Chapter 1
Max
Control is not a trait you are born with. It is a muscle. It is a callous you build over your soul, layer by agonizing layer, until the chaotic frequency of the world can no longer penetrate the skin.
I stood in front of the full-length mirror attached to the back of my bedroom door, adjusting the knot of my tie for the third time.
The silk was cool against my fingertips, a stark contrast to the stifling heat radiating from the radiator in the corner of the room.
It was an ancient thing, this house—The Hive, they called it.
A sprawling Victorian monstrosity that housed the starting line-up of the Blackwood University Kodiaks.
It smelled permanently of floor wax, stale beer, and the specific, copper-tang of testosterone.
But not my room.
My room was a vacuum. A sanctuary of greyscale and geometry. The bed was made with military precision, the corners tucked so tight a quarter would bounce off the duvet. The desk was clear of clutter, save for a single stack of textbooks aligned parallel to the edge.
I pulled the tie tight. Perfect.
Outside my door, the bass of a rap song thrummed through the floorboards. Someone—probably Jinx—was shouting about hair gel. A bottle shattered. Laughter erupted, loud and jagged.
My jaw tightened, a reflex I couldn't train out of myself.
Tonight was the Ice Breaker Gala. The obscene display of wealth the alumni threw every September to celebrate the start of the season.
It was a black-tie affair held at the grandest hotel in Cold’s Creek, where donors dropped five-figure checks and pretended to care about our GPAs while eyeing our stats.
For most of the team, it was an excuse to get drunk in a tuxedo and flirt with donor daughters.
For me, it was a job interview.
I grabbed my suit jacket from the hanger.
It was charcoal, tailored to fit the width of my shoulders without straining.
I didn’t come from money—God knows the Vane family tree was rooted in debt and addiction—but I knew how to wear the costume.
I knew how to look like I belonged in their world of trust funds and summer homes.
You simply didn't speak. You stood tall. You let the silence make them uncomfortable, and they mistook your hostility for stoicism.
I opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, immediately assaulted by the chaos.
"Warden!" Jinx slid into the hallway in his socks, his dress shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, revealing a silver chain. Carter "Jinx" Jenkins. Our right winger. Talented, fast, and dumb as a bag of pucks. "Does this tie match my eyes? Be honest. I’m trying to bag a psych major tonight."
I didn't stop walking. "Button your shirt, Carter. You look like a used car salesman."
"That’s the vibe! Accessible luxury!" he shouted after me.
I descended the stairs, the wood groaning under my boots. I wasn't wearing dress shoes yet; the snow outside was coming down in thick, wet sheets, burying Cold’s Creek in white. I’d change in the lobby.
Every step was calculated. One. Two. Three.
Focus.
The NHL scouts were going to be there tonight.
Specifically, the scout for the Montreal Canadiens.
I knew his name, his face, and his preference for goalies who played the mental game as well as the physical one.
This was my senior year. My stats were immaculate.
My save percentage was .945. But stats didn't tell you if a man would crack under pressure.
They didn't tell you if he could handle the noise.
Tonight was about proving I was bulletproof.
I pushed open the heavy oak front door and the winter air hit me like a slap. It was freezing, the wind biting at the exposed skin of my neck. I breathed it in, letting the cold fill my lungs, freezing the irritation in my chest.
Cold is clarity.
I walked to my truck, the snow crunching loudly under my feet. I didn't feel the chill. I didn't feel the nerves. I felt nothing. Just the familiar, heavy weight of the mask sliding into place.
The Warden was on duty.
Imogen
If I held my breath and squinted, I could almost pretend I was a chandelier.
I was certainly sparkly enough. My dress was a shimmering, backless slip of silver sequins that cost more than most people’s tuition. It clung to every curve, skimmed over my hips, and ended high enough on my thigh to make the elderly trustees clutch their pearls.
"Imogen, darling, please tell me you aren't going to drink that entire glass in one swallow."
I turned, plastering a bright, brittle smile on my face. My mother, Catherine Sterling, stood there in navy velvet, looking at me as if I were a stain on the carpet she couldn't quite scrub out.
"Of course not, Mother," I chirped, my voice pitched an octave higher than normal. "That would be unladylike."
I tipped the flute back and downed the champagne in one aggressive gulp. The bubbles burned my throat, a sharp, acidic stinging that felt like victory. I slammed the empty glass onto the tray of a passing waiter, who flinched.
"Another," I ordered, flashing him a wink. He blushed and scrambled away.
My mother sighed, a long, suffering sound that vibrated in my teeth. "Your father is speaking with the Governor. Do try not to embarrass him tonight. The Art Department funding is precarious enough without you making a spectacle."
"Me? A spectacle?" I widened my eyes, feigning innocence. "I'm just decoration, Mother. Isn't that what you paid for?"
She didn't answer. She never did. She just adjusted her diamond tennis bracelet, scanned the room for someone more important to talk to, and walked away.
The rejection hit me in the solar plexus, familiar and dull. It didn't hurt anymore. Not really. It was just a heavy, hollow ache that I carried around like a handbag.
I spun around, the room blurring into a smear of tuxedos and gowns.
The Grand Ballroom of the Blackwood Hotel was suffocating.
The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, roast beef, and desperation.
The hockey team—The Kodiaks—were scattered around the room like prized cattle, accepting back pats from old men who wanted to relive their glory days.
I spotted my brother, Leo, across the room. He was holding court near the bar, laughing at something a donor said. Leo, the Golden Boy. The Captain. He looked perfect, of course. He saw me, his eyes narrowing slightly, a silent warning: Behave.
I stuck my tongue out at him. He rolled his eyes and turned back to his conversation.
Everyone had a role to play. Leo was the Prince. My father was the King. My mother was the Queen.
And me? I was the Court Jester. The distraction. The problem.
If I wasn't the problem, they wouldn't look at me at all.
I grabbed another glass of champagne from a passing tray—my third? Fourth? Who was counting?—and wandered toward the center of the room.
They had gone all out this year. In the center of the ballroom, surrounded by a velvet rope, was a massive ice sculpture. It was carved into the shape of a Kodiak bear rearing up on its hind legs, claws extended. It was magnificent. It was cold. It was... scalable.
A wicked, buzzing energy started to hum under my skin. It was that feeling I got right before I did something stupid. The itch. The need to shatter the perfect, polite silence of the room.
If they wanted an ice breaker, I’d give them one.
I kicked off my heels. The strappy stilettos hit the marble floor with a clatter.
"Imogen, what are you doing?"
I ignored the voice—probably Chloe, my roommate—and hiked up my dress. I stepped over the velvet rope. The crowd around me quieted, a ripple of silence spreading outward like a wave.
"Hey!" someone hissed. "You can't go back there!"
"Watch me," I muttered.
I reached up, grabbing the icy paw of the bear. It was freezing, biting into my palm. Good. I needed to feel something other than the champagne buzz. I hoisted myself up, my bare foot finding purchase on the ice block base.
"Oh my god," a woman gasped.
"Is that the Dean's daughter?"
"She's wasted."
The whispers were like applause. I climbed higher, the sequins of my dress scraping against the ice. My thigh muscles burned. I swung my leg over the bear's back, straddling the frozen beast like I was riding a bull at a rodeo.
I was six feet in the air now. I could see everything. The shocked faces of the donors. The horror on my mother’s face. The vein throbbing in my father’s forehead as he pushed through the crowd.
"Woooo!" I threw my hands up, splashing champagne out of my glass, raining expensive alcohol down on the people below. "Go Kodiaks!"
I laughed, throwing my head back. It was a manic, jagged sound.
Then, I saw him.
Standing near the edge of the crowd, arms crossed over a chest so broad it blocked out the exit sign. He wasn't looking at me with shock. He wasn't looking at me with lust. He was looking at me with absolute, terrifying indifference.
Maxwell Vane. The Warden.
His eyes were the color of slate, and they were locked onto mine. He looked... bored.
And that pissed me off more than anything else.
"What's the matter, Vane?" I shouted, pointing my glass at him. "Too high for you to block?"
I went to stand up on the ice, to really give them a show, to make that stone-faced giant react.
My bare foot slipped on the melting ice.
Gravity, it turned out, was the one thing my father couldn't bribe.
The world tilted. My stomach dropped. I flailed, the glass flying from my hand, and I fell backward into the empty air.
Max
I watched the disaster unfold in slow motion.
A goalie’s brain is wired differently. We don't see events; we see trajectories. We calculate angles, velocity, and impact zones in the fraction of a second it takes for a puck to leave a stick.
I saw the tremor in her calf muscle before she even tried to stand. I saw the slick patch of meltwater on the bear's spine. I saw the shift in her center of gravity as she lunged to taunt me.
I was moving before she even slipped.