Chapter 1
Faye
They say freezing to death is like falling asleep. A gentle, numbing slide into nothingness where the pain stops and the warmth of a hallucination takes over.
That is a lie. A bold-faced, romanticized lie told by people who have never stood in four-inch Louboutin heels on a sidewalk in Aspen, Colorado, while the wind chill dipped to twenty below zero.
There was nothing gentle about this. My toes felt like they were being crushed in a hydraulic press.
The wind was a physical assault, a razor-blade whip that sliced right through the cashmere of my Burberry coat—a coat that cost more than most people’s cars and was currently doing absolutely nothing to stop my blood from turning into slush.
I stared at the keypad of the luxury student housing complex, The Summit, my vision blurring from the cold tears freezing on my lashes.
Access Denied.
The little red light blinked at me. A mocking, unblinking eye.
I punched the code again. My birthday. The same code I’d used for three years. The same code that opened the door to the penthouse suite my father paid for, where my heating was set to seventy-two degrees and my down comforter was waiting.
Access Denied.
A sob caught in my throat, jagged and sharp. I didn’t cry. I didn’t cry. Tears ruined your makeup, and if you looked like a mess, people treated you like a mess. That was lesson number one in the Silas Allister playbook: Presentation is currency.
But my currency had just been devalued.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket with trembling fingers. The screen was cracked—a casualty of my earlier tantrum in the Dean’s office—but the notification from the bank was still legible, glowing bright and cruel in the darkness.
ACCOUNT FROZEN due to suspicious activity. Please contact primary accountholder: Silas Allister.
Suspicious activity. That was a polite way of saying, “My daughter bought a one-way ticket to Paris and tried to drop out of Art History, so I am nuking her life from orbit.”
He’d done it. He’d actually done it. The threat had been hanging over my head since I turned eighteen, a Sword of Damocles forged in gold bullion. Defy me, Faye, and you lose everything.
I looked down at my phone. 2:48 AM.
I had no cash. My credit cards were glorified drink coasters. My key fob was dead. And everyone I knew—the "friends" who drank my champagne and rode in my father’s jet—were either passed out drunk or wouldn't answer the phone if they knew the ATM named Faye Allister was out of service.
I was the Princess of Sterling Vale University. The daughter of the man who owned the hockey team, the stadium, and half the town. And I was going to die of exposure on a Tuesday because I was too proud to call him and beg.
Beg.
The word tasted like bile. He wanted me to call.
He was sitting in his study right now, probably swirling a glass of fifty-year-old scotch, waiting for the phone to ring.
Waiting for me to apologize for being "ungrateful," for wanting to paint instead of marrying some hedge fund manager, for being a "useless drain on resources. "
I would rather freeze.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket and wrapped my arms around myself, my teeth chattering so hard I bit my tongue. I tasted copper.
I needed shelter. Just for tonight. Tomorrow, I would figure it out. Tomorrow, I would sell the diamond studs in my ears or the Cartier bangle on my wrist. But right now, I needed a place where the air didn’t hurt to breathe.
I looked up the hill. Looming over the campus like a fortress of solitude was the Sterling Vale Arena.
The Wolf’s Den.
It was a monstrosity of glass and steel, jagged angles cutting into the night sky. My father’s pride and joy. The home of the Sentinels.
I knew the security codes. I knew the service entrance around the back near the loading docks because I used to sneak boys in there freshman year to hook up in the luxury boxes.
A bitter laugh escaped me, soundless in the wind. The irony was perfect. The only place I had left to go was the belly of the beast my father built.
I started walking. Every step was agony. My legs were numb blocks of wood. The wind screamed through the valley, kicking up powder that stung my cheeks. It took me twenty minutes to trudge up the incline, slipping twice on the ice, scraping my knees through my tights.
By the time I reached the heavy steel service door, I couldn’t feel my fingers. I had to use both hands to punch in the code, praying he hadn't changed this one too.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
Click.
The sound of the heavy magnetic lock disengaging was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard.
I threw my weight against the door and stumbled inside.
The silence hit me first. Heavy, oppressive silence. Then, the smell. It was a distinctive mix of rubber, ice shavings, commercial cleaner, and the faint, lingering musk of male aggression.
It was warmer here. Not hot, but compared to the arctic hellscape outside, it felt tropical.
I didn't turn on the lights. I didn't want the security cameras to pick up movement, though the night guard, Old Man Miller, was likely asleep in his booth three floors up.
I navigated the concrete corridors by the dim glow of the emergency exit signs. I knew where I was going. The locker room. It was the warmest room in the building because of the showers and the sauna.
I pushed open the double doors to the Sentinels’ sanctuary.
It was a cavernous space, lined with dark oak stalls that looked more like thrones than lockers. The floor was padded with a massive wolf head logo in the center. Above, the mesmerizing hum of the ventilation system was the only sound.
I walked past the stalls, my heels clicking softly on the rubber mats. Vane. O’Malley. Russo. Sterling. The names of the campus gods painted in silver leaf above their stalls.
I stopped at the far end, where a long, padded bench sat in front of the equipment room. It wasn't a bed. It was a bench meant for sweaty giants to lace up their skates. But to me, right now, it looked like a cloud.
I didn't take off my coat. I couldn't. The cold was still seeped into my marrow. I curled up on the bench, pulling my knees to my chest, tucking my hands into my armpits to preserve heat.
I closed my eyes.
Just for a few hours, I told myself. Just until the sun comes up. Then I’ll fix this.
I was Faye Allister. I was a survivor. I was a bitch when I had to be. I would survive this.
But as the adrenaline faded and the exhaustion dragged me under, a small, treacherous voice in the back of my head whispered the truth.
You are a little girl playing dress-up, and the game just ended.
Graham
The ice doesn’t lie.
People lie. Women lie. Statistics lie. Even the scoreboard lies sometimes, not reflecting the dominance of a game, only the puck luck.
But the ice? The ice is honest. It gives back exactly what you put into it. If your edge is dull, you fall. If your mind is cluttered, you miss. If you are weak, it breaks you.
I cut a hard circle around the face-off dot, my blades carving deep gouges into the fresh surface. The sound was a violent shhhk, echoing off the empty stands of the arena.
4:15 AM.
This was my time. The world was asleep. The chaos of the campus, the noise of the team, the incessant buzzing of my phone—it all ceased to exist when I was alone out here.
I fired a puck at the crossbar. Ping.
Perfect execution.
I skated to center ice, breathing hard. The cold air burned pleasantly in my lungs. My legs burned, the lactic acid building up, a familiar and welcome friend. I needed the burn. I needed the exhaustion. It was the only way to quiet the static in my head.
My father, the Senator, had called three times today. I hadn't answered. He wanted to talk about my "image," about the draft, about making sure I didn't embarrass the Vane legacy before I went pro.
I fired another puck. Ping.
I didn't give a shit about the Vane legacy. I cared about the Sentinels. I cared about winning. I cared about order.
I did a final lap, the wind from my speed drying the sweat on my neck. I was the Captain. The Center. The Governor. That’s what they called me. Because I controlled the pace. I controlled the play. I controlled the outcome.
And right now, I needed to control my recovery.
I stepped off the ice, my skates clicking on the rubber flooring. I grabbed my towel and wiped the sweat from my face, the scar through my eyebrow throbbing slightly with the pulse of my heartbeat.
I walked down the tunnel toward the locker room, unbuckling my helmet. I needed a shower, scalding hot, and then I needed to review the game tape for Saturday’s match against Michigan.
I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the locker room, expecting the usual sensory void—the smell of ozone and emptiness.
Instead, I smelled… vanilla.
And expensive perfume.
My steps faltered for a fraction of a second before I corrected, moving silently now. I scanned the room. Nothing out of place. The stalls were orderly—I made sure the rookies kept them that way. The floor was clean.
Then I saw it.
A lump of beige cashmere curled up on the recovery bench in the far corner.
I narrowed my eyes. My first instinct wasn’t curiosity; it was irritation. This was my space. The team’s sanctuary. It wasn’t a homeless shelter, and it certainly wasn’t a dorm room.
I walked closer, my skates heavy in my hand. I didn't try to be quiet. I let the heavy thud of my boots announce me.
The lump didn't move.
I stopped three feet away.
It was a girl. Obviously. The scent of peaches and vanilla was coming off her in waves, warring with the stale testosterone of the room.
She was small, drowning in a coat that cost more than the hauntingly empty eyes of my tuition-paying teammates.
Blonde hair, messy and tangled, spilled over the black leather of the bench.
I recognized the bag on the floor first. A Birkin. Ludicrously impractical.
Then I recognized the face half-buried in the collar of the coat.
Faye Allister.
The owner’s daughter.