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.

The whispers started the second I walked through the main double doors.

Students pointed at their phone screens, then cut their eyes toward me. The entire Westbrook high school hallway buzzed with a toxic, electric energy.

Before I could reach my locker, a heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder.

Caleb shoved me into the empty alcove near the science labs. He planted his palm flat against the cinderblock wall right next to my ear, trapping me in the narrow space.

"I told you to stay away from him." His voice was a harsh rasp, barely louder than a whisper, but it cut like a skate blade.

"Move your arm, Caleb."

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" He leaned closer, blocking the fluorescent lights. "The entire roster has that picture."

"We didn't do anything!" I pushed against his chest, but he felt like a brick wall. "I went to the lake to paint. He was already there."

Caleb's fingers locked around my wrist. He squeezed.

"Ow! You're hurting me."

"You're going to listen to me." His grip tightened just enough to send a sharp ache radiating up my forearm. "You have no idea what you're walking into."

"He was freezing to death on the ice. Was I supposed to leave him?"

"Yes." Caleb stared down at me, his dark eyes entirely devoid of sympathy. "Because he put himself there. Just like he did all of last year."

"What are you talking about?"

"Scarlett."

The name made my stomach drop.

"Ethan's precious first love," Caleb sneered, spitting the words out like poison. "She overdosed a year ago. Ended up in a rehab center upstate. And Ethan? He completely rotted from the inside out."

I stared at my brother. The sheer anger radiating off him felt suffocating.

"He spent six months drinking himself blind," Caleb continued, his tone merciless. "He picked fights in parking lots. Broke a guy's jaw behind the diner. I had to beg the cops to let him go with a warning."

"People grieve, Caleb. He was hurting."

"I was the one pulling him out of those alleys!" Caleb yelled, his voice echoing down the corridor. A few freshmen scurried past, keeping their heads down. "I covered for him. I kept this team together while he played the tragic victim. He showed up to morning practice reeking of cheap whiskey. Coach was one strike away from kicking him off the roster entirely."

"That doesn't mean he's a bad person."

"He's not a good guy, Lily." Caleb shook my arm slightly, demanding my full attention. "He's a mess. He is a grenade with the pin pulled. And I'm not letting him drag you into that."

Adrenaline spiked in my veins. I twisted my arm hard, tearing my wrist out of his grasp.

"I'm not something you own!" I yelled.

"I am trying to protect you!"

"You don't understand me at all." I rubbed my aching wrist, glaring at him through blurry eyes. "You just want to control everything."

"Lily—"

"Leave me alone."

I spun around and marched down the hallway, ignoring the stares of a dozen students who had stopped to watch.

***

The final bell finally rang, offering a brief mercy. I stayed in the art room for an extra hour, organizing the drying racks just to avoid going home to Caleb's suffocating rules.

When I stepped out into the quiet corridor, a tall shadow blocked my path.

Ethan leaned against the doorframe.

He looked terrible. The arrogant hockey captain from the parking lot was completely gone. His broad shoulders slumped under his heavy winter jacket. Red rims circled his amber eyes, and a rough layer of stubble shadowed his jawline.

"Hey," he rasped.

"What do you want, Ethan?" I kept my distance, gripping my backpack straps tight.

"I came to apologize." He rubbed the back of his neck, refusing to meet my gaze. "For yesterday. On the lake. I was out of line."

"You were drunk."

"Yeah. I was." He finally looked up, his expression exhausted. "You shouldn't have had to deal with that."

I stared at him. Beneath the tough exterior, he looked incredibly fragile.

"I don't normally do this," Ethan muttered.

"Do what? Apologize?"

"Acknowledge I messed up." He shifted his weight, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum. "I'm sorry, Lily."

"You could have died out there."

"I know."

"Why were you on the ice, Ethan?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." I took a step closer. The hallway was completely silent, the afternoon sun casting long, orange streaks through the windows. "Who's Scarlett?"

Ethan flinched.

It was a violent, full-body reaction, as if I had just swung a baseball bat into his ribs. The apology vanished from his face instantly. His amber eyes hardened into cold, flat glass.

"Where did you hear that name?" His voice dropped an octave, scraping against the quiet corridor.

"Caleb told me."

"Of course he did." Ethan clenched his jaw.

"He said she went to rehab. He said you fell apart."

Ethan stepped forward, towering over me. The vulnerability I had seen two seconds ago was entirely erased, replaced by a defensive wall of ice.

"None of your business."

"I held you on the lake for an hour while you shivered and called her name. I think it is my business."

"You think wrong."

"Is she why you drink on the ice?" I pushed, refusing to back down.

"Stop."

"Is she why you hate the old team logo?"

"I said stop, Lily."

He turned his back to me.

"Ethan, wait!"

He didn't stop. He walked away, his heavy strides echoing against the metal lockers as he disappeared into the fading orange sunlight at the end of the hall.

I stood in the center of the corridor.

My hands curled into tight fists. My fingernails dug deep into my palms, sending sharp bites of pain through my skin. Caleb wanted me to stay away. Ethan wanted to shut me out.

But I had seen the cracks in his armor. I was the only one who had sat with him in the dark.

I was going to find out exactly what happened to Scarlett Vance. Even if digging up the truth ripped his scabbed wounds wide open.

Three nights. That was how long it took to get the lines right.

I stood outside the boys' locker room, holding the thick cardstock against my chest. The ice wolf stared back at me, its wings spread wide, drawn in sharp angles and freezing blues. It looked aggressive. Fast. Exactly what a Westbrook hockey crest needed to be.

The muffled sounds of skates grinding on the rink echoed down the hall. Friday practice was still going. I just needed to slide the paper under the door and disappear before Caleb caught me anywhere near this side of the building.

I crouched down, pushing the corner of the drawing beneath the heavy metal frame.

The door violently swung inward.

I stumbled forward, barely catching myself on the doorjamb.

Ethan stood in the threshold. Steam rolled off his shoulders into the chilly corridor. His dark hair was entirely soaked, plastered to his forehead. Sweat tracked down his jawline, dripping onto the collar of a practice jersey that clung tight to his chest. He breathed heavy, his chest rising and falling in a rapid, exhausted rhythm.

"Spying on the locker room, Lily?" he asked, wiping a drop of sweat from his chin.

"I was dropping this off." I shoved the cardstock into his chest.

He didn't grab it immediately. He wiped his large hands on the sides of his mesh shorts, leaving damp streaks on the fabric. Only then did he take the drawing by the edges.

He didn't smirk. He didn't offer a sarcastic joke.

He just stared at the wolf. The silence stretched, heavy and expectant, broken only by the distant whistle of the coach on the ice.

His thumb traced the sharp wing tip. He examined the shading around the wolf's eyes, the aggressive tilt of the snout.

"You're really good," he said.

His voice lacked its usual arrogant rasp. It was quiet. Serious.

"It's just a sketch," I deflected, crossing my arms to hide my shaking hands.

"It's exactly what we need." He finally looked up, his amber eyes locking onto mine. "Let me buy you a drink."

"I don't drink."

"Hot chocolate. Unless you're scared to be seen with me in the daylight."

"I'm not scared of you."

"Prove it. Give me five minutes to change."

The wind bit at my cheeks. We sat on the concrete steps behind the school, a safe distance from the main parking lot.

He handed me a steaming paper cup. Our fingers brushed. His skin was still cold from the rink, a stark contrast to the boiling cardboard.

"Thanks," I mumbled, wrapping both hands around the cup to siphon the heat.

Ethan sat on the step below me, resting his forearms on his knees. He stared out at the snow-covered football field. Every time we exhaled, our white breath tangled together in the freezing air.

"Why a wolf?" he asked, nodding at my backpack where the drawing was safely stowed.

"Because they survive the cold," I answered.

He let out a low hum, taking a sip of his drink. "My dad played pro."

I stopped halfway through a sip. I lowered the cup. "I didn't know that."

"Most people don't." He rotated his hot chocolate, staring at the plastic lid. "Drafted straight out of high school. Played three seasons. Then a defenseman shattered his right knee against the boards."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I wasn't born yet." He tapped his index finger against the side of his cup. "He never played again. Started drinking instead. Figured out pretty quick that whiskey numbs a bad joint better than physical therapy."

"Is that why you..." I trailed off, thinking of the frozen lake.

"Drink?" He finished the sentence for me. "Sometimes."

I watched the tension lock his jaw. The muscle ticked near his ear.

"He put a stick in my hands when I was three," Ethan continued, his voice dropping lower. "Told me I was going to finish what he started. Every game, every practice, he's watching. Waiting for me to secure the bag."

"That's a lot of pressure."

"It's the only reality I've got." He turned his head, looking past me toward the empty bleachers. "I have to get a scholarship. That's the only way out."

He sounded exhausted. The weight of his father's ruined dreams pressed down on his shoulders, crushing the arrogant facade he wore in the hallways. He wasn't the untouchable star player right now. He was just a guy trying to survive his own life.

"Out of Westbrook?" I asked.

"Out of everything. This town. This house. I just need to get on the ice somewhere else and never look back."

I traced the rim of my cup. The town felt like a cage to him. But to me, it was the only place I knew. My friends were here. My art was here.

"What if I don't want to leave?" I asked softly.

Ethan shifted. He turned fully toward me, his amber eyes catching the pale winter sunlight. He searched my face, scanning my features as if trying to memorize them. The walls he usually kept up were completely gone. Underneath, a dark, turbulent current swirled in his gaze, dangerous and pulling. It felt like standing on cracked ice, knowing the freezing water was rushing right below the surface.

He opened his mouth. His lips parted.

Headlights swept across the snow.

Tires crunched over the icy asphalt at the edge of the lot.

I snapped my head around. A familiar dark blue SUV rolled to a stop near the cafeteria doors.

Caleb.

Panic spiked in my chest. I jerked upward, my boots slipping on the frosted concrete. My grip clamped down tight on the paper cup, crushing the cardboard inward. Hot liquid splashed over the lid, burning my knuckles.

"Shit," I hissed, wiping my hand on my jeans.

Ethan didn't stand. He watched my frantic movements from his spot on the steps. A bitter, jagged smile twisted his mouth.

"Afraid of your brother?" he asked.

"I just don't want to deal with a screaming match right now."

"Right." He looked away, the vulnerability from a moment ago slamming shut like a steel vault. "Go on, then. Don't let the captain catch you fraternizing with the enemy."

"Ethan, it's not like that."

"Yeah, it is." He picked up his own cup and stood. "Thanks for the drawing, Lily."

He didn't wait for my response. He walked toward the locker room entrance, his broad back rigid, shutting me out entirely.

"Lily!" Caleb's voice barked across the parking lot.

I flinched. I tossed the ruined cup into a nearby trash can and jogged toward the SUV.

I yanked the passenger door open and climbed inside. The heater blasted warm air against my frozen face, but the atmosphere inside the cab was absolute zero.

I pulled the seatbelt across my chest, staring straight ahead.

Caleb didn't put the car in drive. He stared into the rearview mirror. His jaw muscles flexed, a rapid pulsing beneath his skin. His hands gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles stretched stark white against the dark leather.

I risked a glance at the side mirror.

Ethan had stopped at the metal doors. He was watching our car.

"I was just giving him the logo," I said, breaking the suffocating silence.

Caleb didn't answer. He didn't even blink. He just kept staring at Ethan's reflection.

He finally slammed the gearshift into drive and hit the gas.

I stared out the window as the school blurred past. Caleb hadn't said a single word, but the message was deafening. This wasn't just a rivalry anymore. It was war. And looking at my brother's white-knuckled grip, I realized he was already planning his next strike.