street. Thought maybe you’d want to come check it out?”
I love ice skating. It’s been my favorite sport ever since Mom and Dad took me to Rockefeller Center when we visited New York when I was 9.
I’m almost 18 now. That was forever ago, back before his company took off and became one of the most successful healthcare programs in the US.
They never focus on just making money, they actually help people. That’s what keeps them going strong.
“Actually, I’d love to,” I reply, smiling back.
“K. Let’s go,” he says with a quick nod.
We turn back to the car where Frank is leaning against the door, hands tucked into his pockets like he’s just been enjoying the sunshine.
“Ready to head to the rehab center?” Frank asks Dad.
Dad gives him a nod. “Yep. Liv’s coming along too. She wants to check out the rink.”
Frank’s face creases into an easy grin. “Figured she might. Looked up the place myself last night. Pretty impressive. I think you’ll be happy with it, kiddo.”
That earns him a real smile from me. Frank’s been with us since dads company took off and Frank’s wife passed. He has no children so when dad asked him to come with us he happily agreed.
“I’m going to run inside and grab my stuff,” I say quickly.
There isn’t bumper-to-bumper traffic full of impatient people. Here, there’s just... traffic. Moderate and manageable. No one blaring horns or cutting each other off in a rage. It’s peaceful compared to California. If only my mind could match the pace.
“We’ve arrived,” Frank announces from the front seat as he eases the car to a stop in front of the Haverhill Valley Ice Forum.
The building is massive. It towers above the other shapeless industrial buildings around it like some frozen cathedral. I stare out the window, momentarily stunned.
My dad leans forward from the backseat and points out across the parking lot. “I’ll be over there,” he says. “Shouldn’t be too long. I’ll call when I’m wrapping up, and we will swing back to get you.”
“Got it. Thanks, Dad.” I twist in my seat to face him, giving his arm a small squeeze and a quick kiss to his cheek. His hand rests briefly over mine before I pull away and open the door.
The air is thick with humidity, but the breeze carries a bite that surprises me.
I watch the car pull away, tires crunching lightly over the gravelly pavement.
It loops around the lot and disappears onto the access road that curves back toward the medical center.
I stand there for a moment, staring after them.
Turning back, the ice rink looms even larger.
I have to crane my neck just to take it all in.
It’s late summer, which makes me pause. In California, the rink only opened in the winter.
Summers were for roller derby and indoor soccer.
What if it’s closed? I swallow my nerves and start up the steps.
At the top, I glance at the sign that says OPEN before I grab the metal handle and tug on the heavy glass door.
A gust of cold air blasts me in the face, tugging strands of my hair in every direction.
I shiver involuntarily, but then I smile.
That smell. The sharp, clean chill of ice hits me square in the chest.
Butterflies stir in my stomach, light but relentless. I force my feet to move, crossing the threshold into the lobby. My shoes squeak slightly against the tile floor, and I glance around, suddenly hyper-aware of every sound. The lobby is brighter than I expected, sterile but not unfriendly.
I take a deep breath and then make my way toward the front desk.
“Welcome to Haverhill Ice Forum!” A middle-aged woman sing-songs as our eyes meet.
Her long blonde hair is full of small, tight curls that bounce with volume.
Baby blue eyes peek out from behind thin-rimmed glasses, the delicate gold chain attached to either side catching the lobby lights. Her smile is radiant.
“How can I help you, my dear?” she asks, her voice gentle and welcoming.
“Hello,” I say with a small smile, offering a shy wave close to my side. “I’m new in town and wanted to check out the rink. Is there ice skating?”
“Oh! Of course!” Her grin widens, a playful sparkle lighting up her eyes.
“This rink is known for its figure skaters and our hockey teams.” She gives an exaggerated wink at the mention of hockey, and I can’t help but laugh.
“We also host a lot of event nights during summer.” She taps a flyer on the desk.
“Would you like to look over our memberships?” she asks, tilting her head, her smile never fading.
“Yeah, I’d love to take a look.”
She hands over a glossy pamphlet and a clipboard with a sign-up form attached.
After getting me all signed up, Rita leads me on a tour of the facility. Once I pick out a locker and click my lock into place (a basic black one, provided by Rita as part of the sign-up package), she guides me toward the rink or, as it turns out, rinks. Plural.
One is clearly designed for hockey: bleachers, protective boards, a lingering scent of sweat and gear. The other rink is quieter, more open, with a gentler energy. That one seems to be for everyone else.
“All good?” Rita asks.
“Yeah, all good. Thank you so much, Rita.”
She gives a cheerful nod and heads back toward the lobby, the gentle click of her heels echoing faintly as she disappears.
I scan the space and decide to take a seat in the stands for a bit to observe. There aren’t too many people around, but it’s not empty either. Most of them are hockey players or people who clearly came just to watch the hockey players.
I glance toward the second rink to see who’s over there when something catches my eye.
My attention snaps back to the hockey players.
A tall figure lingers near the sidelines, chatting with a few other guys.
They’re all wearing matching sweaters. Behind them is a small group, hanging around, laughing, and looking like they don’t have a care in the world.
My eyes drift back to the guy with jet black hair, and my breath catches. He’s looking at me. His eyes are a sparkling grey blue, and the look on his face is... hostile. Like my presence is unwanted. The message is clear in his glare: Get bent.
I try to look away, but my brain short-circuits. What could I have possibly done to piss him off? I’ve been here for ten minutes.
Movement to his left draws my gaze. One of his teammates, smaller and leaner with messy, dyed blonde hair, has turned to look at me as well.
Instead of a glare, I get a smile. Not a warm, welcoming one though.
It’s a wicked grin that coils in my stomach like a bad omen.
Before anyone else can turn and notice me staring like a freak, I break eye contact and force myself to stand.
I make my way to the far end of the stands, closer to the quieter rink. Plopping down, I pull on my skates and start lacing them up. The cool air bites at my cheeks as I tighten the final knot.