Annonymous letter

HARPER’S POV

The boys’ locker room smelled like old tape, musty sweat, and wet gear that never quite dries. I dropped Asher’s stupid heavy bag on the rubber floor. The thud bounced off the metal lockers. 

“What are you doing in here?”

I jumped, spinning around. Some guy sat on the bench, wrapping tape around his stick blade. Messy brown hair, bruised jaw. It took me a second to place him from the dark rink the night before.

Davis.

“Community service,” I muttered, already turning to leave.

“Wait.” He stood fast, tossing the tape aside. “You’re the girl from last night.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t bullshit me.” He stepped closer, eyes bloodshot and wild. “I heard your phone drop. You saw the whole thing with the scout.”

“I was in bed asleep,” I lied, keeping my face flat. “Just transferred here. Don’t even know who you are.”

“He’s got those pills hanging over my head,” Davis whispered, voice cracking. He looked like he might puke. “If Asher hands them to Coach, I’m fucked. Scholarship, spot on the team, everything. Did he send you to spy on me?”

“Nobody sent me to spy on anybody.”

“Then why the hell are you carrying his gear? He doesn’t let anyone touch his shit.”

The locker room door slammed open so hard it cracked against the wall.

Asher filled the doorway, blue eyes burning with quiet rage. He looked at Davis, then at me. The silence pushed tight enough to choke on.

“We having a team meeting I wasn’t invited to?” Asher asked, voice low and deadly calm.

Davis went ghost white. He backed up fast. “Just… taping my stick, man.”

“Tape it faster.” Asher didn’t even blink. “And if I ever catch you cornering her again, you won’t just lose your roster spot. You’ll lose the ability to walk. Get out.”

Davis didn’t argue. He snatched his stick and bolted past Asher like the devil was on his heels.

I swallowed hard and tried to slip toward the exit. “I’m going to class.”

Asher moved before I could finish the sentence. He stepped right into my path, hand shooting out to wrap around my upper arm. It was not gentle. He pulled me out into the empty concrete hallway and shoved me back until my shoulders hit the cold wall.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

“What was rule number two?” he asked, quiet.

“I didn’t talk to him. He talked to me.”

“What. Was. The. Rule.”

I glared up at him, trying to ignore how tight his fingers felt. “Don’t speak to anyone on the team. But I can’t control what other people do, Asher.”

“You don’t engage,” he said, leaning in closer. “You let me handle it. Understand?”

“You’re hurting my arm.”

He glanced down at his grip, jaw flexing, then slowly let go. But he didn’t step back. “Don’t test me on day one, Harper.”

“I’m not testing you,” I shot back, rubbing the spot he’d grabbed. It was already warm. “But you can’t just control every single thing I do. I go to school here too.”

“You go to school here because I allow it.” His voice stayed flat, but his eyes pinned me harder. “Get to class. You’re already late.”

“I thought you didn’t care if I failed.”

“I don’t.” He turned like he was done with me. “But I need you to pass so you can actually write my history essay tonight.”

I stared at his back, mouth open. “I’m an English major, Asher! I don’t know shit about your history class!”

“Figure it out, Thorne,” he called over his shoulder without looking back.

The rest of the morning felt like slow suffocation.

I finally slipped into the back of Creative Writing, head down, notebook barely open when the encrypted phone in my blazer buzzed.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again. I pulled it out under the desk.

“Blue Gatorade. Rink 2.”

I typed back fast: “I’m in class.”

Three dots. Then: “Leave.”

“No.” I hit send and shoved the phone away.

Ten seconds later the thing exploded with the loudest, most obnoxious alarm I had ever heard. Like a fire drill from hell. Every head in the lecture hall snapped toward me. 

The professor stopped mid-sentence, glaring.

“Miss Thorne. We do not allow disruptions.”

“I’m sorry, it’s…” I fumbled with the phone, face burning. It wouldn’t shut off. The screen was locked on a bright red timer. “It’s glitching, I—”

“Take it outside. Do not return until tomorrow.”

Humiliation crawled up my neck as I grabbed my bag and bolted. The second the door shut behind me, the alarm died like magic.

New text popped up.

“Blue Gatorade. Now.”

I wanted to smash the phone against the wall. Instead I bought the stupid drink and stomped all the way to Rink 2, anger and shame mixing into something ugly in my chest.

The arena was freezing and almost empty. Asher was out on the ice alone, carving through orange cones with scary speed. The puck stuck to his stick like it was glued there. 

He looked graceful and ruthless at the same time — a predator who happened to be beautiful.

He spotted me by the glass, skated hard to the boards, and stopped sharp, spraying ice against the plexiglass. Sweat darkened the hair at the back of his neck. 

He rested his forearms on the edge, breathing heavy, and looked at me like I was already late for something I didn’t agree to.

“You’re late,” he said, tapping the glass with his stick.

I walked to the open bench door and shoved the bottle into his chest. He caught it easy.

“You got me kicked out of class,” I said, voice shaking with anger.

“I told you to leave. You picked the hard way.” He twisted the cap off and drank.

“If I lose my scholarship, I lose Sterling,” I stepped closer to the ice, “and then my dad and I lose the estate. Then you lose your leverage, and I can tell whoever I want what I heard that night.”

Asher lowered the bottle. His eyes locked on mine, cold and sharp. He knew I had a point, but he wasn’t about to admit it.

“Then don’t lose it,” he murmured, voice low and dangerous. “But you still answer when I call.”

“I’m not your dog, Asher.”

“No.” He leaned over the half-wall until his face was inches from mine. Close enough I could smell cedar and mint and fresh sweat. “You’re my assistant. Tonight at seven. Estate library. You’re not leaving until my history paper is finished.”

“I’ve got fifty pages of literature to read by tomorrow.”

“Read faster.” He tossed the half-empty bottle back at me. I barely caught it. “See you at seven, Thorne.”

By seven I was dead tired. 

The estate library felt too big and too dark, lit only by a couple of brass lamps. Asher was already there, spread out in a leather armchair by the fireplace, reading some old leather book like he didn’t have a care in the world.

I dropped my backpack on the table and sat across from him. “Give me the prompt.”

He didn’t look up. Just slid the laptop over. “It’s already written. You’re editing.”

I opened it, surprised. The paper on the fall of the Roman Republic was quick,brutal, actually brilliant. I hated how smart he was.

I started marking it up hard — highlighting, typing cruel notes in the margins. I was halfway through when I felt him behind me.

I never heard him move.

He leaned over my shoulder, big hands planting on the table on either side of the laptop, caging me in the chair. His chest brushed the back of my seat. His face hovered right next to mine. That cedar-and-mint scent wrapped around me again, stuffy and dizzying.

“Why’d you delete that sentence?” he asked, voice soft, right by my ear.

“It’s redundant,” I managed, sounding way too breathless. “You already made the point about Caesar in the intro.”

“Put it back.”

“No.”

He shifted his weight, pressing a little closer against the chair. “I said put it back.”

I turned my head just enough that our faces were inches apart. I could see tiny gold flecks in his icy blue eyes. “And I said no. It makes you sound repetitive. Unless you want a B-minus, leave it out.”

His gaze dropped to my mouth for half a second, then flicked back up. Something dark flashed there.

“You think you’re so smart, Thorne,” he whispered, the words brushing my skin.

“Smarter than you,” I shot back, refusing to look away even though my pulse was racing.

He stared at me, long and deep. The fire crackled behind us. Then, without a word, he pushed off the table and walked back to his chair.

“Print it when you’re done,” he said, voice rough now.

I let out a shaky breath and turned back to the screen, trying to ignore how warm my face felt.

An hour later I packed up. Asher was still reading by the fire. I didn’t say goodbye. Just slung my bag over my shoulder and slipped into the dim hallway.

I reached in for my gloves and my fingers hit something stiff that wasn’t there before. Frowning, I pulled it out under the nearest sconce light.

A small, thick piece of cardstock.

I flipped it over.

Black typed letters, plain and cold:

“I know what you’re doing with the Kingstons. Walk away now, or you go down with them.” A chill shot down my spine so fast it hurt.

I wasn’t just trapped with Asher anymore.

Someone else was watching.

And they already knew I was in too deep.