RYDER'S POV

The sharp scent of Zamboni polish and sweat hangs heavy in the cold air of the rink, a stench that Ryder Knight usually breathes in like oxygen. Today, it tastes like ash. His skates carve hard into the ice, sending a spray of white shavings into the air as he dekes around a defender, his focus narrowing down to the net and the black rubber puck sliding off his stick. The scoreboard glows with a lead-his team is up by two-but the only number that matters right now is the one on the back of the jersey checking him from the periphery.

Kai Miller.

Kai is a shadow on Ryder's right, aggressive and relentless. The history between them isn't just written in past friendships; it's etched into the bruises of their last encounter. Ryder had fucked Kai's sister, a decision made in the heat of the moment that had incinerated years of camaraderie. Now, every time they step onto the ice, it's a war. Kai wants blood, and Ryder is happy to spill it, but right now, he wants the win more.

Ryder crosses the blue line, picking up speed. He fakes a shot, watching the goalie drop, and prepares to tuck the puck into the top corner. It's a sure thing. The rank is his.

Then, the world tilts.

A body slams into him from the blind side-not Kai, but a heavy freshman forward who loses an edge. The impact is a freight train hitting solid bone. Ryder's momentum is arrested instantly, his feet flying out from under him. He crashes onto the ice, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall against the unyielding surface. A sickening crunch echoes in his ears, followed immediately by a white-hot lance of pain that shoots from his wrist all the way to his jaw.

He gasps, the air forced from his lungs, clutching his arm to his chest. The whistle shrieks, piercing the ringing in his head.

Through the haze of agony, Ryder sees Kai circling back, stopping a few feet away. Kai isn't looking at the freshman who actually delivered the hit; he's looking at Ryder with a curl of his lip that looks suspiciously like satisfaction.

"You fucker," Ryder grinds out, forcing himself to his knees despite the screaming protest of his shoulder. Two teammates, Leo and Sam, rush over to help him up, but Ryder shoves them off with his good arm. He staggers toward Kai, his vision swimming with red. "You did that on purpose!"

Kai throws his hands up, stick dangling from his gloves. "I didn't touch you, you drama queen. You tripped over your own ego."

"Bullshit!" Ryder roars. He doesn't think. He just reacts. He draws his right fist back-the good one-and drives it squarely into Kai's jaw.

The impact is solid, a satisfying thud of bone against bone. Kai's head snaps back, blood instantly staining his teeth, and he stumbles. Before he can retaliate, the referee is there, blowing the whistle incessantly, and Coach Henderson is bellowing from the bench, storming across the ice like a bull.

"Enough! Get the fuck off him, Knight!" Coach Henderson grabs Ryder by the jersey, hauling him back just as Kai tries to shake off the hit and lunge forward. "Both of you, to the box! Now!"

They sit in the penalty box, the silence between them thick and toxic. Coach Henderson leans over the partition, his face purple with rage. "I don't care what your history is. You are captains. You are supposed to lead, not act like toddlers in a sandbox. Apologize. Now. Or you're both off the team."

Ryder stares at the ice, his arm throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He hates this. He hates losing control. Finally, he mutters, "Sorry."

"Sorry," Kai spits back, wiping blood from his lip with the back of his glove.

"Get to the clinic, Ryder," Henderson orders, pointing a gloved finger toward the tunnel. "And get that arm looked at before it falls off."

Ryder storms off the ice, Leo and Sam flanking him. The walk to the athletic clinic feels like a mile. By the time they push through the double doors, the adrenaline is wearing off, leaving a cold, aching stiffness in his shoulder.

The trainer, a stern woman named Sarah, wastes no time. She prods his arm, her fingers pressing into the bruising flesh. "You're lucky it's not a break, but it's a nasty sprain," she says, wrapping him in elastic bandage with practiced efficiency. "If you keep punching people with it, you're going to need surgery."

"Yeah, yeah," Ryder mutters, wincing as she tightens the wrap. "Just tape it up."

He sits on the exam table, shirtless, his chest heaving slightly from the exertion and the pain. Leo leans against the counter, scrolling through his phone, while Sam tosses a roll of tape in the air.

"You really clocked him," Sam says, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Kai looked like he was going to cry."

"He wishes," Ryder retorts, hopping down from the table and flexing his fingers gingerly. "He deserved it."

************

Classes drag on for the rest of the day, the pain in Ryder's arm dull, constant reminder of the morning's violence. By the time the final bell rings, the campus is bathed in the orange glow of late afternoon. Ryder walks toward the parking lot, his gear bag slung over his good shoulder, flanked by Leo and Sam. The air is cooling down, carrying the smell of dry leaves and exhaust.

They are passing the Languages building when Ryder's steps slow.

Near the entrance, standing under the stone archway, is a man who stops Ryder in his tracks. He's talking to Madame Dubois, the ancient French lecturer who usually smells like mothballs. But this guy... this guy looks like he belongs on a runway, not in a dusty department office.

He looks young, barely older than Ryder, with sharp cheekbones and messy dark hair that catches the sunlight. He's wearing a fitted navy button-down with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that are lean and defined. There's an ease to his posture, a casual confidence that radiates even from this distance. Ryder feels a sudden, distinct tug of interest low in his gut, a heat that has nothing to do with anger.

"Who is that?" Ryder asks, his voice dropping an octave.

Leo follows his gaze and lets out a low whistle. "That's the new guy. The hot young professor everyone's been gossiping about."

"Professor?" Ryder raises an eyebrow, his eyes tracking the way the man laughs at something Madame Dubois says, throwing his head back to expose the long line of his throat. "He looks like a student."

"Nah, he's legit," Sam chimes in, nudging Ryder with his elbow. "Teaches Lit or something. Fresh out of grad school. The girls in the dorms are losing their minds over him."

Ryder watches the new professor adjust his glasses, a gesture that shouldn't be sexy but somehow is. He imagines what that guy would look like without the button-down, imagined if that composed exterior would crack if Ryder pushed him up against the brick wall of the Languages building.

"Well," Ryder says, shifting his bag on his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips as the ache in his arm momentarily forgotten. "This semester might not be a total waste of time after all."

RYDER'S POV

The Friday night air hangs heavy and humid over the sprawling estate, thick with the scent of chlorine, expensive cologne, and the sharp, yeasty tang of spilled beer. Inside the mansion's massive glass-walled sunroom, the atmosphere is a suffocating heat of bodies and sound. The bass from the speakers thumps against the glass panels, a rhythmic vibration that matches the pulse of the crowd. Half-naked bodies writhe in the flickering LED lights, a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. Near the infinity pool, a couple is going at it hard on a daybed, the woman's head thrown back in a silent scream as the man pounds into her, oblivious to the partygoers splashing in the water nearby. The smell of sex mingles with the alcohol fumes, creating a heady cocktail that saturates the room.

Ryder lounges on a velvet sectional in the center of the chaos, the undisputed king of his parents' domain. He takes a long drag from a cigarette, exhaling a plume of gray smoke that drifts toward the ceiling. His legs are spread wide, providing a throne for Tessa, who is currently grinding her ass against his crotch with desperate enthusiasm. She wears a scrap of red fabric that barely covers her perky tits, her nipples hard and visible through the thin material. Tessa moves her hips in slow, deliberate circles, feeling the growing bulge in Ryder's jeans. She leans back, her wet hair sticking to his neck, and moans softly, trying to coax a reaction out of him.

Ryder's hand rests lazily on her hip, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, but his eyes scan the room with bored detachment. He watches a freshman girl throwing back shots, her throat working as she swallows the burning liquid, and another group passing around a joint like a sacred relic. Tessa reaches back, grabbing his hair and pulling his head closer to hers, trying to force him to engage. She grinds down harder, her pussy rubbing against the denim seam of his pants, creating a friction that makes her breath hitch. She wants his dick inside her, wants to be filled up in front of everyone, but Ryder just takes another drag of his cigarette, the ash threatening to fall on the carpet.

"Yo, this is getting fucking boring," a voice cuts through the music. It's Jason, one of Ryder's oldest friends, sitting on the armrest with a bottle of vodka in his hand. He looks around the room, his eyes glazed. "Let's play Truth or Dare. Some real shit. No pussying out."

A chorus of agreement rises from the group gathered around the table. Glasses clink, and the circle tightens, the energy shifting from drunken revelry to predatory anticipation. Ryder smirks, flicking his ash onto the floor. Tessa stops her grinding, sensing the shift in attention, and pouts, crossing her arms over her chest to push her tits up.

"Ryder, you're up first," Jason grins, pointing a finger at him. "Truth or Dare?"

"Dare," Ryder says instantly, his voice low and rough. He doesn't do truth. Truth is for people with secrets to hide; he has nothing to hide.

Jason looks around the room, his eyes landing on a petite blonde standing near the punch bowl, looking nervous and out of place. She's wearing a tight blue dress that hugs her curves, her innocent face flushed from the heat. "I dare you to kiss her. Right now. With tongue."

Ryder doesn't hesitate. He grips Tessa's waist and lifts her off his lap like she weighs nothing, setting her aside on the cushion. Tessa stumbles, her eyes widening in shock and outrage. "What the fuck, Ryder?" she snaps, but he's already standing up.

He strides across the room, the crowd parting for him. The blonde girl sees him coming and freezes, her hands clutching her plastic cup. Ryder grabs her by the waist, pulling her flush against his chest. He doesn't give her time to think. He crashes his lips against hers, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. She stiffens for a second, her body rigid with surprise, then melts into him. Her hands flutter against his chest before gripping his shirt. Ryder kisses her deeply, aggressively, tasting the fruity punch on her tongue. The girl blushes a deep, crimson red, her skin burning hot against his, and lets out a soft, whimpering moan that he swallows whole.

Behind him, the room erupts in whistles and cheers. Ryder pulls away, leaving the blonde breathless and dazed, her lips swollen and wet. He glances back at the sofa, his expression cold.

Tessa is standing now, her face twisted in fury. She looks from the blonde girl back to Ryder, her hands balled into fists at her sides. "You asshole!" she screams, her voice shrill over the music. Without another word, she turns on her heel and storms off toward the exit, pushing past a couple making out against the doorframe.

Ryder walks back to the sectional and sits down, picking up his drink as if nothing happened. Jason laughs, slapping his knee. "Damn, Ryder. You really know how to clear a lap. What was that about? She was practically riding your dick five seconds ago."

Ryder takes a sip of his whiskey, the liquid burning a path down his throat. He leans back, spreading his legs again, though the space on his lap remains empty. "She's been eyeing the new professor," Ryder says, his tone dismissive. "The one teaching Econ. Saw her texting him all night, trying to act like a fucking slut. I'm not interested in leftovers."

"Professor Vance?" Jason raises an eyebrow. "That stiff old guy? Tessa wants to fuck him?"

"Apparently," Ryder scoffs. "I'm tired of her anyway. Same pussy, same tricks. It's boring. I need something new. Someone who isn't trying to fuck the faculty behind my back."

The group laughs, the tension breaking. A brunette girl named Chloe, who has been watching Ryder with hungry eyes, leans forward. "It's not that easy," she says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Seducing Professor Adrian is like trying to fuck a statue. I've heard he's cold. Doesn't look at any of the students."

Ryder's lips curl into a slow, dangerous smirk. He looks at Chloe, his eyes dark with challenge. "Maybe you just didn't do it right, Chloe. Maybe you didn't know what buttons to push."

He sets his glass down on the table with a heavy thud. "I bet you I can have him begging for it before the semester is over. I'll make that professor crack so hard he won't know what hit him."

"You think you can seduce him?" Chloe laughs, incredulous. "Ryder, he's a straight arrow. You can't just wag your dick at him and expect him to fold."

"I don't wag my dick," Ryder says, his voice dropping to a murmur that makes the group lean in. "I make them want it. I make them need it so bad they forget their own names. And I bet I can make Professor Adrian forget he's supposed to be teaching."