CHAPTER FOUR

SEPTEMBER

The next few weeks run by and I find myself running with it. Literally.

At first, Luke’s constant jabs about my body seemed harmless. Annoying, but harmless. Then, one day, he called me a weak-ass bitch. I don’t know if it was the shock on my face that amused him, but he laughed and said he didn’t mean it. Later, he bought me running gear when I told him I didn’t have any, like that made it better.

Now, as I walk to one of Luke’s hockey games, I realize I’ve gotten used to him. Used to the big mouth, the offhand slurs, the smirks that no longer get under my skin.

I get there and the arena is freezing. The kind of chill that bleeds under your skin and settles in your bones. I should have brought a jacket and something for my nose. Luke had warned me about the cold but he never mentioned the smell. The sharp bite of wet concrete combined with the musty sour odor of sweat. Then there’s the greasy stench of the arena food—overcooked fries. Somewhere in the crowd, someone spills beer and the sour tang drifts through the crowd and I feel like I’m going to retch, if I had eaten anything today, I might have lost it right here.

The crowd is charged, roaring as skates carve across the ice. I feel like a complete moron as I shift in my seat, trying to keep warm, but every time I breathe out, my breath stares right back at me.

I feel even more of a moron as time goes on because I don’t know what hockey is even about except that it moves too fast and the players are hell—bent on hurting each other. I don’t even know why I’m here—except that Luke would have nagged me to death if I so much as argued with him about coming. And so, here I am—just a hoodie, jeans, and zero common sense—freezing my ass off because I can’t stand up for myself. Or maybe because, I’m a little curious about what Luke is like on the ice.

I find out what he’s like a while later when he skates into the ice. and suddenly, it’s like the game has just begun. My eyes follow him immediately. Number 4, cutting across the ice, with that cocky energy—like he owns it. He moves fast, faster than someone his size should be moving. His presence is weighty and impossible to ignore. Every movement he makes is sharp and precise and ruthless.

There’s chaos as players chase the puck. Bodies collide, sticks clash. Luke is everywhere at the same time and somehow he’s always exactly where he needs to be. I watch as he blocks a shot with his body, shoves a guy off balance, and skates off like it was nothing. The guy stumbles, catching himself against the boards. The crowd roars wildly. My eyes still follow Luke, as he plays with an edge like he’s daring you to stop him.

Minutes pass in a blur of speed of violence. Then—I don’t even see where the other guy comes from but—suddenly, Luke is slammed into the boards so hard the glass rattles. A sound like thunder cracks through the arena. Luke stumbles back, dazed. His helmet is askew, his mouth bleeding. For a second, I think he might fall—but Luke doesn’t hesitate. He surges forward—and for a moment, I swear, he looks even bigger. I can see the fear in the other player’s face. Then, gloves off, he swings. Luke smashes his fist into his opponent’s face. Again. And again. And again. Luke doesn’t stop when the other guy goes down, his own mouth moving; he doesn’t stop when blood is splattered across the ice.

The refs dive in, pulling them apart.

Luke is no longer smiling, he looks completely menacing. With blood on his teeth.

The crowd is losing its mind. People are on their feet, screaming, pounding the glass.

𝆓𝆓𝆓𝆓𝆓𝆓𝆓𝆓

I step out of the arena, shoving my already numb hands into my pockets as deep as it can go as the cold air gnaws at my face. I should have worn gloves. I can still hear the roar of the crowd ringing in my ears, the last echoes of the game refusing to fade. Luke’s club (UD ice hens) won—because of course they did. I watched the whole thing from the stands, watched him fight, score, take control of the ice like it belonged to him. Like he belonged there.

In haste, fueled by the fear of freezing to death; I walk back to the dorm. I’m focused on getting home, on thawing out when I hear my name pierce through the cold air.

“Caleb!”

I turn, my breath twirling in the air, and of course—because who else would it be?—Luke is the only person I know on this campus. He’s jogging towards me, still in his underlayer. his perfect hair, pulled into a bun, is damp with sweat, stray locks dropping into his eyes. The fresh bruise forming on his jaw and the cut just above his nose are visible even in the dark. He smiles fondly at me.

“We’re going for drinks” he says a little out of breath “ and you’re coming”

Not a question, not an offer, but an order.

I’m too cold and exhausted, down to my bones, to be around Luke’s cockiness right now.

“uh… I don’t think that’s a good idea?” I blink at him

“Yeah?” He quizzes with a raised brow “why’s that?”

“I’m kinda cold”

Luke groans like I just physically wounded him. In an instant, his arm hooks around my neck, yanking me under his damp and overheated arm.

“Jesus—Luke!” My voice is muffled against his sweaty armpit. the sharp mix of soap and sweat stinging my nose. I twist, but his grip is solid, like he’s done this a hundred times before. He's probably done this a hundred times.

“Quit being a little bitch!, I told you, bring a jacket!”

“Sorry. I forgot”

Luke huffs in annoyance before releasing me with a shove.

“You’re coming with me anyway.” then he peers closely at me “Are you okay? You look kind of pale”

“I’m fine. Just cold”

“I’m sure the bar’s warm and there’s food too.”