Pilot

CHASE

THE CRISP, FREEZING AIR OF THE ICE ARENA BIT AT MY CHEEKS, BUT I COULDN'T STOP SMILING. For the first time in two years, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged.

After walking away from my father—cutting ties completely because of the toxic, manipulative person he was—this assistant management position was my fresh start.

I hadn’t used his name or his connections to get it. I had transferred schools, submitted my own scouting notes, and earned this entirely on my own merit.

"I still can’t believe you actually got the job," Bree said, panting slightly as we rushed down the corridor toward the main rink.

Bree Troisi was my roommate and the absolute best friend a girl could ask for. She was the one who had practically engineered my transfer to this university, helping me navigate the endless paperwork and housing forms.

"Best believe it," I beamed, adjusting the strap of my duffel bag. "The athletic board approved my strategy sheets last week. I am officially a part of the team."

"Which means 'I' am officially winning," Bree laughed, her boots clicking loudly against the floor. "Do you know how hard it is to get into this arena when a game isn't going on? Security acts like they’re guarding the crown jewels. Now that you're on the management staff, I have a permanent golden ticket to sneak in and watch the practices."

"You just want to watch the guys," I teased, nudging her shoulder.

"Hey, perks of the friendship," she said with a wink and I chuckled.

We finally reached the edge of the stands, the massive expanse of the indoor rink opening up before us. The bright overhead lights reflected off the pristine, freshly resurfaced ice.

The familiar smell of the rink—cold air, rubber mats, and synthetic wax—sent a wave of pure excitement straight through me.

I stopped at the bottom of the bleachers, smoothing down the front of my skirt and adjusting my jacket. I turned to my roommate, suddenly feeling a little nervous. "How do I look? Professional? Serious?"

Bree rolled her eyes but gave me a huge, encouraging grin. "Slayyyyyy."

I let out a breath and laughed. "Thanks, you're the best."

"Yes, yes I am," I heard Bree call out as I turned and started jogging down the steps toward the ice. "Now go and dominate! And tell the boys you have a smoking assistant back here that's smoking!" She winked at me. I giggled and walked towards the rink.

Stepping onto the thick rubber mats near the team bench, I saw the head coach standing by the plexiglass wall, looking over a clipboard. He looked up as my boots crunched on the matting, a warm smile breaking across his face.

"Ah, Chase! You're here early," Coach said, checking his watch.

"I have to make a good impression on the team, Coach," I replied, holding my head high. "First day jitters, I guess."

Coach let out a hearty laugh. "Now that’s an attitude I like. You’re in luck, then. The entire team is out on the ice right now finishing up their morning skate. Let's get you introduced."

He stepped up to the rink doors, blew his whistle sharply, and waved his arm. "Bring it in, boys! Gathering at the bench!"

A sea of broad-shouldered athletes in heavy hockey gear began gliding across the ice toward us. As they approached, Coach turned slightly to one of the players near the front. "Hey, can someone tell Scott to come here?" he whispered.

A few of the guys caught the whisper and let out a collective laugh, nudging each other. I moved my head side to side, my eyes scanning the crowd of players, looking for the captain.

The name 'Scott' instantly made my chest tighten with a strange, nostalgic flutter, but I brushed it off. It was a common name.

Before I could think about it too much, the players crowded around the bench. They caught sight of me standing next to the coach, and their energy instantly shifted. They were super chirpy, shouting greetings and tapping their hockey sticks against the ice in welcome.

"Who's the new face, Coach?" one of them yelled, a massive grin on his face.

"Did we get a new strategist? Please tell me she's going to fix our power plays!" another joked.

Coach raised his hands to quiet them down. "Everyone, listen up. This is Chase Thomas. She’s joining our staff as a student-assistant and co-manager. She’s got one of the sharpest minds for hockey analytics I’ve seen, so I expect you all to treat her with respect."

As the players clapped and cheered, a lone skater separated himself from the back of the pack. He wasn't wearing his helmet, his dark hair slightly damp from sweat, and he was casually skating forward with an iced macchiato in his right hand.

My heart completely stopped. The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp.

'It was him.'

It was Scott Lawrence. My teenage crush from years ago, back when he used to train under my father.

He was older, broader, and carried himself with an undeniable air of authority, but it was absolutely him. The boy I used to watch from the bleachers while holding my breath. He was the captain of this team.

Beside me, Coach leaned in slightly, completely unaware of the sudden chaos in my chest. "He's a hard nut to crack," Coach whispered to me, nodding toward Scott. "Brilliant captain, but tough."

I wasn't even listening to the coach anymore. My brain was completely short-circuiting. My childhood crush was standing right in front of me, on my very first day. A rush of pure, happy nostalgia took over, wiping out all my professional restraint.

Before Scott could even stop his skates, I eagerly stepped closer to the edge of the ice, a smile breaking across my face.

"Hi, I'm Chase—" I stretched my hand to him.

Scott stopped dead in front of me. The chirpy chatter from the team died instantly. The entire arena seemed to drop twenty degrees.

For a split second, his dark eyes locked onto mine. I expected a smile, a nod of recognition, or at least a polite hello. Instead, his expression hardened into a wall of pure, burning venom.

Before the rest of my sentence could even leave my mouth, Scott lifted his hand. With agonizing, deliberate slowness, he tilted the plastic cup and dunked the sticky, freezing iced macchiato directly on my head.

The cold liquid drenched my hair, splashed over my face, and ruined my clean clothes.

A collective, horrified gasp echoed from the team. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed. Bree froze in the stands.

Scott let the empty cup drop onto the ice. A dull thud followed after. Everything moved in slow motion to me. He leaned forward, his voice a low, tone that sent shivers down my spine.

"Oh, my bad," Scott murmured, his dark eyes boring into mine with absolute hatred. "I thought a Thomas would be used to things being handed to them on a silver platter."