Chapter 1

(4 Years Later)

Logan POV

The house leans a little to the left, like even it’s hungover from last semester. Peeling white paint, porch railing that wobbles when you breathe near it, and a dented mailbox with a faded Hartwell Hockey sticker still clinging to the side. Someone spray-painted ICE HOUSE ’24 across the steps last spring, and the blue letters have already cracked from too many storms.

It’s ugly, but it’s ours.

I drop my duffel onto the porch, stretch, and grin up at the sagging roofline. “Miss me, Ice House?”

The door’s unlocked—of course it is. It always is. Inside smells like beer, sweat, detergent, and a little bit of victory. The perfect cocktail of college glory.

“Shaw!”

Cole Matthews’ voice booms from the kitchen before I even hit the living room. He appears a second later, a case of beer balanced on one arm, his captain’s jacket hanging open. Blond hair messy, sunglasses still on even though the sun’s dipping low. Typical.

He drops the case onto the counter with a thud. “You look like a man ready to ruin his GPA again.”

“Tradition,” I say, and he laughs the same deep laugh I’ve known since freshman year.

The living room hasn’t changed: scuffed floors, a sagging couch rescued from the curb, our championship banners pinned crooked above the fireplace. The moose head someone stole from the campus lodge still wears its crooked plastic crown. Someone added sunglasses to it this summer. Nice touch.

Cole tosses me a can. “To senior year.”

I crack it open, foam spilling over my fingers. “To leaving a legacy.”

We clink cans. The sound echoes through the old house like a battle cry.

⸻

By the time the sun starts bleeding orange through the windows, the house is already shaking. The returning guys show up first, then the new recruits, then half the student body. Move-in day always turns into a full-blown party here. It’s a rule as sacred as icing calls and team loyalty.

The bass from the speaker rattles my ribs. Someone’s chanting the fight song in the kitchen. A group of first-years stand near the stairs, wide-eyed, probably wondering if they’ve joined a cult or a hockey team.

Cole shoves through the crowd to my side. “We’ve been gone three months and they still remember who runs this place.”

“They’d better,” I say. “We built it.”

He smirks. “Careful, co-captain, that ego’s showing.”

“Says the guy wearing his C to a kegger.”

He looks down at his jacket, grins. “Leadership, baby.”

⸻

I head out to the porch for a breather. The air smells like grass and smoke from the grill someone dragged into the yard. Across the lawn, the Greek houses are lighting up with their own parties. You can always tell the difference—frat parties sound like competition; sorority ones sound like strategy meetings with music.

Cole joins me, beer in hand. “You think scouts’ll be around this year?”

“Coach said a few. NHL’s always sniffing for new blood.”

“You’ll get picked up.”

“Yeah?”

He nods. “If you stop getting distracted.”

I snort. “Define distracted.”

He gestures toward the yard where a group of girls in matching pastel dresses are crossing the street toward us. “That.”

The Alpha Chi girls. Sorority royalty. They move like they own the campus. And leading them—dark hair, posture straight, expression cool—is Harper Lane.

For a heartbeat I forget to breathe.

Four years ago, she was shy, bookish, the girl everyone liked but nobody really noticed. Now she looks… different. Not just confident—commanding. Like she figured out exactly who she is while the rest of us were still playing at it.

Cole follows my gaze. “You know her?”

“Yeah.”

“She looks like trouble.”

“She is trouble,” I say, and I’m not sure if I mean it as a warning or a compliment.

⸻

The girls fan out across the lawn, greeting people, laughing, doing the yearly “welcome circuit.” It’s part tradition, part diplomacy. The Ice House and the sororities trade event invites and charity collabs every fall. The girls know it; we know it. The whole thing’s politics disguised as fun.

Harper doesn’t play it that way. She talks to a few people, polite, poised, but there’s distance in her eyes—as if she’s keeping a ledger of who deserves her time.

She turns her head and spots me.

That quick flick of recognition hits like a body-check. Her gaze lingers for a beat—then she gives the smallest nod, professional, detached, the kind of nod you give an acquaintance at a meeting.

Then she looks past me.

Something in my chest twists. I laugh it off, take another sip. “Still not my type,” I mutter.

Cole grins. “Keep telling yourself that.”

⸻

Hours later, the crowd’s thinning but the music’s still loud. Someone’s yelling for another round of beer pong in the kitchen; a couple’s making out on the stairs; it’s chaos, the good kind.

I’m leaning against the porch railing when the Alpha Chi girls finally start to leave. Most of them are giggling, shoes in hand. Harper’s the last one out, her phone glowing in the dark as she checks messages.

I can’t help myself. “Didn’t think sorority presidents did house inspections personally.”

She looks up, surprised for half a second, then amused. “You really turned this place into a legend.”

“Wasn’t hard. Low standards.”

Her mouth curves. “Still charming.”

“Still pretending you don’t like it.”

She tilts her head, studying me the way she used to study exam questions—looking for the trick answer. “Still sure the world revolves around you, huh?”

I grin. “Only on game nights.”

The porch light flickers between us, and for a moment, the noise from inside fades. She smells like vanilla and something sharper—confidence, maybe.

“You ever gonna grow up, Shaw?” she asks quietly.

I shrug. “Not planning on it.”

Her smile is small, genuine, and gone before I can catch it. “Good luck with that.”

She steps off the porch, heels clicking against the pavement. Her friends call for her down the block, and she waves without looking back.

Cole appears beside me, leaning on the railing. “You gonna keep staring or go after her?”

“Neither.”

“Liar.”

Maybe. But I stay where I am, watching the shape of her disappear into the glow of the streetlights.

⸻

Inside, someone shouts my name—another game starting, another night to waste before the real season begins. I grab another beer, but the fizz tastes flat.

Four years of parties, hookups, noise. All of it’s supposed to feel easy by now.

So why does one conversation with Harper Lane make everything else feel like background static?

I tell myself it’s nostalgia. Familiar face, old memory, nothing more.

But the lie doesn’t stick.

Because when I close my eyes, all I can see is the way she looked at me—steady, unimpressed, unshaken.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like the ice beneath my feet isn’t nearly as solid as it used to be.