Chapter 1: The Spill

The bus doors wheeze open and the cold hits her face so hard her eyes water.

"North Star campus." The driver doesn't look up from his phone. "Watch your step. Slick out there."

"Thanks," Jessie says, and the word comes out shaky because her teeth are already chattering. She drags her suitcase down the steps, the wheels banging on each one, and nearly eats it at the bottom. Doesn't. But close. The wind slices straight through her hoodie and she realizes, standing there with her fingers already going numb, that she left her good gloves in her old dorm back in Buffalo.

Of course.

She shuffles toward Welker Dorm, head tucked down, suitcase wheels catching on frozen slush every few feet. Someone has taped a tiny plastic snowman to the vending machine outside the entrance. Its head is lopsided. She notices it for half a second and then forgets it.

Inside, the hallway smells like burnt popcorn and some kind of floral spray that's trying too hard. Room 314. She pushes the door open.

A blonde girl is dancing in front of the mirror, earbuds in. Another girl sits cross-legged on her bed, lining up little bottles of toner and serum on the windowsill like a tiny pharmacy.

"Oh my god, you must be Jessie." The blonde yanks out her earbuds and grins. "Thank god. We were legit worried we got a hoarder or something. I'm Tinsley. This is Brooke."

"Hey," Brooke says without looking up. "Top bunk or bottom? I already stole the outlet by the mirror."

"Bottom's fine. Less chance I'll, uh. Fall off."

"You do that a lot? Fall off things?"

"No. I mean. Not yet."

Brooke snorts. It's almost a laugh.

Tinsley flops onto her bed, which is covered in a bright pink comforter that looks aggressively comfortable. "Where you from? Wait, let me guess. Wisconsin?"

"Buffalo. Canisius transfer."

"Canisius? Isn't that, like, super small? Why'd you leave?"

Jessie drops her suitcase on the lower bunk. The frame creaks. "They offered me more money here. Scholarship stuff."

"Ugh, same. Well, welcome to the tundra." Tinsley gestures dramatically at the window, where snow is starting to come down again in fat, slow flakes. "You like hockey?"

"Uh. Not really."

"Oh, you're gonna suffer." She points at the massive poster above her desk. A bunch of guys in red and gold jerseys. "That's the Golden Wolves. And that one in the middle? Martins Heller. Captain. Campus is obsessed with him. Currently dating Lila Beaumont, but honestly nobody thinks it'll last."

"She sounds like a piece of work," Brooke mutters.

"She is. Rich, mean, and she acts like she owns him." Tinsley rolls onto her stomach. "Anyway, Martins is off-limits unless you want Lila to destroy your life. Which, fair warning, she's done before. To other girls."

"I'm not here for boys," Jessie says.

Tinsley raises an eyebrow. "Famous last words. Come on, I'm starving. Let's hit the dining hall before the lunch rush gets insane."

Jessie doesn't really want to go. Her skin has been prickling since she got off the bus, warm under the surface like a low fever. Probably just the temperature change. Probably. But her stomach growls loud enough that Brooke glances over, so she follows them out.

The walk to the dining hall takes forever. Or maybe it just feels that way because Jessie can't feel her ears. Students push past in puffy coats, breath fogging, boots crunching. Some guy on a skateboard nearly clips her shoulder and doesn't even turn around. She notices a flyer for a winter formal tacked to a bulletin board, half the little tabs already torn off.

"So what's your major?" Brooke asks. She's pulled her hood up so only her nose is visible.

"Undecided. Maybe biology."

"Professor Solberg teaches intro bio. She's brutal. Don't take her unless you enjoy crying in library bathrooms."

"I'll keep that in mind."

The dining hall is chaos. Just straight noise. Tray clatter, someone yelling about a group project, the smell of old grease and cleaner and something sweet from the dessert station. Jessie grabs a tray and loads it up without thinking. Mashed potatoes. Pasta with meat sauce, a lot of it. The biggest coffee cup they have.

"You gonna eat all that?" Tinsley eyes her tray, then her own sad salad.

"I'm hungry."

"Respect."

They weave past tables, and that's when Jessie sees them. The Golden Wolves. Dead center of the room, like they own it. Which, from the way people keep glancing over, they basically do.

And there he is.

Martins Heller. Dark hair, a charcoal suit that probably costs more than her textbooks for the year. One of his cuffs is unbuttoned, she notices, like he's been messing with it. He's scrolling on his phone, looking bored, like the noise around him is static.

"There he is," Tinsley whispers. "Look at his jawline. I'm gonna pass out."

"He's just a guy," Jessie says.

"A guy who looks like he was carved by a horny sculptor."

Brooke chokes on her water.

Jessie tries not to look at him. Her stomach does a weird flutter, and her face feels too warm all of a sudden. She tightens her grip on the tray and focuses on walking.

Cody Jenner sticks his foot out.

She sees it happen but not fast enough. His leg shoots into the aisle, he yells something to his buddy, laughing, and Jessie's boot catches his ankle and the tray tilts and everything goes wrong.

"Oh, shit."

She lunges. The tray doesn't.

It flips. Coffee and pasta and red sauce and all of it, the whole hot mess, splatters across Martins Heller's chest.

The crash rings out. Then quiet. The kind of quiet where people are holding their breath.

Jessie is on her knees. She doesn't remember falling. Marinara drips off the edge of the table. Plop. Plop. The coffee has soaked into his suit, turning the gray wool a deep, ugly brown.

"Oh my god," Tinsley says, somewhere behind her.

"Did she just," Brooke starts.

"She's dead," someone else whispers.

Martins sets his phone down. Slow. He doesn't even look at the stain. He looks at her, his eyes a pale, cold blue.

"Do you have a death wish?" His voice is low. Not yelling. Worse. "Or are you just naturally clumsy?"

Jessie's mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

"Dude, your suit," one of the players mutters.

"I can see that, Kade."

Before Jessie can find words, a whistle shrieks. Coach Rorvik. Wide as a doorframe, gray sweats, a scowl that looks permanent. He stops beside the table and takes in the scene.

"Heller. Sit." He points at Jessie. "You. That suit is eight hundred dollars. You're on scholarship, so I know you can't pay that. You're gonna work it off."

"I can get a job on campus," Jessie manages. Her voice sounds thin. "I'll pay you back."

"You're gonna be the Golden Wolf mascot at Saturday's game. Marlon Gibbs will fit you after practice. Don't be late."

The mascot suit. The heavy, furry, suffocating wolf costume that everyone on campus makes fun of.

"Coach, come on," Tinsley says. "It was an accident."

"Accidents have consequences. You're her friend? Make sure she shows up."

Jessie pushes herself to her feet. Her legs are shaky. She grabs a handful of brown napkins from the dispenser and steps toward Martins, dabbing at the stain.

"I'm so sorry. I really didn't see his foot. I can clean this. I can…"

"Stop touching me." His voice is tight.

She doesn't stop. Can't seem to. Her skin feels too hot, prickly, and leaning close to him makes it worse. His cologne is sharp. Underneath it, something else. Something wild.

He grabs her wrist.

"I said stop."

His grip hurts. His fingers wrap all the way around, skin hot against hers, and Jessie's breath catches. She looks up.

His pupils have widened so much there's barely any blue left. His jaw is locked tight and something in his expression flickers, hungry and startled at the same time.

"What the," he starts. Then stops.

He drops her wrist. Jerks his hand back like she's burned him. Presses his palm flat against his chest, right over his heart. His breathing has gone uneven.

"You okay, man?" someone asks.

"Fine." But he's staring at her throat now. Just staring.

"Martins?" A girl appears at his elbow. Perfect hair, flat expression. Lila Beaumont. She looks at the stain, then at Jessie, and her mouth tightens. "What is this? Who is she?"

"Nobody," Martins says.

His voice cracks.

The room is still quiet. Jessie's wrist throbs where he grabbed her. She can hear her own pulse in her ears. And somewhere deep in her chest, something stirs. Something that hasn't moved in a long time.

Martins shakes his head. Just once. Like he's trying to clear something out.

But the scent is already in his lungs. Sweet. Different. He can't place it.