Hockey was practically a religion in their town—sermons held on the ice, saints in helmets and skates, and prayers answered with the echo of a puck against the boards. At their school, it was more than a sport; it was the heartbeat of the year. And no name carried more weight than Simon “Ghost” Riley. He’d earned the nickname for the way he disappeared into open ice, reappearing only to carve through opponents with speed and brutality. Coaches loved him. Scouts had their eyes on him. Championships loomed, scholarships dangled in the distance, and every muscle in Simon’s body thrummed with the pressure of expectation.

The players had carved out a little practice space just outside the arena—a spot by the entrance where the concrete wall was permanently scuffed with black marks. It was tradition for the guys to linger there before or after practice, whipping pucks against it, each sharp crack echoing like gunfire in the cold air. Today was no different. Simon stood among them, shoulders tense, his stick slicing the air as he released shot after shot.

But his head wasn’t in it. Thoughts of scouts and universities and whether he’d live up to everything everyone expected of him buzzed around like hornets. His focus slipped. The puck rolled off his blade wrong, his wrister veering off-course. Instead of smacking the wall, it rang loudly against a metal pipe. The rebound shot forward like a bullet ricocheting in a closed room.

All of them ducked. Years of instinct drilled into them had their heads snapping low in unison, shoulders hunched.

“Heads!” Simon barked, eyes locking on the black blur as it rocketed across the lot—straight toward someone who hadn’t a clue it was coming.