"If you want center position for the next game, it's yours." He leans back in his chair, studying me. "Long as you keep pushing hard and proving yourself."

"Yes, sir." The smile spreads across my face before I can stop it.

"You'll go out second period." His eyes narrow. "Don't disappoint me."

"I won't let you down."

Walking out of his office, I feel like I could crush the world. First the Reapers are happy with my progress, now this center position, and now I just need Lola to come crawling back for more.

Chapter 23

The hockey schedule sits open on my laptop while I work. Every practice time, every game highlighted in red. Three weeks since Brody ghosted me, and I've memorized his routine. Tonight's game is circled twice.

My dorm neighbor’s sewing machine whirs under my fingers as I transform his Ravens shirt. Each cut strategic, each stitch deliberate. The oversized black fabric becomes something else entirely—something that will make him remember.

"This is getting weird," Kiah says from her bed, not looking up from her phone. The space between us grows with each passing day. Her traumatizing night is massive to her but tiny on my scale. We aren’t seeing eye to eye on anything anymore. Maybe because I’m sick in the head and got off on how hot that traumatizing night was.

I'm adjusting the final hem when my phone buzzes. The first image loads and my stomach drops. My mom is in a cartrunk, unconscious. Her hospital bracelet visible against the dark interior.

Unknown: Tick tock

My fingers go numb. This is Rick Kemper using Brody's words exactly from his email. He currently has my mom in the trunk of his car? Is he fucking crazy? He didn’t give me enough time!

I push away from my desk, yanking my newly altered Ravens shirt over my head. Rick Kemper is trying to motivate me, fine. I guess they picked the right night. Hockey game first and then Reaper party after. I line my eyes darker than usual, swipe on the red lipstick I never wear. Tonight I need all eyes on me.

The drive to the rink clears my head. Get his attention. Simple.

I slip inside ten minutes late, just as two players crash into the boards right in front of my seat. The sound of bodies colliding echoes through the rink, and something shifts in my chest. This isn't just a game—it's controlled violence, precise brutality.

I watch with excitement as it happens again on the other side. Hell, I’m going to love this fucking sport.

Brody steals the puck, weaving between defenders like he was born on ice. My breath catches as Jack slams another player into the glass. There's an art to this violence that my classical-trained brain recognizes.

"Come on, Ravens!" The cheer surprises me, ripping from my throat as Brody sets up a perfect play. He passes the puck and it hits the net, and I'm on my feet with the rest of the crowd.

I came here with an agenda, but watching these guys battle it out on the ice—there's something pure about it. For the first time in weeks, I forget about secret societies and underground chambers. Even just for a second, I forget mymom’s tied up in a trunk. I just want to see another goal. I want the Ravens to win.

The final buzzer screams victory. I'm on my feet with everyone else, throat raw from shouting, hands stinging from clapping. Who knew hockey could be this intoxicating? The whole game was pure chaos contained by rules I barely understand—like some violent symphony where the penalty box serves as a timeout corner for grown men who punch too hard.

The crowd surges forward, and I find myself pressed against the glass with the other fans. My palms slam against the plexiglass, joining the thunderous rhythm. Security should probably stop us, but they're caught up in the win too, everyone riding this collective high.

"Ravens! Ravens! Ravens!"

The chant builds like a crescendo, and the team responds with primal shouts, skating victory laps. Someone dumps a bucket of ice over Noah's head, and the crowd erupts. I'm laughing, really laughing, for the first time in weeks. This wild celebration feels more honest than any refined applause I've heard in concert halls.

Then Brody turns, still breathing hard from the game, sweat gleaming on his face. His eyes scan the crowd like he's searching for something. When they land on me, the world narrows to this moment. His intensity should frighten me—this is the same man who orchestrated torture, who's playing some game I still don't understand. Instead, his face breaks into an actual smile, transforming him from predator to triumphant athlete.

My heart stutters. I raise my hand in a small wave before I can stop myself, and he shakes his finger at me—playful, almost flirtatious. For a split second, I glimpse the boy Amanda fell for in high school, before his brother's accident, before the Reapers. He's beautiful like this, dangerous in a different way than usual.

The rational part of my brain screams warnings—about my mother, about the photos, about everything he's done. But watching him celebrate with his team, ice crystals catching in his hair, I understand how easy it would be to fall for this version of him. The version that smiles like he means it.

I press my hand harder against the glass, and for a moment, I let myself forget why I came here. Let myself be just another girl watching a hockey god celebrate his win.

Watching Brody disappear into the locker room feels like waking from a dream. For a moment, I almost forgot why I'm here—almost let his victory smile derail everything. But that's his power, isn't it? Making me forget the darkness just long enough to pull me deeper into it.

My dorm room's already occupied when I arrive. Amanda's sprawled across my bed while Kiah hovers in the corner, worry etched across her face. The moment our eyes meet, Kiah starts, "Lola, please don't—"

"Save it." The word comes out sharper than my bow across strings. Amanda's smirk tells me she approves. When did I start caring about her approval? When did Kiah's concern start feeling like weakness?