2: "First time seeing the rink?"

Freya's pov

The car ride drags on forever, yet it’s over too soon, and David keeps glancing at me in the rearview mirror, his hands gripping the steering wheel tight. Every few minutes, he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, then closes it, leaving a heavy silence between us. It’s strange knowing he’s driving me to a school where he’s already spent two years, and when our acceptance letters came—his academic scholarship renewed, my hockey tryout opportunity—Mum cried with relief, because I wouldn’t be completely alone.

But David can’t shield me from everything, not without risking both our secrets.

“You remember everything we went over?” he asks as we pass through the iron gates of Crescent Moon Academy, where the wolf and moon crest in the metalwork looks normal to humans but obvious to people like us.

“Lower my voice, keep my shoulders straight, don’t let anyone get too close,” I say automatically, “and shower late at night when the bathrooms are empty, keep my head down but not so much I look suspicious.”

“And?” he presses, his voice tight.

My throat feels heavy, and I say, “We’re not related here, David Sterling and Frederick Sterling are just a coincidence, so don’t act familiar or come looking for you unless it’s an emergency.”

His jaw tightens, and he mutters, “That’s the part I hate most.”

“It’s the only way,” I say, my chest aching because we both know it’s true, since David spent two years building his reputation as a quiet student from Manchester, and a “brother” showing up who doesn’t look like him would raise too many questions.

“You got my number memorized?” he asks.

“And your room number, your class schedule, where you study,” I say, counting on my fingers, “your friend Christopher who doesn’t know about your real family, your Tuesday night study group, your job at the bookstore.”

David nods, but he’s still tense as the academy comes into view, and it’s huge, with stone buildings spread across neat lawns and towers stretching into the gray October sky. Students walk between classes in small groups, some clearly human, others moving with the smooth confidence that marks our kind, easy to spot if you know what to look for, like how they watch everything or carry themselves like predators.

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure David can hear it.

“Damn,” I mutter, then catch myself, because boys curse more, and I need to get used to it.

David pulls into a circular driveway in front of the main building and says, “You sure about this, because once you get out, I can’t…” His voice cracks, and he continues, “I can’t be your big brother here.”

“I know,” I say, grabbing my bag and hockey gear, my hands steadier than I thought they’d be, and having him here, even if we have to act like strangers, makes this feel less impossible. “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

“Text me, but make it look casual, like you’re just being friendly with an older student,” he says, turning to look at me. “And Frey, if anyone gets suspicious or starts asking questions—”

“I’ll let you know,” I say, squeezing his shoulder quickly, like it’s just a new student thanking someone for a ride. “Thanks, for everything.”

I get out before the moment lingers too long, slinging my gear over my shoulder as the car pulls away, and to anyone watching, it’s just an older student dropping off a new kid. Students pass by in groups, talking about normal teenage stuff mixed with careful mentions of pack politics, like rich human girls planning a shopping trip or three werewolf boys arguing quietly about family territory disputes.

No one looks at me twice, just another new student, and I catch a glimpse of David heading into the library, his familiar walk making my chest tighten, but he doesn’t look back.

The admissions office smells like old wood, and the human receptionist doesn’t even glance up when I say, “Frederick Sterling,” keeping my voice low and steady.

“Room assignments are in your packet, along with your schedule and dining info,” she says, handing me a thick envelope without meeting my eyes, “and orientation starts tomorrow at eight, don’t be late.”

“Thanks,” I say, clutching the envelope and heading outside.

My dorm, Northwind Hall, is a ten-minute walk across campus, past academic buildings and the library where David went, and then I stop short, because the hockey arena is right in front of me, all modern glass and steel that somehow blends with the old stone buildings. Through the big windows, I see the perfect ice and team banners hanging above, and I want it so bad it hurts.

Three years running national champions, the best of the best, and tomorrow, I’m going to try to prove I belong.

“First time seeing the rink?” a voice says behind me, and I spin around, my heart jumping.

A boy about David’s age stands there, hands in his pockets, dark hair across his forehead, tall and broad-shouldered with a confidence that says he’s never doubted his place. His scent hits me—pure werewolf, strong, probably an alpha—and even my human nose picks up something that makes my skin prickle.

“Yeah,” I say, deepening my voice, “it’s something else.”

“You play?” he asks, glancing at my hockey bag, his eyes sharpening like he’s sizing me up.

“I try to,” I say, adjusting my grip on the bag, aware my hands might look too small or too smooth. “You?”

He smiles, slow and sharp, and says, “You could say that, I’m Sebastian Knox.”

The name hits me hard—Sebastian Knox, co-captain of the Crescent Moon Wolves, leading scorer for two seasons, the guy London’s werewolf sports blogs wouldn’t stop talking about—and now he’s standing here, talking to me like I’m just another student.

“Frederick Sterling,” I say, sticking out my hand, hoping he doesn’t hear my heart racing, “but everyone calls me Freddie.”

His handshake is firm, warm, lingering just long enough to make my arm tingle, and his eyes widen slightly, but the moment passes fast. “Freddie,” he says, my name sounding strange in his voice, “you related to David Sterling, third-year guy who lives in the library?”

My stomach drops, but I force confusion into my voice and say, “Who, no, I don’t think so, it’s a common name, though.”

He looks at me for a long moment, and I keep my face neutral, hoping it’s convincing. “Yeah, maybe,” he says, then adds, “You trying out for the team?”

“That’s the plan,” I say, trying to sound sure of myself, “if I’m good enough.”

“Fair warning,” he says, stepping closer, his scent like pine and something heavier making my head spin, “we don’t go easy on new guys, especially ones who show up mid-semester thinking they’re hot shit.”

My cheeks burn at “new guys,” and I hope he thinks it’s just embarrassment. “Wouldn’t want you to go easy,” I say, lifting my chin, “I earn my spot or I don’t deserve it.”

Something shifts in his expression, maybe approval or surprise, and he says, “We’ll see about that,” his gaze flickering to my mouth for a second before meeting my eyes again. “Word of advice, some guys here don’t like outsiders, so watch yourself.”

“And you?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He leans in slightly, his voice low, and says, “I like seeing what people do when they’re under pressure, pushed to their limits, and something tells me you might surprise us, Freddie Sterling.”

He walks away, casual as anything, then pauses without turning and says, “Oh, and Freddie, if you don’t know David Sterling, keep it that way, kid’s got family drama he’d rather keep quiet.”

My heart stops—does he know something, is this a warning?—but the arena doors close behind him before I can say anything, leaving me with my racing pulse and his lingering scent.

I stare at the doors for a minute, trying to make sense of it, because David warned me this place is full of politics, werewolves from big families with old grudges, and if someone connects us, if they dig too deep, we’re done. Three days until tryouts, three days to convince the best young players in the country I belong on their ice, three days to prove I’m just another boy with the same dream, three days to protect David’s secret and mine.

I shoulder my gear bag and head toward my dorm, Sebastian’s words stuck in my head—something tells me you might surprise us, kid’s got family drama—and I wonder how much he suspects, because the biggest secret isn’t David’s past, it’s me, standing here in boy’s clothes with a fake name, trying not to fall apart.

I take a breath and keep walking, because the game starts now.