Page 5 of Don't You Pucking Dare

The scrimmage starts ugly. Noah and Zane work their synchronized routine—two years of playing together shows in their no-look passes and preset plays. But patterns mean predictability. Jack tries screening me, but his positioning is amateur. I track the puck through his legs, deflect it to the boards with enough force to sting if he tries to play it.

Caleb hangs back, patient. He's different from the trust fund crowd. Actually earned his spot, and it shows in how he reads the ice. Still, nobody's position is safe. Not with what I have planned.

"Rotation!" Coach's whistle shrills. "Thatcher, wing. Zane, take center."

The next shot comes in hot—a one-timer from the slot that would beat most goalies. I don't just save it—I catch it clean, hold it for a beat to make sure everyone sees, then send it rocketing back down the ice. Message delivered: I'm better than this position. Better than all of them.

Coach ends practice with his usual mix of compliments and criticism. I half-listen, more focused on my real mission. Somewhere on this campus, Rick Kemper's daughter is starting her freshman year. My fingers itch to scroll through student photos again, hunting for her face. The search is part of the thrill—like tracking prey before the kill.

The locker room buzzes with post-practice chaos. Steam from the showers clouds the air while guys snap towels and blast music. The familiar stench of gear and sweat fills the space, but I barely notice it anymore. Just like I barely notice the divide between first and second string—the subtle way they cluster, the inside jokes I'm not meant to hear.

"Nice save back there, Black." Thatcher throws a balled-up tape roll at my head.

I catch it without looking and whip it back harder than necessary. "Someone's got to keep your ego in check." Just like someone needs to remind these privileged fucks that money can't buy skill.

Caleb and Zane share some inside joke while Noah does his usual post-practice stretching routine. Jack sits quietly, texting someone—probably another girl who thinks she's special. They're all so fucking predictable.

"First party's this weekend," Thatcher announces, pulling on his Blackridge hoodie. "Who's coming?"

I zip up my bag, mind already mapping possible places to start my search. I glance at Noah because we already have a party planned that night with the Reapers. He nods at me to confirm what I’m thinking.

I already have an invitation stored nicely in a thick envelope with Lola’s name on it. I’ll need to hand deliver it at some point.

I mutter, "We'll see. Got stuff to handle."

"Stuff?" Zane looks up from his phone. "It's the first weekend, man. What could be more important than free beer?"

If they only knew what kind of power I'm really chasing.

Zane watches me closely and says quietly, "Ah, just so you know, it’s the pre-party. You can make it."

I smack both him and Caleb on the back as I head out. "Try not to miss me too much, ladies."

The fresh air hits my face as I step outside. Campus is alive with the usual between-class rush. I scan faces automatically now, like a predator learning its hunting grounds. The goal wasn't just to become a Reaper—it was to become the kind of monster that makes other monsters nervous.

"Wait up, man."

Shit. It’s Dylan. He’s an innocent one.

"What's up?" I slow my pace, barely.

"Where you headed?"

"The quad."

He laughs like I just told a joke. "The quad?"

"Yeah." I keep my voice neutral, eyes still searching the passing faces. Looking for one specific face that doesn't know she's already my target.

Dylan falls into step beside me as we cross campus. The September sun feels good after the chill of the rink, but I'm too focused to enjoy it. Somewhere in this sea of students, Rick Kemper's daughter is going about her day, completely unaware that her world is about to shatter.

"I'm gonna meet up with a friend," Dylan checks his phone. "You good?"

I nod, watching him jog off toward the student center. Finally. Alone with my hunt.

The library looms ahead, and I adjust my course like I have a destination in mind. But my eyes are working overtime, searching for one specific face in the crowd. Finding Lola Kemper without raising suspicion is going to be tricky. Nobody knows Rick Kemper had a daughter—that information took weeks to dig up. If anyone realizes I haven’t found her yet, it'll raise suspicion that I don't know what I’m doing. And I don’t need that.

This is just the first stake out. I've got time to find her, confirm her identity. To learn her patterns, her weaknesses, her pressure points. Just like studying opponents on the ice—everyone has a tell, everyone has a breaking point.

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