FLASHBACK
The whole of Silvercrest was buzzing, every city, and every corner humming with the same rhythm: Varsity week. The annual games were like a festival - six cities, six colleges, one trophy that could tilt bragging rights for an entire year. And in Willow Heights, our university wasn't about to let the spotlight shift elsewhere.
The Stormhawks had been drilled day and night for months. Coach Sam barked orders that carried across the rink like gunfire, and Adrian - team captain, Stormhawks' golden boy, WHU's perfect prodigy - snapped at his teammates until their movements were in sync with his.
The cheer squad had it worse. Nadia, our captain, had turned into a full-blown tyrant, snapping her fingers, making us redo entire sequences if one girl's toe didn't point just right. "Again," she'd cry, her ponytail whipping like a metronome.
By then, I'd perfected the art of playing brat. Not because I wanted to, but because it came easy. Pretty, sharp-tongued Brielle Lancaster. It was the role I'd been assigned since birth, and sometimes I leaned into it, just to remind myself I had teeth. Ethan - my boyfriend - never complained. He clung to me with a kind of devotion that should've softened me, but instead, it made me restless.
One afternoon, I overheard his friends whispering as we packed up after class.
"Why her, man? She's… a lot," one of them muttered.
"She'll chew you up and spit you out," another added with a laugh.
I smiled to myself. They weren't wrong. But Ethan? He'd still hold my hand after, tuck my hair behind my ear, and call me "Bri" like I was the only girl alive. And maybe I liked the power of knowing that. Of knowing that no matter how much of a brat I was, he wasn't going anywhere.
Two days before our biggest game - WHU Stormhawks versus Ashbury Vipers - something huge had happened, and that little shift had altered everything I've ever known.
Practice had been running like clockwork. We'd just stuck a triple flip jump, the kind that left your lungs burning, when a sudden uproar shook the air from the rink below. Cheers, shouts, some kind of chaos.
We all staggered to the railing, sweaty and breathless, curiosity tugging us toward the noise. That's when I saw him.
He wasn't in uniform, not even dressed like an athlete, but he moved with the kind of ease that made you stop and stare. Broad shoulders, lean frame, a face too striking to belong to someone who hadn't already been noticed on campus. His hair fell across his forehead, dark and slightly damp, and his expression - steady and unflinching - was the kind you wouldn't forget after one glance.
Aiden was standing across from him, jaw clenched, fists curled around his hockey stick like he'd been challenged.
Coach Sam's voice cracked through the chaos. "You really think you've got what it takes to play here, son? You know what's at stake?"
The stranger didn't flinch. His voice was low, but it carried a weight that spoke of power. "I didn't come here to watch from the stands."
A trait I knew too well.
The rink fell into whispers. Some laughed. Some scoffed. No one just walked into the Stormhawks' den and asked for a place.
Aiden sneered. "You're in over your head."
But the stranger only held his gaze, calm, as though Adrian's words rolled right off him. Something about the way he stood - unbothered yet grounded - stirred a ripple in me. I didn't even realize I'd been gripping the railing harder, leaning closer.
Coach Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fine. You want in? Then you'll beat Aiden. One-on-one. No excuses."
The cheerleaders erupted into gasps. Aiden's teammates muttered nervously. I could even feel my heart stutter. A one-on-one with Adrian was practically suicide.
"Right now".
They set up quickly with Zeke, aiding the stranger by giving up his gears as the whole team await the whistle to be blown which will signal the start of this suicide mission. The ice glistened, cold and sharp beneath the lights. Adrian skated out with the kind of arrogance only someone born into adoration could pull off. He shot a glare at the stranger, then smirked like the outcome had already been decided.
But when the whistle blew, the air changed.
The stranger took the puck with a speed that made the crowd murmur. His movements were sharp, clean, but there was something else - something unpredictable.
Where Aiden was textbook perfection, this guy was… wild elegance. He ducked, spun, cut across the ice with a grace that was as dangerous as it was beautiful.
Aiden pushed harder, his face tightening as the stranger slipped past him again and again. I could hear Nadia's sharp intake of breath beside me, hear the chants starting from the guys who'd been doubting seconds earlier.
And then it happened. The stranger feinted left, drew Aiden in, then cut right and sent the puck soaring into the net with a crack that echoed through the rink.
Goal.
The arena exploded. Stormhawks players slammed their sticks against the boards. Some of the girls actually screamed. Aiden stood frozen, sweat dripping down his temple, disbelief etched across his perfect face.
Coach Sam didn't hesitate. He raised his arms, voice booming. "And that's it." As the stranger rounded the rink to stand next to Coach Sam with Aiden trailing behind him, still trying to access what had just happened.
"Welcome to the Stormhawks, kid."
The crowd surged forward, some clapping him on the back, some still in shock. But my eyes stayed fixed on him.
He'd barely broken a sweat.
And then someone asked the question that made the whole room lean in.
"What's your name, man?"
For the first time, he looked up toward the stands - toward us. His gaze caught mine for half a second, sharp enough to steal the breath from my chest. And then he answered, voice steady, unshakable.
"Kane. Tristan Kane."
The name hit me like a puck to the ribs. And somehow, I knew that nothing about WHU, about me, would ever be the same.
– – – –
Hours after practice had ended, Tristan Kane's victory over Aiden was still the only thing on everybody's lips.
In the cafeteria, at the library steps, in the narrow halls of the gym dorms — it was everywhere. The air practically pulsed with his name — Kane this, Kane that.
Some girls were already plotting how to get to him. I overheard Lacy at the vending machines, whispering to Asia as though her voice wasn't carrying across the whole damn corridor.
"I'm thinking of a blue skirt tomorrow. He looked like the type who notices legs."
Asia giggled. "No, he's an ice guy, Lacy. You've got to go bold. I'm wearing the red crop."
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
I gave them a polite smile when they turned, hoping I'd weigh in on their girlish scheming, but all they got from me was a short, clipped, "Good luck with that." I wasn't about to announce my own brewing plan. No one needed to know where my eyes were set.
Because I had already decided that Tristan Kane was going to be mine.
And no one else.
Nothing, not Ethan, not the girls, not even my father's endless rules, was going to stop me.
– – – –
I finally stepped onto my floor and walked down the hallway to my room. I was already exhausted and couldn't wait to get into my bed, but the figure outside my door made me slow my steps for a bit
Not Again.
Outside my dorm, Ethan stood waiting like the puppy he was. Hands shoved in his pockets, hair mussed from hours of practice, the smile he gave me was so unshakably sweet I almost felt a pang.
Almost.
"Hey, Bri," he said, stepping forward. "You were incredible in rehearsal today."
I brushed past him, tugging at my duffel strap. I'd been dodging him for weeks now, ducking calls, "forgetting" to meet up after classes. The truth was, Ethan belonged to an old version of me. East Crest Brielle. The girl who hadn't yet tasted the dizzying variety WHU offered. But here, where the halls teemed with stronger and sharper men, Ethan felt… lowest of the low. Especially now that Tristan Kane has arrived.
Still, Ethan didn't push. He never pushed. He mistook my frost for fatigue, his voice dropping to that gentle murmur he always used when I was "overwhelmed."
"You should get some rest, Bri. I'll text you in the morning. Sweet dreams, yeah?"
I didn't even reply. Just brushed his arm lightly, as though dismissing him, and slipped inside.
Camille, my roommate, was sprawled across her bed, textbook open but clearly not reading. The moment she saw me, she groaned.
"Seriously, Brie? Ethan has been out there waiting like some damn lap dog for God knows how long, and you just… blow him off again?"
I shot her a flat look, toeing off my sneakers. "Mind your business, Camille."
She sat up, exasperated. "It is my business when I have to watch you treat him like trash. He actually cares about you."
I pulled my sweater over my head, tossed it on the chair. "Cares don't win trophies. Cares don't change my future. Ethan's sweet, but sweet doesn't cut it."
Camille rolled her eyes and flopped back against her pillow. "One day, you're going to regret stepping all over him."
"Maybe." I tugged the blanket over me, a smirk curling. "But it won't be today."
Sleep came quick that night, heavy with rehearsed flips and the glint of Tristan Kane's eyes.
– – – –
The next day was our final rehearsal before the Varsity showdown. The rink was buzzing, tension so thick you could skate through it.
Nadia had us lined up in formation, every cheer, every flip, drilled to perfection. Sweat plastered hair to our foreheads, lungs burned, but she didn't let up.
"Again!" she barked. "You think the Ashbury Vipers' cheer squad is going to mess up timing? Again!"
By the fifth repeat, half the girls were swaying, but no one dared quit. This was WHU's chance, and Nadia's ambition burned hotter than any of ours.
Across the ice, the Stormhawks were grinding just as hard. Coach Sam roared at them like a general in battle, Adrian skating drills with a face still tight from the memory of his loss. Tristan blended in quickly, but even from the stands, you could tell - every stride of his was effortless, unforced and while the others strained, he flowed.
Seamlessly at that.
And maybe I was the only one who noticed Adrian staring daggers every time Tristan's back was turned.
Game day.
The WHU Icehouse was transformed. Flags draped the rafters, banners in orange and black thundered with every chant. The crowd roared like a living thing, stomping feet rattling the metal stands.
I'd never felt energy like that before - raw and electrifying - crackling down my skin like fire.
The Stormhawks charged onto the ice in formation, the stadium erupting with applause. Adrian skated out first, raising his stick like a king rallying his army. Tristan emerged further back, unbothered, unshaken, his expression unreadable.
From our place by the rails, we cheerleaders lit up the crowd. Jumps, flips, chants - we were the heartbeat that matched the team's pulse. I threw myself into every movement, adrenaline blotting out exhaustion.
The Ashbury Vipers rolled in with their venom-green jerseys, the crowd's cheers turning instantly to boos and jeers. Their captain sneered, tapping his stick on the ice like a challenge.
The puck dropped, and the Varsity finale began.
It was brutal.
The first period was a blur of clashing bodies, blades carving the ice and sticks cracking. Aiden fought like hell, but the Vipers were no joke. Their defense was tight, their offense vicious. By the end of the first, it was tied 1–1, tension stretching thin enough to snap.
Between cheers, I stole glances at Tristan. He was quieter than the rest, calculating, watching the Vipers' plays with a hunter's patience.
When the second period hit, he unleashed.
The puck was his shadow, never more than a breath away from his stick. He cut past defenders like they weren't even there, slipped between bodies as though he belonged to the ice itself. The crowd screamed his name before anyone realized they were doing it
"Kane! Kane! Kane!"
By the third period, the Stormhawks led 3–2. The arena shook with WHU pride, the chants deafening.
Then came the final minute. Vipers on the attack, puck flying, and goalie cornered. It should've been a tie. It would have been a tie - if Tristan hadn't been there.
He intercepted cleanly, skating backward before spinning, stealing the puck with a swipe that drew gasps. And then he was gone, streaking down the ice faster than anyone could chase. The horn was seconds away when he swung his stick, launching the puck straight into the net.
Goal.
The stadium erupted. Chaos. Ecstasy. Victory.
The Stormhawks had done it. They'd beaten the Ashbury Vipers on their home rink. WHU was bringing the Varsity trophy home.
Adrian lifted it high above his head, face stretched in a forced smile, but everyone knew who the real star was. Tristan Kane, skating circles as the crowd chanted his name.
And me? My heart hammered like it was part of the chants themselves.
I didn't know it then, but that night, the game wasn't the only battle I'd begun.
It was also the beginning of mine - with a certain Tristan Kane.