Chapter 1
Liam
The puck was a blur of vulcanized rubber, a black bullet screaming through the air at ninety miles per hour. I didn’t see it as an object. I saw it as a trajectory, a mathematical equation of violence that ended with a thud against the reinforced composite of my blocker.
Thwack.
The sound echoed off the high, arched ceiling of the Blackwood Arena, sharp as a gunshot in a canyon. The vibration traveled up my arm, a dull, familiar shockwave that settled deep in the marrow of my bones.
"Jesus, Vanner," Jaxson huffed, his breath pluming in the frigid air of the rink. He skated a lazy circle near the blue line, leaning on his stick. "You're supposed to be human. That was top shelf. Nobody stops that."
I didn’t smile. I didn’t speak. I just shook out my right arm, resetting my stance. My knees bent, pads scraping the scarred ice, skates digging into the crease—my territory. My kingdom. My prison.
"Again," I said. My voice sounded wrecked, graveled by hours of shouting commands over the roar of a scrimmaging offense.
"Coach called it ten minutes ago, man," Jaxson said, skating closer.
He looked like a golden god of winter—blond hair spilling out of his helmet, grin easy and unburdened.
The kind of guy who played hockey because it was fun.
"The Zamboni guy is literally staring daggers at you. He wants to go home."
"I don't care what he wants," I muttered, though I straightened up, feeling the heavy armor of my chest protector shift. "If I let one like that in during the quarterfinals next week, we’re out. If we’re out, the scouts leave. If the scouts leave..."
I let the sentence hang there, dying in the cold air.
Jaxson’s grin faded, replaced by that pitying look I hated more than anything. The look that said, Poor Liam. Carrying the weight of the world because his bank account is empty.
"You're not gonna lose the scholarship, Liam," Jaxson said softy. "You’re the best goaltender in the ECAC. You’re a literal wall. Now come on. It’s starting to snow. Like, Day After Tomorrow snow."
I looked up at the high windows. Outside, the world was turning a violent shade of white. Vermont winters didn’t ask for permission; they just took. They buried you until you either dug yourself out or froze to death.
It was a feeling I was intimately familiar with.
I skated to the bench, the motion fluid despite the forty pounds of gear strapped to my body. The ritual of undressing was methodical. Silence. Order. Control.
Helmet off. The smell hit me then—the pungent, aggressive scent of the locker room. Stale sweat, wet gear, the chemical sting of cleaning solution, and the underlying musk of twenty competitive men living in close quarters. To most people, it was gross. To me, it smelled like survival.
I peeled off the chest protector, wincing as the cold air hit my sweat-drenched T-shirt. My body was a map of abuse. bruises blooming in varying shades of purple and yellow across my ribs, scars turning silvery on my shins.
I showered quickly, scrubbing my skin with a bar of harsh, unscented soap until I felt clean enough to rejoin civilization. I didn't linger. I didn't join the boys who were heading to The Tav for dollar beers and easy puck bunnies.
I had a shift at the auto shop at 6:00 AM tomorrow, and an econ exam at 10:00.
I pulled on my thermal henley, my flannel, and my heavy Carhartt jacket. I laced my boots tight, cutting off the circulation just enough to feel secure.
"Head on a swivel, Vanner," Coach Miller called out from his office as I passed the open door. "Roads are hell."
"I'll be fine," I said.
I pushed through the double doors and stepped out into the night.
The wind hit me like a physical blow. It was howling, a banshee scream that tore through the quad. The snow wasn't falling; it was driving sideways, stinging my cheeks like needles.
I lowered my head and marched toward the faculty lot where they let me park.
My truck, a beat-up Ford F-150 that was more rust than paint, sat under a mounting layer of white.
I called her The Beast. She was ugly, loud, and drank gas like a sailor drinks rum, but she was mine.
I’d rebuilt the transmission myself two summers ago with parts I scavenged from a junkyard in Jersey.
I climbed in, the cab freezing. The vinyl seat was hard as rock. I turned the key. She groaned, coughed, and finally roared to life.
"Good girl," I murmured, patting the dashboard.
I let her idle for a minute, staring out the windshield as the wipers fought a losing battle against the accumulation. My phone buzzed in the cup holder. A text from my sister, Chloe.
Mom’s asking for money again. Says the heat got cut. I told her no, but she’s crying. Liam, I don’t know what to do.
My hand clenched around the gear shift, knuckles turning white. The anger flared in my chest, hot and corrosive. It was a familiar burn—the rage of being twenty-two years old and feeling like a father of three.
Don’t give her a dime, I texted back. I’ll handle the utility company on Monday. Lock your door. Love you.
I tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. The screen went dark, but the weight remained. This was why I stayed on the ice until my muscles screamed. This was why I didn't drink. This was why I didn't date.
I put the truck in gear and rolled out of the lot. The tires crunched satisfyingly over the packed powder.
I took the back road, Route 9 toward the team house. It was a winding, treacherous strip of asphalt bordered by dense pine forests and steep drop-offs. In this weather, it was a death trap. But it was faster, and I just wanted to be in my room, door locked, world shut out.
Visibility was near zero. The headlights cut a cone of illumination into the swirling void. I drove by feel, sensing the slip of the rear tires, correcting with subtle movements of the wheel.
Then I saw it.
Red taillights, angled wrong.
Up ahead, where the road curved sharply around a ravine, a vehicle was nose-down in a ditch. It wasn't just stuck; it was buried.
I slowed down, squinting. It was a Mercedes G-Wagon. Matte black. The kind of car that cost more than my entire life's earnings. The kind of car driven by the students here who treated Blackwood like a four-year resort stay.
"Idiots," I gritted out.
I debated keeping going. I really did. It wasn’t my problem. They probably had AAA on speed dial and a heated waiting room in their minds.
But the engine was still running, and the snow was piling up against the driver's side door. If the exhaust pipe got blocked, they’d be dead from carbon monoxide poisoning within the hour.
"Fuck," I hissed.
I pulled The Beast over to the shoulder, throwing on the hazards. I grabbed the heavy flashlight from my glove box and shoved my door open.
The wind nearly ripped it from my hand. I stomped through the knee-deep snow, the cold instantly biting through my jeans.
As I got closer to the G-Wagon, I saw the driver inside. The interior light was on.
She was frantic. I could see her hands moving, flailing. She was wrestling with something—her phone? Her bag?
I reached the window and banged my fist against the glass.
She screamed. I couldn't hear it over the wind, but I saw her mouth open, eyes wide with terror. She scrambled across the center console to the passenger side, away from me.
I shined the flashlight on my own face so I wouldn't look like an axe murderer, then gestured for her to roll down the window.
She hesitated. Then, slowly, the glass lowered an inch.
"Are you the tow truck?" she yelled. Her voice was high, trembling, but laced with a strange, imperious demand.
"No," I shouted back. "I'm the guy telling you your car is dead. Unlock the door."
Sofia
I was going to die in Vermont.
That was it. That was the headline. Sofia Thorne, heiress to the Thorne athletic empire and future fashion mogul, found frozen to death in last season’s Prada because she tried to take a shortcut to the liquor store.
My hands were shaking so badly I dropped my phone between the seats. I had been trying to find a signal for ten minutes, but the bars remained stubbornly empty.
"Come on, come on," I whispered, tears pricking my eyes. "Don't do this to me."
The car was tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. I had spun out. One second I was listening to a podcast about branding strategy, and the next, the world tilted sideways and I was staring at a wall of snow.
When the fist banged on the window, my soul left my body.
I thought it was a bear. Or a serial killer. Or a vengeful townie coming to eat the rich.
When I saw the face illuminated by the flashlight, I didn't feel much better.
He was huge. Even through the glass and the swirling snow, I could tell he was massive. Broad shoulders that blocked out the storm, a jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and eyes that looked... angry.
He wasn't a serial killer. He looked like a lumberjack who was personally offended by my existence.
"Unlock the door," he shouted.
I fumbled with the lock, my gloved fingers clumsy. The mechanism clicked, and he wrenched the passenger door open. The wind rushed in, instantly sucking the warmth from the leather interior.
"Get out," he commanded.
"Excuse me?" I bristled, my fear momentarily eclipsed by indignation. "I am waiting for assistance. My father has a service—"
"Your father's service isn't coming, Princess," he growled. His voice was deep, a low rumble that I felt in my chest. "Roads are closed. The towers are down. And your tailpipe is buried in snow. Unless you want to take a permanent nap, you need to get out of this car. Now."
I looked at him, really looked at him. He was wearing a faded Carhartt jacket covered in grease stains and a flannel shirt that had seen better decades. He had a scar cutting through his left eyebrow and stubble that darkened his jaw.
He was terrifying. And he was right. I could smell the faint, acrid scent of exhaust seeping into the cabin.
"Okay," I squeaked. "Okay. Help me."