"Pass it! He's open!"

The scream tore through the Westbrook arena, vibrating the metal bleachers beneath my boots.

"Five seconds! Shoot the puck!" a guy in front of me yelled, spilling half his soda over the row ahead.

Down on the ice, Ethan Cole didn't hesitate. He caught the pass, his skates carving a violent, sharp arc into the surface. A spray of crushed ice exploded around his blades. He slammed the puck past the opposing goalie just as the final buzzer blared.

The red goal light flashed.

"Yeah! That’s our boy!"

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar. A human wave of blue and white jerseys crashed over the stands. This was the season opener. For this hockey-obsessed town, it was the climax of the entire year.

I pulled my jacket tighter around my shoulders. I just wanted to go home.

Caleb, my older brother, was down there at the other end of the rink. As the team captain and starting goalie, he had dragged me here.

"You have to support the team, Lily. Support me," he had insisted at dinner, refusing to take no for an answer.

I did. I sat through three brutal periods of checking, shouting, and freezing arena air. But now, the game was over. The post-game celebration would take hours.

I pushed through the sea of cheering students, ducking under flailing arms, and made my way out the side exit.

The freezing night air slapped my face the second I pushed the heavy metal doors open. I walked toward the far end of the parking lot, aiming for Caleb’s truck.

A soft whimper stopped me in my tracks.

I paused, scanning the deep shadows near the dumpsters. "Who's there?"

Another pathetic whine echoed off the brick exterior.

I walked over, my boots crunching on the frozen asphalt. Tucked between a rusted trash bin and the arena wall lay a scruffy terrier mix. It was shivering violently, curled into a tight, miserable ball against the freezing concrete.

"Hey, buddy," I murmured, dropping to my knees. "Where's your owner?"

The dog blinked up at me, its tail giving a weak, single thump against the ground.

"You're freezing." I pulled the thick wool scarf from my neck. My fingers instantly burned from the biting wind, turning a bright, raw red. I draped the fabric over the dog, tucking the edges under its small paws. "Is that better?"

The dog rested its chin on the wool, letting out a long sigh.

"He probably needs food more than a scarf."

I spun around, nearly losing my balance.

Ethan Cole stood a few feet away.

He had just emerged from the player tunnel. His dark hair was soaking wet, dripping water onto the gray fabric of his unzipped jacket. Steam actually rose off his bare collarbone, a stark contrast to the freezing Westbrook air.

"You scared me," I snapped, stepping back.

Ethan chuckled, closing the distance between us. "Sorry. Didn't mean to sneak up on you."

He crouched down beside me. Up close, he was even larger than he looked on the ice. He reached out to adjust the scarf around the dog’s neck.

"Hold this side," he instructed.

I pinned the wool down. His hand brushed against mine.

A sudden jolt shot up my arm. His skin was blazing hot. I caught his scent—a sharp blend of rink chill, post-game sweat, and a rich, woodsy cedar.

My heart skipped a beat, thudding hard against my ribs.

"Your hands are like ice," Ethan noted, glancing at my red fingers.

"I'm fine."

"Your knuckles are turning blue. Take this." He dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, square packet.

"I don't need your charity."

"It's not charity. It's survival." He pressed the hand warmer into my palm, his fingers curling briefly over mine. "My last one. Crack it to start the heat."

I squeezed the packet. Warmth immediately bloomed against my skin. "Thanks."

"I'm Ethan." The harsh yellow glow of the parking lot streetlamp caught his eyes, turning them into pools of melting amber.

"I know who you are. The whole town just screamed your name for the last ten minutes."

A slow smile spread across his face. "And you are?"

"Lily."

"Lily," he repeated, testing the sound of it. "You hate hockey, Lily?"

"I hate the crowds."

"Smart." He reached out to scratch the dog behind the ears. "What are we going to do with this guy?"

"Taking him home isn't an option. My brother is allergic."

"I'll take him." Ethan scooped the dog up with one arm, cradling it against his chest. "My mom loves strays."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive." He stood, towering over me again. "So, do you always hang out by dumpsters, or is tonight a special occasion?"

"Only when I'm trying to escape my overbearing brother."

Before he could respond, heavy footsteps pounded across the pavement.

"Lily! Get away from him."

The voice cracked like a whip across the empty lot.

I flinched.

Caleb stormed toward us, his massive goalie equipment bag slung over his shoulder, his jaw clenched tight. He looked furious.

"Caleb, wait," I started, stepping forward.

He didn't listen. He grabbed my upper arm, yanking me hard behind his broad back. He planted himself between Ethan and me, a solid wall of angry muscle.

"What are you doing, Cole?" Caleb barked.

"Rescuing a dog." Ethan didn't flinch. He shifted the terrier in his arms. "And talking."

"You don't talk to her."

"She was cold. I gave her a hand warmer. Relax, man."

"I don't care what you gave her." Caleb's voice dropped into a dangerous, low register. "She's off-limits. Remember the rule."

I frowned, peering around Caleb's shoulder. "What rule?"

Ethan ignored me, keeping his gaze locked on my brother. He raised a single, dark eyebrow. "What rule?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about," Caleb snapped. "We agreed."

Ethan’s smirk stayed in place, but the amusement vanished from his face. His amber eyes hardened, turning cold and flat. The silence stretched, heavy and taut, broken only by the hum of the streetlights.

"Stay away from my sister," Caleb warned.

"Or what, Whitmore?"

"Don't test me." Caleb turned, his grip on my arm tightening. "Let's go. Now."

"I was just checking on the dog," I argued, trying to pull my arm free.

"In the truck, Lily."

Caleb dragged me to his pickup, pulled the passenger door open, and practically shoved me inside. He slammed the heavy metal shut before I could say another word.

Through the glass, I watched him stalk around the hood and climb into the driver's seat. He jammed the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life.

"What is your problem?" I demanded.

"Put your seatbelt on," Caleb ordered, throwing the truck into reverse.

"He was just helping me!"

"I don't want you near him."

"You don't get to dictate who I talk to."

"When it comes to Ethan Cole, I absolutely do." Caleb slammed his foot on the gas. The tires squealed as we shot out of the parking lot.

"Why?" I pressed, turning in my seat to glare at him. "He's your teammate. He just won the game for you guys."

"On the ice, he's my teammate. Off the ice, he's a problem." Caleb gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. "You stay away from him. Do you hear me?"

I sank back into the seat, my pulse still racing. I glanced up at the rearview mirror.

Ethan was still standing there.

Under the flickering yellow streetlamp, the massive floodlights of the rink framed him in a sharp, dark silhouette. He watched our truck speed away, the dog still cradled in his arms.

I looked down at my hands.

My fingers were wrapped tightly around the small, heating packet he had given me. His last one.

"Lily. Answer me," Caleb snapped.

"Fine," I muttered.

But I didn't drop the packet. I squeezed the hand warmer, the heat seeping deep into my freezing skin.

I had a terrible feeling that whatever rule my brother had established, I had already broken it.

My pencil carved another meaningless swirl into the margins of my biology notes.

I hadn't slept. Every time I closed my eyes, the dark silhouette of Ethan Cole standing under the yellow parking lot lights flashed across my eyelids. I pressed the heel of my hand against my forehead, trying to push the image away.

"You're going to rub a hole in your skull."

I jumped, my pencil snapping its lead against the paper.

Ethan dropped into the empty chair across from my usual window seat. He didn't ask if the spot was taken. He just tilted the wooden chair back on its hind legs, crossing his arms over his chest. His long legs stretched forward under the table, his sneakers boxing in my boots.

"Do you mind?" I asked, glaring at his shoes.

"Not at all." He flashed a crooked grin. "How's the new team logo coming along?"

"I haven't started."

"I'll wait."

"You're going to be waiting until graduation. I never agreed to draw anything for you."

"You're the best artist at Westbrook." He let the front legs of his chair hit the floor with a soft thud. "And the team needs a new crest for the playoff run."

"Ask the art club."

"I'm asking you."

"And I'm saying no." I picked up my eraser, scrubbing at the dark graphite mark on my biology notes. "How's the dog?"

"Sleeping on my mom's good rug."

"You actually took him home."

"I told you I would. Named him Puck."

"That's terrible."

"He likes it." Ethan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the scratched wood. "Now back to business. The logo."

"Still no. Besides, Caleb would lose his mind if he saw you sitting here."

"Your brother isn't the boss of the library."

"He thinks he is."

"Let me worry about Caleb."

His gaze dropped from my face to the open pages spread across my binder.

Panic flared in my chest.

I hadn't just been drawing biology diagrams. Last night, unable to sleep, my mind kept replaying the parking lot. The page displayed the sharp, violent arc of a hockey skate cutting through ice. Right next to it sat a shadowed profile of a guy in a heavy jacket.

I reached for the book, but Ethan was faster.

His large hand clamped down on the corner of the sketchbook. His thumb brushed the edge of the charcoal profile.

"Give that back." I grabbed the opposite corner, tugging hard.

He didn't release his grip. A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. "You say you hate hockey, Lily. But you drew the ice."

"It's just a sketch."

"Looks like a masterpiece to me." His voice dropped, a teasing rasp wrapping around the words. "Especially the guy."

Heat flooded my cheeks, burning all the way to the tips of my ears. "Hand it over."

"Did you get my nose right?"

"It's not you."

"Sure it isn't." He traced the outline of the skate with his index finger. "The blade is a little dull, though. Needs more edge."

I yanked the book with both hands, tearing the corner of the paper slightly as I pulled it against my chest. "Don't touch my stuff."

"Make a deal with me."

"I don't make deals with hockey players."

"I'm not just a hockey player." He tilted his head, his amber eyes locking onto mine. "Draw the logo. I'll pay you."

"I don't need your money."

"I'll throw in a hot chocolate."

"No."

"Two hot chocolates. And a pastry."

"Are you always this annoying?" I snapped, slamming my sketchbook shut.

"Usually more." He leaned closer, invading my space. The scent of pine and cold winter air rolled off his jacket, identical to last night. "Come on, Lily. The old logo is a joke. We need something fresh."

"Why me?"

"Because you notice the details." He pointed a finger at the closed cover of my book. "You caught the exact angle of the skate. You saw the way the ice sprays. You pay attention."

"I pay attention to biology."

"Draw the logo."

"No."

"Name your price." His voice lost its teasing edge, turning rougher, lower.

"I said no, Ethan."

"And I said, name your price."

"Why is this so important to you?"

"Because I want you to do it."

"That's not a reason."

"It is to me."

I opened my mouth to shoot him down again. But the words caught in my throat.

The playful arrogance had vanished from his expression. He stared at me with an intensity that made the noisy library fade into a dull hum. He wasn't just asking for a favor anymore. It felt like a test.

I looked at his eyes. They were completely focused on me, steady and unblinking.

"Fine," I whispered.

"Fine?"

"I'll draw your stupid logo."

A triumphant grin broke across his face. "Knew you'd cave."

"I didn't cave. I just want you to stop bothering me."

"Sure you do." He leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. "So, when do we start?"

"We don't start anything. I draw it. I give it to you. You leave me alone."

"That's not how collaboration works."

"It's how this works."

"Hey, did you see this?" a loud voice cut through the quiet room.

I flinched, glancing toward the adjacent table. Two seniors sat hunched over a glowing phone screen, their backpacks piled high on the chairs.

"See what?" the second guy asked, munching on a chip.

"The leak from that rehab center upstate. Scarlett Vance."

The name hung in the air, sharp and intrusive.

Ethan froze.

The smug grin vanished from his face, wiped away in a fraction of a second. The warmth drained out of his amber eyes, leaving behind two flat, hollow stones. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered near his ear.

"What about her?" the second senior asked, completely oblivious to the tension radiating from our table.

"Says she checked out early. Total mess."

Ethan stood up.

He didn't grab his backpack. He didn't say goodbye. He just shoved his chair backward.

The wooden legs scraped against the linoleum floor, a harsh, screeching sound that made half the library turn and stare.

"Ethan?" I asked.

He didn't look at me.

"Ethan, where are you going?"

He didn't look at anyone.

He turned on his heel and walked away. His strides were long and rigid, his shoulders locked tight under his jacket. He didn't stop to apologize to the librarian glaring at him. He didn't glance back at our table.

I sat frozen in my chair, watching his broad back disappear through the rows of towering bookshelves. The heavy double doors swung shut behind him, cutting off his exit.

Outside the window, thick white snow began to fall, burying the campus in a quiet, heavy blanket.

I touched the cover of my sketchbook. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

The guy who had just walked out wasn't the arrogant captain from the parking lot. He wasn't the teasing boy offering me hot chocolate. He was someone else entirely.

A stranger hiding behind a careless smile.

And for the first time, that unknown terrified me—and pulled me in.

I didn't go straight home after the final bell.

Caleb had been glaring at me for two solid days, his silent interrogations suffocating the air in our house. I needed space.

I trudged out to the frozen lake just beyond the town limits. The setting sun stained the thick ice a bruised purple-gray. It stretched out like a massive silver mirror, perfectly smooth and eerily quiet.

I unfolded my wooden easel and grabbed a charcoal stick.

My hand stopped in mid-air.

A dark figure sat dead center on the ice.

I squinted against the fading light.

Ethan Cole.

He sat cross-legged, his winter jacket hanging wide open to the biting wind. A glass bottle of whiskey rested near his knee, half empty. White mist plumed from his lips, dissolving into the freezing air.

I hesitated. The smart move was turning around and marching back to my warm bedroom.

My sneakers crunched over the frosted grass as I walked toward him instead.

"Are you trying to freeze to death?" I asked, my voice echoing across the flat expanse.

He didn't flinch. He just slowly tilted his head up.

His amber eyes were completely unfocused, glazed over with a heavy, numb haze. He stared at me for a long time, blinking as if trying to wake up from a dream.

"Ethan," I said, stopping a few feet away. "You need to get up."

He didn't answer.

"Are you deaf? You're going to freeze out here."

He reached out.

His freezing fingertips met my cheek. The cold shocked my skin, but I didn't pull back. He traced the line of my cheekbone, his touch feather-light and unsteady.

"Scarlett..." he whispered.

The name hit my chest like a sharpened ice pick.

My lungs seized. The library. The overheard gossip. Scarlett Vance.

Suddenly, the shifting shadows in his eyes made perfect sense. He wasn't looking at me. He was looking for her.

A bitter laugh bubbled in my throat. I should have shoved him away. I should have slapped his hand and left him on the ice.

Instead, I dropped to my knees beside him.

"I'm not Scarlett," I told him, my voice flat.

"She left," he mumbled, his hand dropping heavily to the ice.

"I know." I grabbed the two sides of his open jacket. "Sit up."

"Don't want to."

"I don't care what you want. You're freezing." I yanked the zipper up to his chin, sealing the heat inside.

He slumped sideways, his heavy frame knocking into my shoulder. I braced myself, taking his weight so he wouldn't crack his head against the frozen surface.

"Just five minutes," he muttered, his eyes slipping shut.

"Five minutes," I agreed.

His breathing deepened, turning into a steady, rumbling rhythm against my collarbone. The deep crease between his eyebrows slowly smoothed out.

I sat perfectly still. The cold seeped through my jeans, numbing my legs, but I didn't shift.

The sun vanished. A pale moon crawled up over the tree line, stretching our merged shadows across the silver ice.

We just sat there in the dark.

"What the hell?" a voice muttered from the shoreline.

I snapped my head up.

A guy in a Westbrook hockey jacket stood on the snowbank, holding up his phone. The camera flash blinded me for a split second.

"Hey!" I shouted, trying to untangle myself from Ethan. "Stop!"

The guy didn't answer. He turned and sprinted back toward the road, his shoes slipping on the frost.

"Ethan, wake up," I urged, shaking his shoulder.

He just groaned, burying his face deeper into my coat.

***

The smell of burnt toast filled the kitchen.

I sat at the dining table, wrapping my hands around a mug of black tea. Caleb stood near the window, scrolling aggressively on his phone.

His thumb stopped.

The silence in the room instantly turned toxic.

"Caleb?" I asked, setting my mug down.

He didn't look at me. His chest heaved, his knuckles turning stark white around the metal casing of his phone.

"Did you come straight home yesterday?" he demanded, his voice dangerously quiet.

"I went to paint."

"Where?"

"The lake."

He finally raised his head. His eyes were entirely black with rage. "Alone?"

"Yes."

"Liar."

He slammed his phone down onto the dining table. The impact sounded like a gunshot. The screen shattered, instantly webbing into a jagged spiderweb of broken glass.

I jumped, my chair scraping backward.

Through the cracks, a photo glowed brightly.

It was me. Sitting on the dark ice, holding a sleeping Ethan Cole against my chest.

Above the image, a group chat banner read: *Ethan Cole and the new art student spent the night cuddling on the frozen lake.*

"I told you to stay away from him," Caleb snarled, stepping toward me.

"It's not what it looks like."

"It never is." He braced both hands on the table, leaning into my space. "Do you have any idea what you've just done?"

"I didn't do anything! He was drunk. He was freezing."

"He's using you, Lily."

"You're paranoid."

"Am I?" Caleb challenged. "Ask him about last year. Ask him why the coach almost benched him."

"I don't care about his hockey record."

"It's not about hockey!" Caleb yelled, the veins in his neck bulging. "I know exactly who he is. And I know exactly what he does to girls who think they can fix him."

"I don't want to fix him."

"Then why were you holding him?"

I opened my mouth, but the truth lodged in my throat. I couldn't tell my brother about Scarlett. I couldn't explain the shattered look on Ethan's face.

Caleb grabbed his keys off the hook, the metal jingling aggressively.

"Where are you going?" I asked, my pulse hammering.

"To finish this."

"Caleb, stop! You have practice!"

"Not today." He yanked the front door open, the morning wind tearing through the hallway. "If Ethan wants to ruin my family, I'll ruin his season."

"You can't do that!"

"Watch me."

The door slammed shut.

I stared at the shattered phone on the table. The screen flickered, then died, plunging the room into silence.

My brother was going to kill him.