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.

"Stop pulling my arm, Maya," I yelled over the bass rattling the floorboards.

"Stop trying to escape," Maya shouted back. She yanked me deeper into the living room, dodging a guy holding two red plastic cups. "You promised me two hours, Lily. You can't bail after ten minutes."

"I didn't know half the town would be jammed into one house."

"It's the pre-season kickoff." Maya grinned, adjusting her tight black top. "Everyone is here. The whole roster, the cheer squad, even the freshmen who snuck in through the basement window. Now, go mingle before I force you into a game of pong."

"I don't know how to play pong."

"Then you'll learn today."

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me stranded by the staircase.

The house smelled like stale beer and sweat. The floor vibrated beneath my sneakers, syncing with the heavy drumbeat of the music. I hated parties. I hated the noise, the heat, the unpredictable chaos of drunk teenagers shouting over each other.

I scanned the room for a quiet corner. Or better yet, a back door.

Instead, I found him.

Ethan stood near the hallway, completely surrounded by a tight circle of cheerleaders. Two of them were laughing loudly at a joke, leaning in close to touch his arm. But Ethan wasn't looking at them. He held a plastic cup in his hand, his chin tipped up, scanning the crowded room with a heavy, detached expression. He looked completely bored. Like he was a million miles away.

Then his amber eyes locked onto mine.

The boredom vanished. The shift in his demeanor was instant. He pushed off the wall, his shoulders squaring up.

"Ethan, wait, I was asking you about the game tomorrow," a blonde girl started, reaching for his jersey.

"Not right now," he interrupted flatly.

He didn't say excuse me. He just walked straight toward me. The dense crowd naturally parted, giving the star player a clear path. My feet stayed glued to the floor. I should have turned around. I should have walked right out the front door.

He stopped inches away, forcing me to tilt my head back.

"You don't belong here," he said, his voice cutting cleanly through the noise.

I crossed my arms to hide my nervous hands. "Neither do you."

A quick smirk flashed across his mouth. "Follow me."

"Why should I?"

"Because you look like you're about to sprint out the front door, and I know a better exit."

"I'm perfectly fine standing right here."

"Liar." He tilted his head toward the kitchen. "Come on. Before Maya finds you and makes you do a keg stand."

He didn't wait for my answer. He turned and navigated through the kitchen. I followed his broad shoulders, letting him clear a path through the sweaty bodies.

He pushed open the sliding glass door and stepped out onto the back porch. I followed, sliding the heavy glass shut behind me.

The thumping bass instantly muted into a dull thud.

Cold winter air hit my flushed cheeks. I looked up. A massive spread of stars dotted the black sky, completely unobstructed by the town's streetlights. The contrast between the suffocating house and the crisp night was jarring.

Ethan walked to the edge of the wooden deck and leaned his hips against the railing. He set his cup down on the ledge, completely untouched.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. I just wanted to get out of there too." He studied me in the dim yellow porch light. "So, answer a question for me."

"Depends on the question."

"Why do you paint the rink?"

I frowned. "I didn't think you cared about art."

"I don't," he replied quickly. "I care about why you draw my sport. You told me you hated hockey."

I shoved my hands into my jacket pockets, shivering slightly as the wind picked up. "I do hate the game. But the rink is different. The lines make sense. They have order. There are rules, boundaries, and geometry. I like things I can control."

Ethan laughed.

It wasn't his usual arrogant, mocking sound. It was genuine, carving tiny, attractive creases at the corners of his eyes. The sound sent a strange jolt straight to my chest. He looked younger when he smiled like that. Less burdened.

"That's funny," he said.

"I wasn't making a joke."

"I know. That's why it's funny." He turned his head, looking out at the dark, frozen yard. "Because out there, I don't control a damn thing."

"You're the captain. You control the plays."

"I execute the plays," he corrected, his tone turning serious. "But once the puck drops, it's just chaos. I don't control the ice. I don't control the other team. I just throw myself at the game and hope I hit something hard before it hits me."

I pulled my right hand out of my pocket and gripped the icy railing. "That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

He shifted closer. His large hand slid over mine on the wooden rail, completely covering my knuckles.

The heat of his skin shocked me. Rough calluses scraped against my hand—the permanent marks of gripping a hockey stick and tying tight skates.

I didn't pull away. I didn't even flinch.

Ethan leaned down. His face hovered inches from my neck. The sharp scent of his aftershave mixed with the freezing night wind and a faint trace of alcohol. My pulse hammered violently against my throat.

"You're shaking," he murmured.

"It's cold."

"Is it?" His thumb brushed over the back of my hand.

"Yes."

"Do you want to go back inside?"

"No."

He tilted his head closer. His amber eyes dropped to my mouth. The tension between us pulled tight, thick and suffocating. The air grew heavy, charged with a dangerous electricity.

My phone buzzed aggressively in my pocket.

The spell shattered. I yanked my hand out from under his, instantly missing the heavy warmth.

I pulled out the phone. The screen glared brightly in the dark.

*Caleb: Where are you?*

My stomach twisted into a painful knot. Reality crashed down on me, freezing and sharp.

"He's tracking you," Ethan noted, his tone flat.

"I have to go."

"Ignore him."

"I can't." I shoved the phone back into my pocket. "I'll see you at school, Ethan."

"I want to see you," he said.

I froze, my hand resting on the glass door handle. "You need the logo finished. I get it."

"Not because of the logo." He stepped into my space, forcing me to look up. "Not because of anything. Just you."

My heart drummed a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I backed up, my boots scraping against the wooden deck. I had to leave. If I stayed out here another minute, I would do something incredibly stupid.

I slid the door open and glanced back over my shoulder.

Ethan leaned against the doorframe. The yellow porch light outlined his broad shoulders, turning him into a sharp silhouette against the dark siding.

"I have to go," I whispered.

"Then let me," he murmured, his eyes burning into mine.

I didn't answer. I stepped inside and yanked the door shut, plunging myself back into the sweltering, noisy living room. The bass swallowed me whole. But as I pushed past the sweaty bodies, a terrifying realization settled in my chest.

I had crossed the line. There was no going back to normal.

An hour later, the party finally died out. Maya waved goodbye, disappearing into a friend's car.

I walked toward the front yard, my hands shoved deep into my pockets.

Caleb stood by the passenger side of his SUV. The streetlamp illuminated his rigid posture. He didn't ask if I had fun. He didn't ask where I had been.

He just stared at me.

I stopped a few feet away. "Can we go home?"

He didn't speak. His jaw muscles locked tight, twitching under his skin. The silence between us felt heavier than the freezing air. He didn't need to ask a single question. I could see it in his eyes.

He knew everything.

He slowly reached out and opened the passenger door, his gaze never leaving my face. The war had officially started, and I had just handed him the ammunition.