ELENA POV:

Three years ago, the California sun beat down on my father's study. I was eighteen, lounging on the sofa, wearing a sundress and carelessly swinging my bare legs.

My father, Jonathan Carlisle, a ruthless NHL executive known for his iron grip on the league, stood with his back to me, a silent, imposing figure before the floor-to-ceiling window. His posture was rigid as a soldier's, radiating a storm of fury.

On his desk lay my SAT scores.

Near-perfect marks in reading. Next to it, physics and math sat at a glaring, massive zero.

Of course, it was intentional. I wanted to study art.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Jonathan finally turned around. His face was completely expressionless, but the disappointment and rage in his eyes were like tempered steel.

I lifted my chin, meeting his gaze. "Say about what?" I asked, my tone deliberately indifferent. "The report card says it all, doesn't it?"

"Elena!" he roared, slamming his hand on the desk. The papers on it jumped. "Do you think this is a game? You're throwing away your future!"

I rose from the sofa and walked toward him, unafraid. "My future? Or the future you designed for me? Dad, I don't want to study business. I'm going to the Rhode Island School of Design."

"Absurd!" His face was flushed with anger. "This family doesn't need a street artist! A Carlisle belongs at the top of the pyramid!"

I let out a cold laugh. "So to meet your standards, I don't even have the right to choose what I love?"

Our argument escalated, our voices rising until we were shouting. It was the most intense of our many, many conflicts.

Finally, Jonathan seemed to run out of patience. He sank back into his chair, looking at me with a strange, unfamiliar coldness.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" he said flatly. "You think everything you have is a given, something you can squander."

I pressed my lips together, defiant and silent.

"Fine. Very well." He nodded, the warmth completely vanishing from his eyes. "Since you're so eager to experience a different kind of life, I'll grant your wish."

He picked up his phone and dialed a number. "It's me. Make the arrangements. I'm sending my daughter to Northridge Academy. Yes, the hockey development camp. Four-year program. Enroll her now."

I froze. Northridge Academy? I'd heard of it. It was the country's most brutal hockey meat-grinder, famous for its grueling ice drills, punishing body checks, and high dropout rate.

"Dad, are you insane?" I shrieked. "I'm not going! I hate sports! I can't even skate!"

Jonathan hung up and looked at me, his expression merciless. "You'll learn. You will learn discipline through morning skates and checking on the boards."

He stood up, towering over me as he delivered my sentence. "From now on, three rules."

"First, all your electronics are confiscated. Phone and laptop."

"Second, you will carry no more than one hundred dollars in cash. All your credit cards are frozen."

"And third," he said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm, "you will not set foot outside that camp for four years without my permission."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I lunged for his phone. He easily sidestepped me.

He summoned the household security. Two large men appeared, flanking me like a pair of walls.

"Take Miss Carlisle to her room," he commanded. "She is not to leave it until my people arrive to pick her up."

I was dragged from the study, screaming and cursing at him. He never once looked back.

The door slammed shut behind me, followed by the definitive click of the lock.

I threw myself against it, pounding on the wood until my knuckles were bruised and raw. "Dad! Open the door!"

No answer came. Only silence.

My breath caught as the truth finally sank in. He wasn't bluffing. He was really sending me away.

I slid down the door, tears streaming through my ruined makeup. As I sank to the floor, the muted sound of my father's voice drifted through the heavy oak door. He was on the phone in the corridor, his tone cold and matter-of-fact.

"It's arranged, then," Jonathan was saying. "I'm sending her to Northridge tomorrow morning. Break her pride, Julian. Treat her like any other recruit."

At that moment, drowning in my own grief, I had no idea what that name would come to mean to me.

ELENA POV:

The next morning, two men in black suits "escorted" me into a black Cadillac. My only luggage was a simple canvas bag with a few changes of clothes and the one hundred dollars in cash.

The car drove for hours, the scenery outside shifting from the sprawling city to desolate, rolling hills.

When we finally stopped, it was in front of a massive iron gate. The words "Northridge Academy" were spelled out in severe, blocky letters, flanked by a logo of a lightning bolt crossed with a hockey stick. It looked grim and cold.

A large electronic board beside the gate displayed the academy's rules in stark black letters:

NO EXCUSES. NO SPECIAL TREATMENT. MISSED TRAINING MEANS PUNISHMENT.

At the bottom was a name that felt vaguely familiar.

DIRECTOR JULIAN BENNETT.

The men dumped me and my bag at the entrance like a piece of trash. The car sped away without a backward glance.

I stood before the gate, staring at the endless stretches of barbed-wire fence and high walls. The sounds of skates carving ice and pucks slamming into boards echoed from the distant rinks. Every few seconds, a loudspeaker crackled overhead, repeating the academy's strict training schedule and disciplinary rules.

Even before I had stepped inside, I could already feel how tightly this place was controlled.

A long line of new arrivals had already formed. Most were tall, athletic boys in tracksuits, carrying massive hockey gear bags, their faces a mixture of excitement and anxiety.

I stood there in a silk dress and delicate flats, completely out of place. I had never trained for hockey, and I had certainly never imagined I'd end up at a place like this. All I could think about was how badly I wanted to get through this without losing the one thing I had left - my chance to keep painting.

A uniformed guard yelled at the line. "Form a line! One by one for registration!" His tone was harsh, like he was addressing inmates.

I looked at the long line and swallowed my frustration. I wasn't trying to make trouble. I simply had no idea what I was supposed to do, and I desperately needed to find Andrew before anyone tried to send me into training.

I stepped toward the guardhouse, clutching the strap of my canvas bag.

The guard blocked my path, his brow furrowed. "Hey, missy, back of the line."

I stopped, then forced myself to explain. "I'm looking for someone. Andrew Reynolds. He's a coach here. Could you tell him to come meet me?"

The guard blinked, clearly taken aback by my familiarity with the coach's name. He eyed me suspiciously. "You're looking for Coach Reynolds? Who are you?"

I didn't know how to explain everything that had happened. I simply crossed my arms, trying to keep my voice steady despite the knot in my chest. "Just tell him Elena Carlisle is waiting for him at the gate."

He hesitated before finally raising his walkie-talkie. My heart was in my throat. This was my only hope.

Andrew had been my childhood neighbor, a few years older than me. We grew up together, and after college, he came back to coach hockey here.

A few minutes later, a tall figure in an academy-branded tracksuit came jogging out from inside.

When I saw him, my nose stung. I almost burst into tears. It was Andrew.

"Elena?" He looked completely shocked to see me. He rushed to my side, his eyes taking in my messy hair and wrinkled dress. "My God, what are you doing here? What happened?"

He immediately shrugged off his own team jacket and draped it over my shoulders, shielding me from the prying eyes of the other recruits. It smelled of clean soap, a scent that brought a wave of long-forgotten comfort.

"Let's get you inside first," he said, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. He led me past the long line, straight through the iron gates that I had seen as the entrance to my prison.

The guard stepped aside without another word. The students in line watched us curiously, but I barely noticed. My only thought was getting somewhere safe before I completely fell apart.

I glanced back at the line. Those boys were carrying their hockey gear, preparing for a life I had never chosen. I suddenly felt a sharp ache for my own abandoned path. I had come here because my father wanted to break my pride, but all I wanted was to survive this place without giving up painting.

"Was it your father who sent you here?" Andrew asked in a low voice as he led me further into the campus.

I nodded, my voice thick with frustration. "He's a tyrant."

Andrew sighed, ruffling my hair. "Don't be scared. I'm here."

He took me into an administrative building. The blast of air conditioning felt like salvation. He sat me down on a sofa in an office and handed me a glass of water.

I watched his busy, capable form. For the first time since arriving in this hellhole, I didn't feel completely alone.

Thank God I remembered Andrew worked here.

He was efficient, quickly going to handle the necessary arrangements with the administration.

I sat on the soft sofa, sipping my water, watching the sweaty new recruits outside. For a moment, I forgot that I was one of them.

Andrew returned soon after with a key card and a set of new uniforms.

"I've taken care of the paperwork. Let me take you to your dorm," he said with a smile.

I looked at him and said, with genuine feeling, "Andrew, thank you."

He paused. His smile softened. "You idiot. You don't have to be polite with me."