Chapter 2 .,.

POV: Mia Hayes

The room was small and sterile: two narrow beds, two metal desks, and one cold window looking out over the frozen expanse of the training rink. Rhys Callahan sat on the left bed with his arms crossed over his chest, watching me drag my heavy gear bag through the doorway like I was an interesting specimen he hadn’t quite figured out yet.

I set the bag down with a heavy thud and said nothing.

“You got taller,” Rhys said, his gaze tracking my movements.

I kept my back to him, slowly unzipping the canvas bag. “Maybe you got shorter.”

He made a dry sound that was almost a laugh. “Still got that mouth.”

I turned and faced him, carefully arranging my features into the flat, unbothered mask Ethan wore whenever someone tried to get under his skin. Ethan never let anything show; he was smooth and cool, and I had watched him master that armor my whole life.

I could do this.

“What do you want, Callahan?” I pushed my voice low and deliberate, sliding it into a register lower than it naturally sat.

He leaned back on his hands, tilting his head to study the ceiling. “Just saying it’s good to finally have a real challenge this season. The guys here are decent, but none of them are interesting.” He glanced at me sideways, his dark eyes sharp. “I’ve been waiting to beat you properly since regionals.”

“You didn’t beat me at regionals.”

“I beat your time by three seconds.”

“The goal count says different.”

He was quiet for a moment, letting the silence stretch. Then the slow, dangerous smile returned. “Yeah. This is going to be a good season.”

It wasn’t friendliness. He was sharpening himself against me like I was a whetstone. I understood that, and strangely, I didn’t mind. I’d been underestimated my whole life, and at least this was different. At least this was someone who thought I was worth the effort of destroying.

I turned back to my unpacking, breathing steadily through my nose.

“Lights out at ten,” Rhys said behind me, his tone dropping a fraction. “Coach is serious about it.”

“I know the rules.”

“Just making sure. You seemed distracted downstairs.”

I folded my shirts methodically, concentrating on keeping my hands steady and my shoulders loose—the way Ethan carried himself. Wide. Unbothered. Taking up space. Rhys watched the entire time, and I could feel his gaze like a physical hand pressed hard between my shoulder blades.

Practice started at six the next morning. The rink was bright, harsh, and biting cold when we stepped onto the ice, twenty-two boys and me, our collective breath rising in thick white clouds. I pulled my helmet down low over my brow and let the chill settle into my skin.

This part I knew. This part was mine.

Coach Donovan ran us through passing drills first, clean and sharp and fast. I kept pace easily. Then came speed drills. I pushed hard, my steel blades finding their rhythm against the ice, and I stopped thinking about Ethan’s name on my jersey or Rhys’s eyes tracking me across the rink. I just moved.

Someone behind me swore under his breath.

I pulled ahead.

At the end of the line, Coach Donovan was frowning down at his stopwatch, his heavy eyebrows raised. “Hayes.” He looked up from the screen. “Again.”

I went again.

When I stopped the second time, a small, heavy quiet spread across the ice. Nothing dramatic—just the kind of tense silence where players look at each other without speaking.

Then came contact drills, and Rhys decided to show up.

The first time, he came at me hard. Not illegal, but punishing. His shoulder drove straight into mine, and I stumbled two sharp steps, caught my edges, and spun back into position. We locked eyes, his gaze bright, wired, and intensely sharp.

He wanted to see what I’d do.

On the next drill, I went straight at him. I didn’t slow down, and I didn’t angle away. We collided in the center of the ice with a bone-rattling crack that vibrated through my teeth, both of us clawing for the rubber, his face six inches from mine, both of us breathing hard and pressing with every ounce of strength we had.

He got the puck. I stole it back in two seconds flat. His head snapped up in surprise, but I was already gone.

When practice ended, I could feel his eyes boring into my back the entire way off the ice.

I skipped the post-practice showers with a muttered excuse about a tight hamstring. It was a good excuse, though it had a shelf life of about one day.

That evening, I locked myself in a quiet bathroom stall with the sink running and called Ethan. His face appeared on my screen, pale, tired, and swimming with guilt all at once.

“How is it?”

“Fine,” I said, my voice tight. Then: “Hard. But fine.”

“Mia...”

“Don’t ’Mia’ me right now. I need everything you know about Rhys Callahan. Habits. Weaknesses. Anything.”

Ethan was quiet for a long moment. “He watches people. He’s always watching. He picks things apart until he finds the loose thread, and then he pulls it.”

“Great,” I whispered.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I could call the academy and tell them I changed my mind. You could come home, and we could figure something out together. Maybe there’s another way to get you on the ice legitimately. Just because the door isn’t open now doesn’t mean it never will be. And I just, I feel terrible about all of this, Mia. I really do.”

I looked at my brother’s face, the heavy guilt sitting on his features like something he couldn't put down.

“Is that a yes?” I asked quietly. “Are you going to take your spot back?”

He looked down, breaking eye contact. I had my answer.

“I’m going to make this worth it,” I said softly. “I promise.”

I hung up before he could say another word.

The dorm showers were communal. I’d known that going in, and I had a strict plan. I waited until just before lights-out, when the bathroom thinned out to the last two guys on their way out. I watched through the narrow gap in the door, counting seconds, and the moment the last player left with his towel slung over his shoulder, I moved.

In and out in four minutes flat. I was pulling my dark t-shirt over my head in the dim hallway when I heard heavy footsteps approaching behind me.

Rhys leaned against the corridor wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his dark hair still damp from his own shower. His eyes were calm, steady, and terrifyingly focused.

My heart flipped hard against my ribs.

“Callahan,” I kept my voice flat, forcing stability into it. “You’re in my way.”

He didn’t move an inch.

“You played differently today,” he said.

“Good different or bad different?”

“Just different.” He tilted his head, studying me. “More aggressive. Faster on the turn. You never used to drive straight into contact like that. You always angled away at the last second.”

I said nothing, freezing in place. He pushed off the wall and took one slow, deliberate step toward me.

“You’re not playing like the Ethan I know.”

The narrow hallway suddenly felt suffocatingly small, and my pulse thudded loudly in my ears. I forced my face to remain still, my shoulders square, and looked him dead in the eyes without blinking.

“People change,” I said.

Erudite and calculating, he studied me for a long, agonizing moment, something moving behind his dark eyes like dark water shifting under thin ice.

Then he stepped even closer.

“So tell me, Hayes.” His voice dropped, low, calm, and weighted with certainty. “What are you hiding?”