Page 4 of Don't You Pucking Dare

I pull out the worn sheet music from my bag, smoothing the creased edges with trembling fingers. My own composition, written during those long nights when my mom's conversations with random friends echoed through our paper-thin walls.The notes flow across the page like ink-black tears, but they transform into something hauntingly beautiful when played. I pin it carefully to the wall above my bed, letting it be the first mark I make on this blank canvas of a room.

Dark Lullaby. It's funny how something so beautiful could come from such ugly moments.

The rest of my unpacking is easy. My thrifted sweaters hang in neat rows. I arrange my small collection of books on the windowsill–– mostly music theory and dog-eared paperbacks from high school. In my mind, I'm already planning fairy lights strung across the ceiling, maybe a small potted plant that I won't kill this time. For the first time in my life, no one will rearrange my things during a midnight cleaning frenzy or pawn them for quick cash.

My fingers itch to play, to fill this new space with music. I lift my cello from its corner, positioning it between my knees. The first notes of Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 flow like honey, and I can't help but hum along, my voice finding harmony with the strings. Music has always been my truest language, speaking what words cannot.

The door swings open mid-phrase, and I startle, bow stuttering across the strings. A girl with soft curls and an oversized sweater bounds in, followed by a woman who can only be her mother––they share the same warm brown eyes and easy smile.

"Oh my god, are you a musician?" the girl I presume is Kiah asks. "That’s so cool! You’re Lola?"

I laugh, already warming to her enthusiasm. "Yes, and you must be Kiah?"

"Yes!" She turns to her mother. "And this is my mom."

"It's nice to meet you, Lola," Mrs. Foskett says, extending her hand. Her grip is warm and firm, motherly in a way that makes my chest ache. "That was Bach, wasn't it?"

I nod with a smile, carefully returning my cello to its case. "You have good music taste. Okay, I am going to head out." They’re staring at me, so I say, "I’ll let you do your thing, and I’ll be checking out the kitchen. Do you need anything?"

"You don't have to leave," Kiah protests, but I can see the mountain of boxes waiting in the hallway.

"It's okay. I want to check everything out anyway." I leave, walking down the hall. It smells like freshly baked cookies.

I pause at the window in the hallway, taking in the sprawling campus below. Gothic architecture meets modern glass, all of it bathed in late summer sunshine. Students mill about like colorful ants, their laughter floating up on the breeze. Something lightens in my chest. This is my fresh start. I can leave everything in the past.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

I turn to find a girl leaning against the wall beside me, her hair swept into a messy bun. She grins and extends her hand. "I'm Remy. I'm just down the hall."

"Lola," I reply, shaking her hand. "And yeah, it's gorgeous. Still feels a bit surreal to be here."

"Tell me about it," Remy says, staring at the campus like she’s starstruck too.

The tension in my shoulders eases slightly. Finally, someone who gets it. We enjoy the view together for a few moments.

"I should go unpack," Remy says eventually. "Good luck."

I grin. "You too."

After she leaves, I decide to check out the floor's kitchen area. My meal plan only covers weekdays, and I'll need to get creative with groceries on weekends. But for once, uncertainty doesn't feel like drowning.

Chapter 3

Let me get one thing straight: hockey isn't just a game for me—it's a cage. Being a goalie means watching life happen from behind bars. Every game spent trapped in the crease, confined to my little corner of ice while others chase glory. My body knows exactly how far it can move in any direction—the same way it learned the limits of being a Reaper's errand boy. Always watching. Always waiting. Never quite free.

"Heads up, Black!" Dylan fires a shot at the top corner. I track the puck's rotation, reading the slight hesitation in his stick handling that telegraphs high glove side. Kid's getting predictable. My catch is lazy, deliberate—a message that says I'm not even trying.

The ice at Blackridge Arena holds a certain edge today. First official practice of the season, and everyone's got something to prove. Especially me. The net behind me feels likeanother set of bars, another reminder of being trapped while others take what should be mine. But not for much longer.

"Line change!" Coach Jacob's voice bounces off the rafters. "First string, show me what you got."

The team splits into their usual hierarchy. First string—the golden boys with their custom gear and private coaching history. Then there's us. Second string. The ones who actually had to fight to be here. I watch them through my mask, cataloging weaknesses like I catalog secrets for the Reapers. Every player has a tell, a weakness, a pressure point waiting to be exploited.

Thatcher glides to center ice, stick tapping an arrogant rhythm. His father's name is plastered across half the campus buildings, including this rink. Trust fund baby playing at being an athlete. His shot selection is as predictable as his weekend plans—all flash, no substance.

"Try to keep up, Black," he sneers, setting up for a shot.

I adjust my mask, settling into my stance—knees bent, glove ready, stick angled. Just like the Reapers taught me: appear submissive while planning your strike. "Try not to cry when I send it back twice as hard."

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