CHAPTER 1
LIGAYA
Standing in the wings of my high school auditorium, I’m forced to listen to Principal Reinbacher wax poetic about the return of the hockey hero.
Tristan Brian Thorne the Third.
More liketheTurd, because Tristan is no hero. In fact, he is a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. A gourmet burger with a side of E. coli. A five-star resort with a bedbug problem. A—
“What the hell are you mumbling about, Ligaya?” Toby interrupts my mental tirade with a whisper.
Toby and I are the English teachers at Centerstone High School. Despite being a good friend, he has no context for my history withthe Turd.
Instead of answering, I lift my chin in the direction of the six-foot-tall hockey player dressed in a button-down shirt and fitted slacks stretched by obscenely thick thighs. His tousled brown hair is shorter than when we were in high school, but it is as thick as I remember. From the side, Tristan’s sharp jaw and high cheekbones are even more prominent.
How dare he look hotter than he did ten years ago?
Mouth too close to the mic, my boss addresses Tristan. “Any words of inspiration for our audience?” He gestures at the auditorium of rapt teenagers whose phones are put away for once.
“My professional career hasn’t been smooth. After two years in the NHL—”
“During which you were a top scorer and won the Stanley Cup,” Principal Reinbacher interrupts.
“Yes, as a rookie,” Tristan confirms. “Unfortunately, I got injured and had to work my way through knee surgery. I learned a lot throughout my recovery. I wish someone told me in high school that there are many roads to your goal. As long as I put my time into getting a little better every day, I’m one step closer. The Mavericks picked me up this summer, which changed everything. If you want something, persist.”
Principal Reinbacher nods sagely, and I’m momentarily astonished because how didthe Turdcome up with something so . . . profound? He more than likely plagiarized the generic advice. Tristan’s idea of persistence is the pranking kind.
“What’s it like to be back in the area?”
Tristan shrugs and smiles, gesturing at his surroundings. “It’s great to be back. I’ve always been proud of Centerstone. The high school holds a lot of good memories for me. Although I don’t remember this much Halloween spirit.”
He’s referring to the staging ofTheAddams Familymusical that my students and I have worked incredibly hard to put together. He makes it sound like a mall display. Tristan has always been an enemy of the arts.
“Our theater program has won prestigious fellowships thanks to a fellow graduate of Centerstone High. In fact, you might have graduated in the same year!”
No. Freaking. Way.
I turn to sprint away, but it’s too late.
“There she is—our artistic director!” Principal Reinbacher screeches into the mic. “Ms. Torres, please join us on the stage.”
Applause and whistles burst from the audience—probably my cast and crew for the fall musical—which forces me to turn around.
Our eyes catch immediately.
Tristan startles. My breath hitches. Surroundings blur. My heart rate triples.
I haven’t looked straight into his eyes in a decade, but they are impossible to forget. Hazel brown with specks of green framed by lashes even darker than his hair.
Tristan’s mouth opens and shuts abruptly. His face registers surprise, then recognition, then something else. Something warm and enticing, like the glow of stage lights on opening night. He licks his lips and I ignore the delectable sheen left by his tongue.
You know for a fact his lips taste like heaven,my brain interjects because it refuses to purge the memory of graduation night. We were drunk on cheap wine and heady freedom. It was one kiss and it meant nothing. Less than nothing. Negative value, that kiss.
His eyes narrow into a piercing gaze, taking me in from my boots to my head. A blush threatens to creep up my neck, but I quell it with sheer willpower.
I step out from the wings, arms crossed, my boots clicking sharply against the wood as I stop short of center stage.
“Hello, Tristan,” I state between gritted teeth.
