Chapter 4
For the rest of the afternoon, I become an expert at peripheral vision.
I don’t look at Raiden. Not directly. But I’m always aware of where he is in the room, a dark, solid presence that pulls at my attention like gravity.
He works quietly, efficiently. No complaints.
No smart remarks. He just… helps. He moves the heavy equipment that Marcus and David struggle with.
He organizes the tools with surprising precision.
He answers Christie’s questions about structural support with the kind of casual competence that makes me irrationally annoyed.
This isn’t how he’s supposed to behave. Where’s the mockery? The condescension? The constant needling?
It’s really unsettling.
“Can you hold this?”
I look up to see Raiden standing beside me, holding one end of a long PVC pipe. He nods toward the other end.
“Yeah, sure.”
I grab it, and our fingers brush.
The contact lasts maybe half a second, but electricity shoots up my arm. I jerk my hand back like I’ve been burned, and the pipe clatters to the floor.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, crouching to pick it up. My face is on fire. “I just—”
“Careful,” he says, his voice low. “Don’t want you getting hurt.”
When I finally force myself to look at him, his expression is unreadable. But his eyes are intense, focused on me in that way that makes my pulse spike.
I grab the pipe again, this time making sure our hands don’t touch, and we work in tense silence.
~ ~ ~
That evening, I’m sitting cross-legged on my dorm room bed, sketchbook open on my lap, practically vibrating with anxiety.
Please don’t come back tomorrow. Please don’t come back tomorrow.
If Raiden keeps showing up, I’m going to lose my mind.
Being around him is like walking through a minefield.
Every moment charged with the potential for disaster.
I can’t think straight when he’s there. Can’t focus on anything except the way he moves, the way he looks at me, the way my body reacts to his presence.
I press my pencil to the paper, trying to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of drawing. Lines appear without conscious thought, sharp angles, careful shading.
When I pull back to look at what I’ve created, my stomach drops.
Blue eyes stare back at me. Raiden’s eyes, rendered in graphite with the distinctive malformation in the right pupil. The irregular dark spot bleeding into the iris.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, slamming the sketchbook shut.
His face isn’t conventionally beautiful.
I know that objectively. His nose is a bit crooked, probably broken during a game.
His jaw is too square, his features too harsh.
But there’s something about the composition—the way everything comes together—that I can’t look away from.
Raw. Compelling in a way that classical beauty never is.
Well, I’m an artist. I notice these things. It doesn’t mean anything.
My phone rings, startling me.
“Artie! Darling!” Marianne’s voice bursts through the speaker, bright and energetic. “You’re not going to believe this.”
I sit up straighter. “What happened?”
“Your painting. The winter landscape series? It sold.”
“It—wait, really?”
“Not just sold. Sold. There were two buyers bidding against each other. It went for eight hundred over asking price.”
The breath leaves my lungs. “You’re kidding.”
“I am absolutely not kidding. Artie, this is huge. You’re connecting with people. The work is resonating.”
I press my hand over my mouth, emotions swelling in my chest. Eight hundred dollars over asking. For my work. My art.
“This is just the beginning,” Marianne continues, her enthusiasm infectious. “We’re going to sell so many more of your pieces. None of that stuffy, elitist gallery bullshit. Nah, just real people responding to real art. You’re going to be big, Artie. I can feel it.”
“I don’t—” I laugh, slightly hysterical. “I don’t have any more paintings ready. I’ve been so busy with school and this Christmas thing. My progress has been really slow.”
“Then paint faster!” She laughs. “I’m kidding. Sort of. But seriously, congratulations. You deserve this.”
After we hang up, I sit in the quiet of my room, staring at my closed sketchbook.
Maybe things are starting to look up.
~ ~ ~
The next afternoon, I arrive at the common room with renewed energy. The painting sold. I have money coming in. The party preparations are on track despite the sabotage.
I can handle this.
The four volunteers from yesterday show up again, plus a new girl named Sophie who heard about the project from Christie. They’re chatting and laughing as they work, and the atmosphere feels lighter than it has in days.
And then Raiden walks in.
Again.
My heart sinks and soars simultaneously, which is an extremely uncomfortable sensation.
He doesn’t greet anyone. Just nods once and starts working on the frame assembly where he left off yesterday.
The volunteers whisper among themselves. I catch fragments of their conversations:
“—didn’t think he’d actually come back—”
“—Raiden Blackwell doing manual labor, can you believe—”
“—why is he even here—”
I try not to think about him and try not to look at him. It’s very difficult when I can feel his gaze on me every few minutes—a weight between my shoulder blades, prickling at the back of my neck.
He’s planning something. He has to be. Hockey players like Raiden Blackwell don’t volunteer out of the goodness of their hearts. He’s here to torment me, to come up with new and creative ways to make my life miserable.
Except… he hasn’t done anything. No cruel comments. No public humiliation. He just works quietly and leaves everyone alone.
It’s more unnerving than if he were actively antagonizing me.
By mid-afternoon, I’ve compiled a list of smaller tasks that need to be delegated. I scan the room for Raiden, rehearsing how I’ll ask him to help with the lighting installation outside.
But he’s not here.
I check the other room. The hallway.
He’s gone. Left without a word to anyone.
The relief that floods through me is almost dizzying.
~ ~ ~
That evening, riding high on the success of the painting sale and the absence of Raiden-related disasters, I make a decision.
I’m going to the beginner skating session.
It’s something I’ve wanted to do for months. I’ve heard great things about the Wednesday evening classes. Coach Morrison is supposed to be patient and encouraging, perfect for people who can barely stand up on skates.
More importantly, the hockey team won’t be there. They practice in the mornings and early afternoons. By 7 PM, the Ashford Arena should be safely Raiden-free.
I can do this. I can learn to skate without making a complete fool of myself in front of the one person I’m desperately trying to avoid.
The arena is massive and gleaming. There are about fifteen other beginners milling around, lacing up their skates on the benches.
I recognize Coach Morrison immediately, she is a friendly-looking woman in her thirties with a ponytail and an encouraging smile.
“First time?” she asks me.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’ll do great. Just remember: bend your knees and don’t look at your feet.”
Right. Easy.
I step onto the ice and immediately understand why toddlers learning to walk look so unsteady. My ankles wobble. My legs feel like they’re made of rubber. I cling to the boards like my life depends on it.
“Okay, everyone!” Coach Morrison claps her hands. “Let’s start with some basic—”
“What’s this?”
A gruff voice cuts through her instructions. I look up to see a stocky man with a impressive mustache skating onto the ice. He’s wearing an Ashford Beasts jacket and a scowl.
“Coach Petrenko,” Morrison says, her smile straining slightly. “I didn’t know you’d be joining us.”
“Someone has to make sure these kids don’t embarrass the program.” He surveys us with the kind of disdain usually reserved for particularly disappointing vegetables. “You all look soft. Weak. Let’s see what you’re made of. Twenty laps. Now.”
“Twenty—” Morrison starts. “These are beginners, they can’t—”
“Then they’ll learn fast.”
Just amazing.
I push off from the boards and immediately stumble. My arms windmill. I catch myself just before I face-plant on the ice.
Behind me, someone giggles.
Fifteen minutes later, I’ve fallen four times. I’m drenched in sweat despite the cold. My legs are shaking, and I’m pretty sure I’ve bruised both knees and my tailbone.
I’m on the ice again—literally, flat on my ass—when I hear it.
Laughter. Coming from the stands.
I look up, my heart dropping into my stomach.
Several hockey players are sprawled across the bench seats, munching on chips and clearly entertained by the disaster unfolding below them.
And sitting right in the center, his long legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest, is Raiden Blackwell.
He’s watching me. Of course he is.
He nods as our eyes meet.
I want to die. I want the ice to crack open and swallow me whole.