Aria’s POV
The rink lights hummed like they were mocking me.
Five-fourteen in the morning and the ice was already carved up by black hockey skates, deep gouges ruining the pristine sheet I’d polished in my head all night. I stood at the boards in my scuffed white guards, duffel bag biting into my shoulder, and watched the Northridge boys’ team circle like they owned the place. Because right now, they did.
Coach Harrow had cut my Tuesday and Thursday slots last week. “Hockey pays the bills, Aria.” As if my mid-air spins and bleeding feet were just expensive decoration.
I stepped onto the ice anyway.
Cold air slapped my cheeks. I pushed off, stroking hard along the boards, trying to claim even a narrow lane. My first axel felt tight, landing a little forward, but the burn in my thighs felt like home. I could still fix this season. I had to. The Eastern Showcase was eleven weeks away, and without a pairs partner I was as good as invisible to the scouts.
A puck slammed into the boards two feet from my hip.
I jolted, blades screeching.
“Out of the way, princess!”
I knew that voice. Low, rough, edged with the kind of arrogance that came from being six-foot-two and built like a refrigerator. Cole Brennan. Team enforcer. Professional pain-in-my-existence. He glided past me like I was a cone in their drill, black helmet hiding everything except the smirk I could feel.
I snatched the puck with my toe pick and held it hostage.
Cole stopped so hard snow sprayed across my tights. He shoved the helmet up. Dark hair stuck to his forehead. A thin scar cut through his left eyebrow. His eyes were that pale winter gray that looked almost silver under the fluorescents.
“Give it back.”
“Say please.”
“I don’t do please.” He tapped his stick against the ice. “You’re not even supposed to be on until six.”
“And yet here I am. Wild how that works when someone steals half my hours.”
A couple of his teammates hooted. Cole’s jaw flexed. He looked one second away from body-checking me into next week. Good. Let him try. I’d put a second scar on that pretty face.
I dropped the puck and kicked it back to him with my heel. “Fetch.”
Something dangerous flickered in his expression. Then he laughed once, short and sharp, like he couldn’t help it. “You’re skating on thin ice, Lang.”
“Cute. Did you workshop that line in the locker room?”
Before he could answer, the rink horn blasted. Coach Harrow’s voice boomed from the players’ bench.
“Brennan! Quit flirting and drill. Lang—off my ice until your scheduled time.”
My scheduled time that barely existed anymore.
I skated backward, eyes never leaving Cole’s. “Some of us actually need this ice to get out of this town.”
His gloves tightened on the stick. For a split second the cocky mask slipped and something raw showed underneath—guilt, or maybe recognition. Then it was gone.
“Yeah?” he called after me. “Join the club.”
I stepped off, ripped my guards on, and sat hard on the cold bench in the hallway. My hands shook. Not from fear. From the effort of not screaming. Mom had already picked up a third shift at the hospital so we could afford new boots this year. I couldn’t tell her the ice was disappearing. I couldn’t tell her I was one bad competition away from working the same double shifts for the rest of my life.
The door to the rink office banged open. Mr. Patel, the manager, looked like he’d swallowed vinegar.
“Aria. Cole. My office. Now.”
Cole came off the ice still in full gear, helmet dangling from one hand, cheeks flushed from cold and irritation. We stood side by side in the tiny office that smelled of burnt coffee and Zamboni exhaust. I refused to look at him.
Patel steepled his fingers. “I’ve had three complaints this week. Figure skaters saying hockey’s eating the schedule. Hockey saying the figure skaters leave the ice too soft. I’m done playing referee.”
Cole shifted. “We pay for prime—”
“You pay for slots. So does she. Starting tomorrow you two share the five-to-six dawn patch. Split it, alternate ends, I don’t care. Work it out or I cut both of you back to public sessions.”
My mouth dropped open. “You can’t be serious.”
“As a heart attack. And Brennan—one more fight on or off the ice and you’re suspended. College scouts don’t like suspensions. Understood?”
Cole’s throat bobbed. He nodded once.
I felt the noose tighten. Share ice with him? Every morning? I’d rather skate on broken glass.
Patel waved us out. In the hallway Cole blocked my path, towering. Up close he smelled like cold air and mint gum and something darker, like cedar.
“Stay on your half, ice princess. I need that hour.”
“Funny. I was about to say the same thing.” I tipped my chin up. “And if you so much as nick me with a puck again, I’ll lace your skates together while you sleep.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then the corner of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile. Something hotter and meaner.
“This is gonna be fun.”
He brushed past me, shoulder deliberately grazing mine, and the contact shot straight down my spine like a live wire.
I hated it, I hated him.
Then his voice drifted back over his shoulder, low and almost amused.
“Sweet dreams, princess. Try not to dream about me.”
The locker room door slammed.
My phone vibrates in my jacket pocket. One new message from an unknown number.
*I know what you need for the showcase. Meet me tomorrow at 5. Come alone. – C*