CHAPTER 4

The campus of State University felt like an entirely different country.

​Where Westbridge was paved with manicured brick paths, ivy-covered stone, and the quiet arrogance of generational wealth, State was concrete, grit, and industrial steel. It was louder. It was hungrier.

​"You're late, Maya."

​I stopped at the edge of the glass barrier. Coach Daniel Vance—the head of State’s hockey program—didn't look up from his tablet as I approached the bench. He was a broad man with a scarred jaw and a reputation for breaking players who couldn't handle his conditioning.

​"The bus from the East Side had a flat tire, Coach," I said, catching my breath. My hands were freezing in my thin jacket pocket. "I ran the last four blocks."

​Daniel Vance slowly turned his head. His sharp gray eyes assessed my flush cheeks, my cheap sneakers, and the worn leather bag slung over my shoulder.

​"I don't care about the bus," Vance said, his voice flat. "I care about results. Your analysis of Westbridge's neutral-zone transition is the only reason you're standing on my ice. If you can't keep up with the clock, I'll find another hungry student who can."

​"I won't be late again," I said, keeping my posture straight. My father had coached against Vance for a decade. I knew exactly how this man operated—he respected iron, not excuses.

​"Good. The boys are running a scrimmage. Westbridge plays a heavy left-wing lock under their new coordinator. I want you to tell me how our top line breaks it." He handed me a stylus and pointed to the ice. "Go."

​I took a deep breath, stepped up to the elevated platform behind the glass, and locked my focus on the ice.

​The physical play here was brutal. State didn't have Westbridge’s sleek, effortless grace. They played dirty. They played hard. As I watched the left-winger drive deep into the corner, my mind immediately started mapping out the defensive rotations.

​If Ryder was on the ice, he’d anticipate the weak-side pinch. He’d glide into the slot before the puck even left the boards...

​I shook my head, my jaw tightening. Stop thinking about him. He's the enemy now.

​I spent the next two hours scribbling rapid notes, calculating passing lanes, and breaking down defensive recovery times. By the time the whistle blew, ending the practice, my fingers were almost too numb to hold the stylus.

​I walked down to Coach Vance’s desk in the sub-level office.

​"The left-wing lock only works if the opposing center stays high," I said, placing my tablet on his desk. "Your top line is trying to force the puck through the middle. If they chip it soft into the opposite corner and let the right-winger use his speed on the forecheck, Westbridge's defense won't have time to rotate. Their right-side defenseman, Henderson, has a slow pivot on his left side."

​Vance picked up the tablet, his eyes scanning my diagrams. The silence in the small office stretched until my chest began to ache.

​Slowly, a grim, satisfied smirk spread across Vance’s face.

​"Your father’s mind was a weapon, Maya," Vance said, looking up at me. "I see he left it to you."

​A warm, rare spark of pride flared in my chest. For the first time in years, someone was looking at me for my own worth, not because they felt sorry for the dead coach’s daughter.

​"But you've got a shadow following you," Vance added, his smile fading. He leaned back in his chair. "A very heavy, very wealthy shadow."

​My smile faltered. "What do you mean?"

​Vance reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a physical envelope, tossing it onto the desk.

​"That was delivered to my office an hour ago," Vance said. "From the Westbridge Athletic Board. Or more specifically, from the corporate office of Richard Callahan. Ryder’s father."

​I reached out, my fingers trembling slightly as I picked up the heavy parchment paper. I pulled out the single sheet of letterhead.

​My eyes blurred as I read the elegant, aggressive print.

​...requesting an immediate academic and professional review of Maya Stark’s enrollment and employment status, citing a direct conflict of interest and potential breach of proprietary athletic data belonging to Westbridge University...

​"They're trying to block my hiring," I whispered, the paper shaking in my hand. "They're claiming I stole their playbooks."

​"They're threatening a lawsuit against State if I put you on the payroll," Vance said quietly. "Richard Callahan has enough lawyers to tie this athletic department in knots for the next three years."

​"Coach, please," I pleaded, looking at him. "I didn't steal anything. I wrote those analyses from public game footage. I can prove—"

​"I know you didn't steal it," Vance interrupted, his voice surprisingly calm. "But I can't fight the Callahan empire over a student-assistant salary, Maya. I'm sorry. Unless you can get them to withdraw the complaint, I have to suspend your contract before your first official day."

​The room seemed to tilt. The one escape route I had carved out for myself, the one piece of dignity I had fought to claim, was being choked out before I could even draw a breath.

​Ask Ryder about the contract his father signed last week. You're just a pawn to keep him in line.

​The restricted text message flashed in my mind.

​I stood up, my chest tight with a mixture of raw terror and blinding, white-hot fury. I didn't say goodbye to Coach Vance. I grabbed my bag and ran out of the office, pushing through the heavy exit doors into the biting cold.

​I didn't care about the bus. I didn't care about my aching legs.

​I pulled out my phone, my fingers flying over the screen as I dialed the one number I had sworn I would never call again.

​It rang once. Twice.

​"Maya?" Ryder’s voice came through the line, rough, breathless, and instantly alert. "Where are you? Are you okay?"

​"Did you know?" I choked out, my voice shaking as I stood on the freezing street corner. "Did you know what your father was going to do to me?"

​There was a sudden, heavy silence on the other end of the line. The sound of wind and skates scraping against ice faded in the background, as if he had just walked into an empty room to hear me.

​"Maya..." he started, his voice dropping to a low, tortured warning. "Where are you right now? Don't move. I'm coming to get you."

​"Answer the question, Ryder!" I screamed into the phone, tears finally spilling over my cold cheeks. "Did you know he was going to ruin my life to keep you in line?"

​"I'm handling it," Ryder growled, his voice suddenly thick with an terrifying, explosive anger. "I swear to God, Maya, I’m handling it. Just tell me where you—"

​"Don't bother," I whispered.

​I hung up the phone.

​Before I could even lower my hand, a dark, expensive black SUV pulled up to the curb right in front of me. The tinted passenger side window slowly rolled down.

​Inside sat Richard Callahan, Ryder's father, looking at me with a cold, victorious smile.

​"Get in, Maya," he said smoothly. "Let's talk about your future."