Chapter 2
Rachel
Control was not a luxury; it was a survival mechanism.
I lived my life by a series of lists, alarms, and color-coded calendars.
My existence at Blackwood Mountain University was a carefully constructed house of cards, held together by caffeine and the terrifying knowledge that if I slipped—even an inch—I would fall into the abyss of student debt and mediocrity that was waiting to swallow me whole.
I hadn't slept. Not really.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw them. Amber eyes. Glowing in the dim hallway light like bio-luminescent warning signs.
Stay away from me, Little Bit.
I rolled over, burying my face in my pillow, groaning softly.
It was ridiculous. I was a scientist. Well, a scientist-in-training.
I believed in anatomy, physiology, biomechanics.
I believed in the tangible reality of ligaments and muscle fibers.
I did not believe in men who growled like apex predators and looked at you as if they were debating whether to kiss you or eat you alive.
"Stan Kowalski," I whispered into the cotton pillowcase.
Even the name felt heavy on my tongue. Rough. Consonants that demanded effort.
I threw the covers off, unable to lie there for another two minutes. The dorm room was freezing—the heating system in the older dorms at Blackwood was temperamental at best—and the air smelled faintly of stale vodka and hairspray from Chloe’s night out.
I moved through my morning routine with robotic precision, trying to exorcise the memory of the hallway with the familiarity of ritual.
I showered, scrubbing my skin until it was pink, deliberately avoiding the vanilla body wash Stan had commented on.
I reached for the generic, medicinal-smelling soap instead.
If I smelled like antiseptic, maybe I would be safe.
Maybe I would just be "The Trainer" again, not "The Bait. "
I dressed in my armor: black leggings, grey BMU Athletics polo tucked in, hair pulled back into a severe clip, no makeup. I grabbed my oversized hoodie—my comfort blanket—and my heavy medical bag.
Chloe stirred as I was lacing up my sneakers. She sat up, her blonde hair a bird’s nest of chaos, mascara smeared under her eyes.
"You're leaving?" she croaked, her voice thick with sleep and regret. "It's Saturday. Who goes to work on a Saturday morning?"
"People who need to keep their full-ride scholarships, Chloe," I said, grabbing my travel mug. "And technically, it's not work. It's clinical hours. If I don't hit four hundred hours by the end of the semester, I don't graduate."
Chloe flopped back onto her mattress. "You're insane. You should have stayed at the party. Rizzo took his shirt off. It was... religious, Rach. Truly religious."
I paused at the door. "Did Stan go back to the party?"
The question slipped out before I could stop it. I bit my tongue, tasting copper.
Chloe cracked one eye open, a sly grin spreading across her face. "Ooh. Are we obsessed? Did the big bad wolf scare you into a crush?"
"No," I lied. "I just... he seemed injured. I wanted to know if he iced his shoulder."
"He didn't come back," Chloe said, rolling over. "Rizzo said he was in a 'mood.' Apparently, when Stan gets like that, he locks himself in the basement of their house and broods. Or hunts. Or whatever it is those guys do."
Hunts.
The word sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with the drafty window.
"Go back to sleep, Chlo," I murmured, and slipped out into the hallway.
The campus of Blackwood Mountain University was breathtaking, in a gothic, ominous sort of way.
The university was nestled deep in the Montana wilderness, surrounded by millions of acres of dense pine forest. The buildings were made of dark stone, with high arches and gargoyles that seemed to watch you as you walked to class.
It was perpetually winter here. The snow never seemed to fully melt; it just compacted into hard, grey ice that crunched under my boots as I walked across the quad toward the Athletic Complex.
I kept my head down, clutching my bag strap. I felt small here. I was small here.
I came from a town three hours south, a place where the biggest ambition was to manage the local gas station.
My parents were good people, but they were tired.
They had no money for college. When the acceptance letter from Blackwood came with the "Kodiak Scholar" grant attached, my mother had cried.
She told me it was my ticket out. My chance to be someone important.
Don't blow it, I told myself, the cold air burning my lungs. Do not let a six-foot-five distraction with anger management issues ruin this.
The Athletic Complex rose up before me like a fortress. It was modern, glass and steel clashing with the old stone of the rest of the campus. This was where the money went. The Blackwood Kodiaks were practically a professional team. The boosters poured millions into this facility.
I swiped my badge at the side entrance. The light turned green with a cheerful beep.
Access Granted.
I walked into the "Sanctuary." That’s what I called the training wing.
It smelled of chlorine, deep heat rub, and expensive rubber flooring.
It was quiet this early, the hum of the ventilation system the only sound.
This was my domain. Here, I knew the rules.
If something was broken, you fixed it. If something hurt, you treated it.
The human body was a machine, and I was a mechanic.
I went straight to the main training room, flipping on the lights. The fluorescent hum was comforting. I started my prep work: filling the hydrocollator with hot packs, checking the supply of tape, wiping down the tables.
"Miller."
The voice came from the office at the back of the room. I jumped, nearly dropping a roll of pre-wrap.
Coach Wolfowitz was standing in his doorway. He was a terrifying man in his fifties—bald, thick-necked, with eyes that seemed to see through your clothes and into your soul. He wasn't just the Head Coach; he was the Director of Athletics. He held my scholarship in his hand.
"Morning, Coach," I said, smoothing my polo shirt. "I didn't know you were in yet."
He walked toward me, moving with a silent grace that was unsettling for a man of his bulk. There was something about the hockey staff here... they all moved like that. Silent. Predatory.
"We have a situation," Wolfowitz said. His voice was a low rumble. "We have a player who needs intensive rehab. Twice a day. Before practice and after."
I nodded, clicking into professional mode. "Okay. Who is it? Johnson's knee? Or Peterson's concussion protocol?"
"Kowalski."
The name dropped into the room like a lead weight.
My heart stuttered. "Stan? I mean... the Captain?"
"Shoulder injury," Wolfowitz said, watching me closely. Too closely. "He won't go to the hospital. He refuses outside medical treatment. He says he doesn't trust doctors."
"But... if it's a tear, he needs an MRI," I stammered. "I can't treat a structural issue with just ice and massage, Coach."
"He doesn't need an MRI," Wolfowitz said firmly. "He needs soft tissue work. Mobility. And he needs someone who isn't going to ask a thousand questions about why he heals the way he heals."
I frowned. "What does that mean?"
Wolfowitz took a step closer. "It means Kowalski is... special. His physiology is unique. He recovers fast, but he burns hot. He needs a trainer who is discreet. Who can handle a difficult personality."
He paused, his dark eyes boring into mine. "I'm assigning him to you, Miller."
"Me?" I squeaked. "Coach, respectfully, I'm the smallest trainer on staff. Stan is... well, he's basically a building with legs. Maybe a male trainer would be better? Someone who can actually apply enough pressure?"
"I don't need muscle," Wolfowitz said. "I need patience. And oddly enough, Kowalski requested you."
The room spun slightly. "He... he requested me?"
"He said, and I quote, 'I want the girl with the clipboard.
'" Wolfowitz sighed, looking annoyed. "He's the Captain, Miller.
And right now, he's the best defenseman in the league.
If he wants the girl with the clipboard, he gets the girl with the clipboard.
Your priority is to keep him on the ice.
If he misses a game, it's on you. Do you understand? "
The threat was clear. Keep him playing, or lose your scholarship.
"I understand," I whispered.
"Good." Wolfowitz pointed toward the back of the facility. "He's waiting for you in the Hydrotherapy Room. He needs a warm-up flush before the morning skate. Don't keep him waiting. He gets... restless."
The walk to the Hydrotherapy Room felt like walking to the gallows.
My mind was racing. Why had he requested me? Last night, he had told me to stay away. He had looked at me with genuine distress and told me I smelled like trouble. And now, twelve hours later, he specifically asked for me to be the one to put my hands on him?
It was a power play. It had to be. He wanted to intimidate me. He wanted to show me that he owned this school, and by extension, he owned me.
I pushed open the heavy glass door to the Hydrotherapy suite.
The air inside was thick and tropical. The room was tiled in slate grey, dominated by two massive stainless steel whirlpool tubs. The humidity hit me instantly, frizzing the hair at my temples and making my hoodie feel suffocatingly hot. The sound of churning water filled the space.
Stan was there.
He was sitting on the edge of the far tub, the water churning around his calves.
He was shirtless.
I stopped dead in the doorway, my breath catching in my throat.
I had seen hockey players shirtless before. It was part of the job. I had seen abs, pecs, scars, and bruises. But I had never seen anything like this.
Stan Kowalski was a masterpiece of violence.