Your Shared Secrets (Ravens Hockey #6)

Prologue

Luna

It was my third foster home since I could remember. Before that, it was the group home—the loud one with the bunk beds and the smell of bleach that never really went away.

He didn’t smile much, the man who picked me up. Just nodded and carried my duffel bag through the house, his boots making heavy thuds on the hardwood. I followed behind him, clutching the folder they gave me. It had my name on it, written in big, block letters.

We passed a living room with too many pillows. A kitchen that smelled like toast. Down a hallway, passed two closed doors, and then he stopped in front of one that was slightly open.

“This one’s yours,” he said, pushing it open all the way.

The room was small, but it had its own bed. A dresser. A tiny desk in the corner with a lamp. The walls were bare, and the comforter was folded perfectly.

“All mine?” I asked, blinking up at him.

He gave a short nod. “Yep. Dinner’s at six.”

Then he left.

I stood in the doorway, still holding the folder, too scared to step inside.

“You got a private?”

The voice came from behind me. I turned fast, startled.

A boy stood in the doorway—probably ten, maybe eleven, with dark, shaggy hair that looked like it hadn’t seen a brush in a while.

His shirt was a size too big, hanging off one shoulder, and there was a tear near the collar.

His jeans were stained at the knees, socks mismatched and threadbare.

He looked rough around the edges but there was a brightness in his eyes.

“I’m Jer,” he said, like we’d been friends forever. “You must be new.”

I nodded. “I’m Luna.”

He peeked past me into the room, whistled low under his breath. “Wow. He must really like you. Rest of us gotta share.”

I blinked at him, confused. “How many are there?”

Jer shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Six, maybe seven right now? Depends if Mikey comes back. He runs off a lot.”

Seven.

Seven kids and I had a room alone.

I stepped into the room, fingers tightening around the folder. Jer leaned against the doorframe, watching me with curiosity, like he was already trying to figure me out.

“I’ll show you where the cereal is later,” he said casually.

“Okay.”

“You talk more than one word?”

I shook my head. “Not really.”

“Oh wow, that was two,” he said, grinning like he’d just discovered something rare.

I smiled a little and ducked my head as I walked farther into the room.

My sneakers scuffed the floor as I made my way to the bed.

I dropped my bag, my one bag, the only thing I owned, and started shuffling through it even though I didn’t need anything.

He didn’t move from the doorway.

“Why do I have a room alone?” I asked quietly.

Jer shrugged. “Dunno. Think maybe he likes you.”

I frowned. Something wasn’t right. I was only ten, but I’d been in and out of enough homes to know when the edges didn’t quite line up. Nice houses didn’t always mean nice people. Quiet halls didn’t always mean peace. And getting special treatment? That usually came with strings.

“So… cereal?” he asked after a beat.

I didn’t have anything better to do, nowhere else to be, so I nodded. He turned without waiting for more, and I followed him down the hallway.

He stopped at a tall pantry with a padlock across the handles.

“It’s locked,” I said.

Jer grinned. “Yeah. I’ll show you.”

He pulled a bent bobby pin from his back pocket. It took him less than ten seconds to pop it open.

We ended up sitting on the kitchen floor, two mismatched bowls of cereal between us. The lights were dim, the house quiet in that eerie way big houses get in the evening. I kept waiting for someone to come in and tell us to move, to stop, to go to bed, but no one did.

“You’re quiet.”

I shrugged.

“I like it,” he said. “Most kids talk too much. You don’t.”

Jer sat cross-legged, crunching loudly.

“You’re also really pretty,” he said suddenly, like it was no big deal. “Like... weird pretty. Not like the girls in school.”

I blinked at him. My ears went hot.

“And I like you,” he added with a shrug. “Not like that, but like… you’re not fake. You don’t talk a lot. That’s good.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I nodded, my fingers tapping the edge of the cereal bowl.

He leaned closer. “If he likes you too much... and it gets weird or anything, just tell me, okay?”

My stomach tightened.

He looked at me then—not with pity, but with this knowing sadness that was older than either of us should’ve had.

“I won’t tell anyone. But I’ll help you. I promise.”

I swallowed hard, then whispered, “Okay.”

Right there, on that kitchen floor, surrounded by stale cereal and silence, we became friends. Not the kind of friends who made bracelets or passed notes.

The kind who kept secrets.

The kind who watched each other’s backs.

The kind who understood.