I pull out my phone, scroll through my contacts until I find her number. When I took Axel’s phone, I took her number. I could text her right now. Could make her squirm, keep her on edge, remind her that she’s mine.
But no.
I’m going to ignore her. Let her stew. Let her wonder if I’ve forgotten about her, if the deal’s off, if Axel’s back on the hook. The anticipation will eat at her more than anything I could say.
And I’ll keep my promise. Lay off her brother. Let him think he’s free.
I set the phone down, close my eyes.
Tomorrow’s going to be busy. Morning skate. Class. Music club in the afternoon—I need to talk to the instructor about my schedule once hockey practice officially starts October third. I can only do Mondays or Tuesdays at night after that.
I drift off thinking about Lexi tied to that tree, her muffled screams echoing through the forest.
Morning skate is at six a.m.
The rink is freezing, the ice fresh and smooth. Just a handful of us show up this early—the ones who give a shit, the ones who want to make the starting lineup when practice officially begins.
I lace up my skates, step onto the ice, and let the cold bite into my lungs.
Hudson’s already out there, doing lazy circles. Carter’s by the boards, stretching. A couple of freshmen are fumbling with pucks near the goal.
“Yo, Koa!” Hudson skates over, grinning. “You see the new freshmen? Kid can barely stay upright.”
I glance over. The freshman in question catches an edge, goes down hard. His helmet bounces off the ice.
“Pathetic,” I mutter.
Hudson laughs. “Want to play a quick game? Two-on-two?”
“Yeah.”
We grab Carter and one of the other guys, split into teams. No rules, no refs, just us fucking around and blowing off steam. I play hard—checking, stealing pucks, slamming shots into the net. It feels good to hit something, to let the violence out in a way that won’t get me arrested.
Nobody asks for drugs. Nobody even mentions it. For once, this is just hockey.
And I fucking love it.
After skate, I shower, throw on jeans and a hoodie, and head to my morning class. Business. None of this really teaches you what matters in real life business. This shit is… I don’t know. The professor goes on and on about supply and demand, about equilibrium and market forces. I take notes but my mind is elsewhere.
Halfway through, my phone buzzes. I glance down.
Cash Bag One:Someone hit the drop on Fifth Street. Cash is gone.
My jaw ticks. I type back fast.
Koa:Handle it. Find out who. Make an example.
I shove the phone back in my pocket and force myself to focus on the lecture. This is the part of the business I hate—loose ends, idiots who think they can steal from me and get away with it.
They’ll learn.
In the afternoon, I head to the music building.
It’s tucked in the corner of campus, old brick and peeling paint. Inside, it smells like wood polish and stale coffee. I take the stairs to the second floor, where the practice rooms are.
The club meets in the biggest room—the one with the stage and the good acoustics. When I walk in, it’s chaos. Girls everywhere. Aspiring singers clustered in groups, all of them dressed like they’re auditioning for a music video instead of a college club.
One of them spots me. Her eyes light up, and she nudges her friend. They both stare.
