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DAHLIA Life as I know it has been shattered into tiny, unrecognizable pieces. The silver lining? I have nothing to lose. No one to go back to. Nowhere to call home. So nothing stops me from pursuing the bloody path I’ve carefully traced. My fingers tremble against the smooth plastic of the stadium seat as I remain hidden. My muscles burn and my knees shake, creaking from the crouched position I’ve forced myself into for twenty minutes or more. A blast of icy air envelops me, frosting the beads of sweat coating my temples and upper lip. The thing is, I’m not supposed to be here. And I don’t mean in this position per se, but in the whole place. I certainly wasn’t supposed to set foot in Graystone Ridge or on the campus of Graystone University—also known as GU. Most importantly, I’m not supposed to be sneaking around in their notorious Vipers Arena, home to the school’s prestigious Vipers hockey team that just won a spectacular game. ‘Just’ is metaphorical, because that game ended hours ago and everyone has evacuated the premises. Except for me. And the three players below. Loud thuds fill my ears as the puck checks the boards. The swish of blades on the ice adds a symphony of undiluted violence. I peek from between the dark blue chairs, holding my breath despite the magnitude of sounds echoing in the arena. The seating inside Vipers Arena, which has a capacity of over ten thousand, rises steeply, giving a dizzying, vertigo-inducing view of the ice below. I can still hear the roar of the crowd from earlier as if it’s a physical force, reverberating in my chest in a persistent thrum. The clapping and chanting that ricocheted off the walls, rising to a deafening crescendo, was dull compared to the sound of the three players’ fast-paced late-night practice. Or should I say meeting? I catch a glimpse of ‘VIPERS’ printed on the boards across from me as the ice gleams under the harsh, blindingly bright lights, casting a bluish tint over the rink. The crisp, biting sound of skates slicing across the ice sends chills through me as I follow the players’ cutthroat maneuvers. I’ve watched the Vipers dominate the arena countless times during my research, so I can recognize who has the puck without even checking their number. Some might call this an obsession, and maybe it is, but if it can get me closer to the team, I’ll be a simp. Or a stan. Or whatever correct term means I’m an expert on this bunch of snakes. I lower my baseball cap over my face, switch my weight from one foot to the other, then rest my clammy forehead on a tiny spot between the two chairs. The three of them are so fast, so vicious, and so ruthless in their play, they nearly blur together in a sea of sharp glides. My eyes cross as I attempt to keep up. They’re alternating and playing two against one, probably to improve their flawless attack synergy everyone was singing praises about earlier tonight. The reason those three play well together is probably because, even after everyone went home, they took to the rink again. I’ve heard rumors that they often have these late-night ‘meetings’ and had to confirm it myself. Which is why I went to the restroom, stayed there until the place was nearly deserted, then snuck back into the arena and hid behind the chairs in the corner close to the ice but out of the players’ field of vision. However, I had to be dead silent because this place echoes even the slightest noise. The three of them come to a halt in the middle of the rink, clacking their sticks together before tossing them onto the ice. “That was lousy defense.” Number 71, Jude Callahan, is the first to remove his helmet and shakes his soaking-wet black hair before he tosses it back like a dog. He’s the tallest and bulkiest of the three, standing at a whopping 6’5”, and is the definition of fucked up. Jude is the most feared right wing in the college league. The rival teams’ offense thinks twice before getting into his zone, and the defensemen can’t handle his sheer size and unhinged energy. Jude has anger issues and chose hockey to beat people the hell up. Everyone knows it, and anyone who has any dreams of a hockey career has learned to stay out of his way. Number 13, Preston Armstrong, throws his helmet at the back of Jude’s head, his deep voice carrying in the empty arena with a note of sarcasm. “Chest slamming is not an offense strategy. You would’ve been penalized for that. As always. Don’t be a liability.” Preston is often labeled as the league’s prince, probably because of his gorgeously attractive face, always styled sandy-blond hair, and Caribbean-green eyes. Despite his sleek appearance and refined mannerisms, he’s known to be the most vicious snake on and off the ice. His appearance is just another tool he uses to achieve his goals. Whatever those are. In spite of my extensive research on Preston, I’m still in the dark about his true personality, and I doubt his teammates have a clue what he’s truly capable of. Unlike Jude, a notorious mass of muscles who acts with no regard for anyone, Preston is calmer and more calculated yet exudes a somber undertone. Still, if I had to choose, I’d go with the latter. I can handle mind games, but Jude’s brand of unhinged violence is hard to stomach. As if on cue, Jude slams his body against Preston’s with so much power, they both crash into the boards with a loud thud. I hold in a gasp when Jude sits on top of Preston as if he’s a chair. “What was that, dick?” Preston’s head bumps against the boards, and despite his lack of a helmet, I hear the echoing thump in my chest. They clutch each other by the collar and Jude attempts to pick Preston up, probably to throw him across the rink, Neanderthal style. Preston, while not as bulky or as tall as Jude, is still 6’3” and manages to maneuver Jude’s brute force by flipping him and then smashing him against the ice before jamming an elbow to his throat. 13 wears a smile as he speaks close to 71’s face. “I said you’re a liability, dick. Learn to control your animal strength. It’s okay to look like one, but acting the part is too much, don’t you think?” I take it back. There’s no way I can handle Preston. I can’t tell if he’ll release the huge guy underneath him or choke him to death while smiling. I nearly lose my footing and give away my position as Jude’s face goes from red to blue in a matter of seconds. In a blur of motions, Jude kicks Preston and then they’re rolling on the ice like a couple of polar bears. Without head protection. The third player, Number 19, removes his helmet with a sigh, revealing damp tousled dark-brown hair and a soft frown between his thick brows. Jude and Preston’s fight filters to the background as the view of the Vipers’ captain and center grips my throat with invisible hands. And the worst part? This isn’t the first time he’s stolen my attention. For some reason, I’ve often found my eyes unconsciously flitting to Kane Davenport, and I can’t figure out why. Yes, he’s handsome, probably the most beautiful out of the three of them. While Jude has angular features and Preston is more of the princely type, Kane’s beauty is unnerving. His sharp, chiseled jawline affords him a naturally commanding look. His usually neatly styled hair is now haphazard, and he runs his fingers through it, making his thick strands look casually polished. At 6’4”, he’s also tall, but not as threatening as Jude. Kane’s lean yet muscular build complements his role as a dominant player on the ice. His body is sculpted for both power and agility, and his controlled movements reflect his innate leadership. He carries himself with confidence, his posture always straight and composed, giving off an aura of quiet authority. And yet…his blue eyes are so pale, so blank, they’re akin to those of an arctic wolf instead of a human. They’re piercing, cold, and unreadable. Despite his outward calm, there’s a flicker of danger lurking just beneath the surface. And yet he’s the only safe option on the team. Kane is a responsible captain, a powerful leader, and the one who calms his teammates when they slip out of control. He’s also the only senior player with a normal-ish personality. Well, as normal as these assholes can get. He’s still part of that fucked-up organization no normal person would choose of their own volition. I glance at the black obsidian ring on his right index finger that doesn’t shine under the light. I can’t see it clearly, but I know there’s a compass rose branded on the top of it, a depiction of his family’s symbol. The ring is proof of his monstrous ties.