Chapter 2
The door slammed into the wall hard enough to rattle the hinges.
The laughter died. A dozen heads whipped around, eyes locked on me.
Max nearly choked on his beer. Chloe's smile died on her face. Carter, sprawled dead-center on the couch, froze for half a second before that trademark smirk slid back into place.
I didn't say a word. Just stood there, melted snow dripping off me onto their carpet.
"The hell are you doing just standing there?" Carter's eyes flicked to my bloody knee—no reaction. "Where's my stuff?"
Ten minutes ago, I might've pointed at my knee like an idiot, waiting for him to care. But staring at that smug face now, all I felt was disgust. Deep, churning disgust.
I walked over and dropped the soaked bag on the coffee table.
"Your wrist brace." My voice didn't shake. Didn't break.
My calm threw him off. He was used to me jumping when he snapped his fingers—used to me crying when he tore me apart.
He raised an eyebrow, looking at the bag. The bottom was soaked through, smeared with mud and blood from my walk back.
His lip curled. He pinched the corner between two fingers and held it up like it was toxic waste.
"You're five minutes late, Emilia." He looked me dead in the eye, that smirk spreading across his face as he dangled the bag over the trash can.
Then he let go.
"And you got it dirty."
Thud.
The limited-edition brace I'd walked through a blizzard for hit the bottom of the trash—right on top of crushed beer cans and cigarette butts.
Max whistled. Everyone watched me, waiting for the breakdown.
This was dare number twelve, after all.
Chloe snuggled into Carter's chest, fake-gagging. "Eww, babe, you're terrible." She looked at me with mock sympathy. "I mean, Emilia, come on. Who wants something that gross? It's literally garbage."
The room exploded with laughter. A couple guys started chanting, "Dig it out! Dig it out!"
Carter sat back, arms crossed, waiting for me to cry.
But I didn't even blink.
I stood there while they laughed, my eyes dropping to his left leg—the one I'd spent three years fixing. Then I looked him in the eye and smiled.
Cold. Empty.
"You're right." Each word came out sharp and clear. "It is trash. Good throw."
Dead silence. Carter's smirk died. For the first time, he looked genuinely confused.
"Finals tomorrow night." I looked back at his leg one more time. "Hope it holds up."
I turned and grabbed the door. "Have fun celebrating."
Slam.
The door shut hard. I didn't look back.
I kept my head up and walked straight into the storm.
The second I got back to my dorm, I tore off my frozen clothes and threw them against the wall.
The second the heat hit my skin, my ring finger and pinky started twitching—cramping hard.
Permanent nerve damage. Three years old. From the night I'd held Carter's artery together with my bare hands while we waited for the ambulance. Cold always set it off.
The pain didn't make me sad anymore. It just made me feel stupid.
I walked to my desk and yanked open the bottom drawer. Pulled out the metal lockbox.
Inside: an ER admit form from Boston Central. Three years old. Patient name: Carter Hayes. Family signature: my name, scrawled in shaky letters with my left hand—the only one that still worked that night.
Under it, a piece of his jersey. Still stiff with dried blood.
I stared at the proof of how stupid I'd been for three years. Then I grabbed my phone and pulled up the contact I'd blocked a year ago.
A year ago, Carter had looked me in the eye and said, "Don't make me choose between you and your asshole brother." And I'd blocked Luke without a second thought.
Two rings. Then his voice, rough with shock. "...Emmy?"
"Luke." My voice cracked. The tears I'd been holding in all night finally came. "I need to come to London. Soon as possible."
Dead silence for a beat. Then a chair crashed to the floor.
"Did Carter do something?!" Luke's voice went from zero to fury in a second. "I'm getting on the next flight. I'm gonna break his fucking legs—"
"No. Don't." I dragged in a breath, swiping at my face. "Just—get me into UCL. And a one-way ticket this weekend. I'm done."
The next few days, I showed up to practice like nothing happened.
That pissed Carter off. He started pushing harder.
Wednesday afternoon, end of practice. I was working on his leg by the boards—same routine I'd done a thousand times.
My fingers were still half-numb from the cold earlier that week, cramping every time I tried to straighten them.
That's when Chloe, practicing nearby, took a spill. She barely scraped her knee.
Carter kicked my hand off his leg, skated over to Chloe, and scooped her up like she'd been hit by a truck.
Then he whipped around. "The hell are you waiting for?! She's hurt! Get the ointment!"
"That's for ligament damage. It's not meant for—"
"I don't give a shit. Bring it here." His voice dropped, cold and sharp. "Don't make me repeat myself, Emilia. Rub it on her knee. Keep going till she says it's fine."
The guys started laughing. Max leaned on the boards, grinning. "You deaf? Move your ass. Princess needs her massage."
A year ago, I would've cried. Now I just looked at my cramping hand and thought: this is pathetic.
"Fine." I grabbed the med kit and walked over, dropping to one knee.
Chloe tilted her head, smiling down at me like I was her servant. She stretched her leg out until her skate almost hit my face. "Be gentle, okay? Carter gets really mad when people hurt me."
I rubbed the ointment on her knee without looking at her. Carter was whispering something in her ear, making her giggle.
I tuned it out. All I could think about was the number in my head:
Less than 72 hours until my flight to London.
Friday night, end of practice. Carter stood up on the bench and shouted across the locker room.
"Tomorrow we win the finals, then we hit The Keg! I'm buying out the whole bar!"
Everyone went nuts. Then Carter turned and looked straight at me, still folding towels in the corner. That smile spread across his face.
"Emilia. You're coming too." He winked. "Dress up. I've got something special planned."
Dare thirteen. I knew exactly what he meant. Get me drunk, make me confess my feelings in front of everyone, then dump a bucket of beer on my head for the grand finale.
My phone buzzed against my thigh. A text from Luke:
[Ticket secured. Tomorrow night, late. See you at Heathrow.]
Through the noise and chaos, I looked at Carter's smug face. He was so sure he had me.
I smiled. Bright. Real.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world, Carter." I kept smiling. "I'll be there."
Because I had a parting gift too.
