Prologue

Harper POV

The August sun hits like a spotlight when I step off the bus, and for a second, it’s hard to tell if the heat prickling under my skin is nerves or excitement. Probably both.

College. A new start. A clean page.

No one here knows who I was in high school — the quiet girl with the perfect GPA and the predictable life. Here, I get to decide who I am.

The student tour guide waves a clipboard in the air. “Welcome to Hartwell University! Let’s get started over by the quad!”

I adjust the strap of my bag and fall in with the crowd, doing my best to look like I belong. The campus smells like fresh-cut grass and coffee, and everyone’s talking over each other — new roommates, majors, dorms, everything at once.

And then I see him.

Of course I do.

Logan Shaw.

He’s standing a few rows back, hair still that messy brown that always looks like it should’ve fallen in his eyes but never quite does. Same careless grin. Same stupid confidence.

He’s got a hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, and even from here I can see how his arms have filled out since high school. He laughs at something a teammate says, loud and easy, like the world’s already decided to make room for him.

My heart drops, just a little.

Because for a second — only a second — I’m back in that hallway at West Ridge High, listening to him brag about skipping prom for “playoffs,” like feelings were a distraction, like people were just background noise to his goals.

Guess some things don’t change.

I square my shoulders and look away.

The tour guide points toward the bell tower, saying something about its history since the 1800s. Half the group’s listening. The other half is either texting or staring at the girl with the clipboard. Typical.

When I glance back again, Logan’s looking right at me.

Not by accident. Not even pretending it’s by accident.

His gaze is steady — curious, almost like he’s trying to remember if he’s supposed to know me. Then he smiles, small and lazy, like he does remember, and I instantly hate that it still does something to my stomach.

I tear my eyes away and focus on the map in my hands.

He’s just a guy. Just another athlete with a swagger and a scholarship. And I’m not the girl who waits around for people like him anymore.

By the time the tour ends, my nerves have settled into something steadier — determination, maybe. I can already picture the next four years: classes, sorority rush, internships. A life that’s mine.

But as I leave the group, I hear that laugh again — deep, confident, exactly the same as it used to sound echoing down locker-lined halls.

I glance over my shoulder.

Logan’s surrounded by new teammates already, his hand gesturing wildly as he talks. Girls drift past, pretending not to stare. He doesn’t notice me — or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

Either way, I tell myself I’m relieved.

Because this is my new start. And Logan Shaw? He’s just part of my past.

Even if, for some reason I can’t explain, the thought of him still makes my pulse skip like it’s stuck between wanting to run away and wanting to look again.

——

Logan POV

The dorm smells like sweat and floor cleaner — that weird mix that somehow makes it feel like home.

My bag hits the floor with a thud, hockey sticks rattling against the wall. The room’s small, just two beds, two desks, one window that doesn’t open all the way. Nothing special, but it’s freedom.

Cole Matthews is already there, sitting backward on his desk chair, tapping a hockey puck against the wall like it’s a nervous tic. He looks up when I walk in. Blond hair, cocky grin, and shoulders that say he lives in the gym.

“Shaw, right?” he asks.

“Yeah. Logan.”

“Cole.” He grins, tossing the puck into the air and catching it. “You play defense?”

“Yup. You?”

“Center. Looks like we’ll be keeping each other alive this season.”

He stands, offering a handshake that’s a little too firm — the kind of thing athletes do when they’re sizing each other up. I match it.

Instant competition. Instant respect.

⸻

Later, I follow him to the rink. The place is freezing and loud — metal scraping, coaches barking, pucks slamming into boards. Heaven.

Coach Rourke blows his whistle the second we step on the ice. “Freshmen, line up!”

I knew college hockey would be brutal, but I wasn’t ready for this. Every sprint feels like punishment, every drill a reminder that being good in high school means nothing here.

By the end, my legs are shaking. My lungs burn. Cole’s grinning like a maniac.

“Still alive?” he asks.

“Barely,” I manage.

“Good. Means you did it right.”

We both laugh, and just like that, I know he’s going to be the closest thing I’ve got to a brother on this team.

⸻

By the time orientation rolls around, we’re walking into the crowd like we own the place.

We don’t, not yet. But someday, we will.

The tour guide’s this perky senior with a clipboard and a too-bright smile, talking about campus landmarks and alumni donors. None of it sticks. My head’s still half on the rink — the rhythm of blades on ice, the echo of the whistle.

Then, out of nowhere, I see her.

Harper Lane.

My brain stalls for a second.

She’s standing near the front of the group, sunlight catching her hair, posture straight like she’s got something to prove. She’s different — confident, sharper, not the soft-spoken girl I remember from back home.

I nudge Cole. “That’s someone I know.”

He glances her way, then back at me. “You dated?”

I shake my head. “Nah. Just knew her.”

He smirks. “You want to know her, though.”

I grin. “Maybe.”

She looks over her shoulder then — not by accident. Our eyes meet. There’s a flicker of recognition, followed by a look that’s hard to read. Not shy. Not impressed either.

That’s new.

Most girls smile back. She just…measures me, then turns away like she’s already decided I’m not worth her time.

It stings more than I want to admit.

⸻

After the tour, the crowd scatters toward the dining hall. I spot her near the edge of the group, phone in hand, pretending not to look around.

I walk up, hands in my pockets. “Harper Lane. Didn’t think you’d end up here.”

She looks up, expression cool. “Neither did I.”

“Guess West Ridge breeds overachievers.”

“Guess so.”

There’s this pause, tight but not uncomfortable. The kind that feels like something could happen if one of us wanted it to.

I give her a half-smile. “You rushing?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll fit right in. You’ve got that whole sorority thing down.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “And you’ve got the hockey player ego. Nice to see nothing’s changed.”

I laugh. Can’t help it. “You always did know how to take the fun out of flirting.”

She smiles, but it’s the polite kind. “You always did mistake arrogance for fun.”

Then she walks off before I can come up with a comeback.

Cole finds me a minute later. “Strike out already?”

I shrug. “Didn’t swing.”

He laughs. “Sure you didn’t.”

But as we head back toward the dorms, I keep glancing over my shoulder — half expecting to see her again, half hoping I don’t.

Because something about the way she looked at me — like she saw right through the act — makes me feel more exposed than all the ice in the world ever could.