Silver escaped registration with her hood pulled low and her heart still hammering against her ribs, Americus's cheerful chatter about costume design electives creating a buffer between her and the rest of the world. She hadn't answered Bianca's question—couldn't have even if she'd wanted to. Instead, she'd muttered something appropriately vague about having "one of those faces," scrawled her signature on the English Literature roster, and melted back into the crowd before the Mitchelle twins could corner her for the kind of conversation that would inevitably end in humiliation.
But the damage was already spreading through her system like poison. Her pulse hadn't returned to normal since the moment their perfectly glossed lips had curved into those familiar smiles, and every time she closed her eyes, she could see the recognition dawning in their expressions.
Back in their Gothic dorm room, Americus had immediately claimed her bed as command central, sprawling across the floral duvet with course catalogs spread around her like battle plans. Loose sequins from her registration day outfit scattered across the fabric like glittery confetti, catching the late afternoon light streaming through their diamond-paned windows.
"So," Americus announced, not looking up from the theater arts course descriptions she was highlighting with religious fervor, "tonight we're doing karaoke at the student center. Mandatory roommate bonding. Bring the mysterious brooding energy—it'll add depth to our group dynamic."
Silver mumbled something that could have been agreement or protest, already tugging her Yale hoodie tighter around her shoulders. The thought of standing in front of strangers, holding a microphone, being seen and heard and potentially recognized, made her stomach clench with familiar dread. Karaoke was approximately the last thing she wanted to subject herself to.
What she wanted—what she needed with an intensity that surprised her—was ice.
Not competition ice with its harsh spotlights and judging panels. Not the polished perfection of training facilities where every move was scrutinized and measured. Just the quiet sanctuary of a rink where blades sang against frozen water and the rest of the world faded into irrelevance.
She'd heard whispers about Ingalls Rink from other students—nicknamed "The Whale" for its distinctive curved wooden roof that rose from the Yale campus like the spine of some great sea creature. Home to Yale hockey, a landmark that had hosted decades of games and championships. She hadn't planned on seeking it out, but the restless energy under her skin wouldn't leave her alone.
That evening, while Americus practiced what appeared to be jazz hands in their narrow mirror and Riley attempted to focus on her assigned reading despite the impromptu dance rehearsal happening three feet away, Silver slipped out of their room. The Gothic corridors of their residential college felt different in the gathering dusk—more mysterious, more forgiving of someone trying to disappear.
Her knee brace made each step deliberate, but determination carried her across campus through areas she hadn't yet explored. Past darkened courtyards where other students gathered in clusters around stone benches, through side streets lined with New England maples just beginning to hint at autumn colors, until the unmistakable silhouette of Ingalls Rink emerged from the shadows ahead.
The building was impossible to miss—those dramatic arched beams rising against the evening sky like the skeleton of some prehistoric creature, glass walls glowing faintly from interior lighting that suggested life within. The Whale, in all its architectural glory.
Silver hesitated at the main entrance, cool September air pressing against her back and carrying the distant sounds of campus life—laughter from nearby dorms, music from someone's open window, the steady hum of cars on Whitney Avenue. She almost turned around. Almost convinced herself that this was a terrible idea, that she should return to her room and pretend to be a normal college freshman who didn't feel physically incomplete without the sensation of blades beneath her feet.
But the magnetic pull of ice was stronger than common sense.
Inside, the familiar blast of refrigerated air hit her like a homecoming. She inhaled sharply, letting the scent fill her lungs—cold and sharp, with undertones of rubber matting and leather skate tongues, zamboni exhaust and the particular metallic tang that clung to hockey equipment. It was like breathing in memories of every rink she'd ever trained in, every early morning practice session, every moment when the ice had felt like the only place in the world that made sense.
She crept up into the stands, grateful to find them nearly empty except for a forgotten backpack abandoned on one of the benches and a few scattered programs from previous games. Below her, the rink stretched in perfect white expanse under brilliant overhead lighting. This wasn't figure skating ice—the boards showed the familiar scuffs and dings of hockey play, goal nets stood at attention at either end, and the surface itself had the slightly rougher texture that came from hosting games rather than hosting artists.
A single player moved across that perfect canvas of ice.
Silver's breath caught in recognition.
Eli Hayes.
The same guy who'd kept her from face-planting on the cobblestones outside her dorm, who'd delivered that cryptic "Welcome to Yale" like it contained layers of meaning she hadn't yet deciphered. Now here he was in his natural habitat, and for the first time she began to understand why his presence felt so sharp-edged, so dangerous.
He was fast. Ridiculously, impossibly fast. His skates carved across the ice with the kind of precision that spoke of thousands of hours of practice, edges biting deep as he executed tight turns, carried the puck through an invisible obstacle course, and fired slapshots that cracked against the boards with enough force to make Silver wince sympathetically.
He moved like the rink had been built specifically for him, like gravity and physics had agreed to bend slightly in his favor. Every stride was economical, purposeful, powerful. Even practicing alone, his focus was absolute—shoulders low and balanced, head up, eyes tracking the puck with predatory intensity.
Silver found herself gripping the cold metal railing of the stands, her knuckles going white as she watched him execute a drill that involved stopping short in a spray of ice crystals that fanned out like shattered diamonds before he pushed off again, chasing the puck down the full length of the rink.
Her knee throbbed in cruel counterpoint to his fluid motion, a constant reminder that she would never again experience that particular brand of physical poetry. But she couldn't bring herself to leave, couldn't tear her gaze away from the hypnotic rhythm of blade against ice, the dangerous beauty of speed balanced perpetually on the edge of disaster.
For one traitorous moment, it was all too easy to imagine herself out there with him. Not playing hockey—she'd never had the slightest interest in body checking or fighting for puck possession. But spinning across center ice in a perfect camel, arms extended like wings, hair streaming behind her as the stands blurred into irrelevance and the world narrowed to nothing but music and movement and the crystalline perfection of a program executed flawlessly.
Her throat tightened with longing so sharp it felt like swallowing glass.
Eli fired another shot, the puck ringing off the far post with a sound that echoed through the empty arena. He coasted to a stop near the goal line, chest heaving beneath his Yale Hockey practice jersey, stick resting across his knees as he caught his breath. Steam rose faintly from his overheated body in the frigid air.
Then, as if pulled by some sixth sense that athletes developed after years of performing under scrutiny, his gaze lifted and swept the stands.
Straight to where Silver sat frozen in the shadows.
Their eyes met across the distance—his sharp and assessing, hers wide with the particular horror of being caught somewhere she didn't belong. For a heartbeat that felt like an eternity, neither of them moved.
Eli Hayes had found her hiding place, and there was absolutely nowhere left to run.