Chapter 5: Easton

The interview was scheduled for Thursday, three days after I accepted the opportunity and three days after losing my scholarship. In that short stretch of time, my future had become a spreadsheet of tuition costs, application deadlines, and increasingly desperate backup plans. I spent most of it pretending everything was under control.

It was not a convincing performance.

“You’re going to wear that?”

I looked up from my desk to find Ava leaning against the doorway of my dorm room, coffee in one hand and judgment in the other.

I glanced down at my outfit. “What exactly is wrong with this?”

“Easton’s sports media department is interviewing you, not appointing you to Congress.”

“Black slacks, white blouse, navy blazer. It’s professional.”

“You look like you’re running for office.”

“It’s an interview.”

“It’s a sports media internship.”

“At a rival university.”

“Okay, yeah. Fair.”

I pointed at her. “Exactly.”

Ava rolled her eyes, tossed a granola bar onto my bed, and wandered farther into the room while I gathered my things. “Just don’t let them intimidate you.”

“They’re not the ones I’m worried about.”

She knew what I meant without asking. Most of the internet had moved on from my public humiliation, but not entirely. The story itself had faded beneath newer scandals, yet my face had taken on a life of its own. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped being the Northbridge girl who got her heart ripped and had become the reaction girl from the Mason Hart disaster. Screenshots of my expression appeared everywhere now. Sports losses. Failed exams. Burnt dinners. Political arguments that had absolutely nothing to do with me. Search my name, and you could find compilations, GIFs, edits, and memes created by people who had no idea who I actually was.

The breakup had become content.

At least people talked about the joke more than the reason behind it.

Small victories.

“You’re going to be fine,” Ava said.

“That sounded suspiciously like a lie.”

“It was a supportive lie. There’s a difference.”

I laughed, grabbed my bag, and headed out before she could offer any more encouragement disguised as insults.

The bus ride to Easton gave me entirely too much time to rehearse answers. By the time I stepped off near campus and walked toward the arena, I had mentally completed the interview at least twenty times and somehow felt less prepared than when I started.

The building rose above the surrounding campus like a monument to money and success. It was larger than Northbridge’s arena, newer too, all glass and steel and confidence. Championship banners hung prominently enough that nobody could miss them. Easton had one of the strongest hockey programs in the country, and unlike Northbridge, it had Mercer money backing every ambitious project.

I checked my email while crossing the plaza.

Third floor.

Media offices.

Interview at eleven.

Simple.

At least in theory.

Inside, the arena was quieter than expected. Activity echoed somewhere deeper in the building, but the hallways themselves were mostly empty. I followed a series of signs toward the elevators, took a wrong turn somewhere along the way, and ended up completely lost.

Typical.

I pulled out my phone to check the building map when a sharp crack echoed through the corridor. Another followed, then several more in rapid succession.

Pucks are hitting the boards.

The sound carried through the building with surprising force, and before common sense could intervene, curiosity took over. I followed the noise down a side hallway until I reached a viewing window overlooking the rink.

Practice was underway below.

Players moved through drills with the effortless precision that came from years of repetition. Coaches barked instructions from the sidelines while skates carved clean lines across the ice. Even from the viewing level, the pace was impressive. I recognized several players immediately. Sports journalism had a way of filling your brain with names, whether you wanted them there or not.

One player drew my attention more than the others.

Not because he was demanding it.

Because he wasn’t.

During a break in drills, most of the team gathered near center ice. He drifted toward the bench instead, pulling off his helmet and sitting alone while everyone else talked.

Dean Mercer.

Recognition came instantly.

His face was impossible to avoid. Athletic campaigns, commercials, magazine profiles, social media advertisements—the Mercer family practically marketed him as aggressively as they marketed their sports empire. Yet the version standing on the ice looked different from the polished image that appeared online. The advertisements always showed him smiling. This version looked like smiling was an obligation he fulfilled only when necessary.

A teammate skated over and said something. Dean answered. The teammate laughed.

Dean didn’t.

There was nothing hostile about it. He simply seemed uninterested in performing friendliness for the sake of appearances.

The coach called everyone back into position, and practice resumed. I should have left then. Instead, I lingered at the glass, watching the drills for another minute.

Dean reached for his gloves and paused.

Something caught my eye.

A flash of blue.

I leaned closer.

Paint.

Or at least what looked remarkably like paint beneath his fingernails.

I frowned.

Maybe the distance was playing tricks on me, but it certainly looked like blue paint.

Which made absolutely no sense.

A hockey captain with paint-stained hands?

Before I could spend another minute trying to solve that mystery, someone cleared her throat behind me.

I turned so quickly I nearly dropped my phone.

A woman stood in the hallway holding a tablet and wearing the expression of someone trying to determine whether I belonged there.

“Can I help you?”

“Sorry,” I said immediately, stepping away from the window. “I was looking for the media offices.”

Her expression softened. “Third floor.”

Right.

The place I was actually supposed to be.

Not lurking outside a hockey practice investigating suspicious fingernails.

“Thank you.”

I headed for the elevators before I could make the situation any more embarrassing. As the doors slid open, I glanced back toward the rink one last time.

Dean had already pulled his gloves on and rejoined the drill.

For a brief second, his attention lifted toward the viewing level.

Toward the glass.

Toward me.

Then he looked away and kept skating.

No recognition.

No reaction.

Nothing.

The elevator doors closed, carrying me toward my interview, but the moment stayed with me. Most people recognized me these days, whether I wanted them to or not. Being ignored should have been a relief.

Instead, as the elevator climbed toward the third floor, I found myself wondering why Dean Mercer had blue paint under his fingernails—and why the question suddenly felt more important than the interview waiting upstairs.

The elevator chimed, the doors slid open, and the first thing I saw was the same woman holding a clipboard.

She smiled.

“Iris Bennett?”

I nodded.

“They’re ready for you.”

And just like that, my future was about to change.