Chapter 1 - Karter
Ilooked over the crushed beer cans littering the dead front lawn and smiled, knowing exactly how much my father was going to hate this place.
The sharp smell of rotting wet leaves drifted up from the uncut grass. I grabbed the strap of my over-sized duffel bag and pulled the tailored leather from the trunk of Elliot’s pristine SUV. This old Victorian house was a massive step down from our family estate. The white paint peeled in large flakes, and the dead trees cast long, ugly shadows over the sagging front porch.
“I still don’t get it,” Elliot said. He stood with his hands on his hips, wearing his Ridge Cross hockey quarter-zip like a uniform. “Why are you staying in this crap shack?”
“Isn’t this the official team house? Living here builds camaraderie.” I dropped the bag onto the cracked pavement and rolled my shoulder loose. “And character.”
“Bullshit.” Elliot pointed at the duffel. “Dad offered to pay for an apartment. You could be at the new complex with me and the other legacy guys. Hot water. Working heat. And a kitchen that doesn’t smell like shit.”
“Tempting sales pitch.”
“I’m serious, Karter.”
“So am I.” I leaned against the bumper, keeping my posture deliberately relaxed. “That legacy bubble is too predictable.”
Elliot ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair, leaving it sticking up in the front. “And this place is what, character development? Some gritty freshman experiment?”
“Maybe I just like peeling paint.”
“Nobody likes peeling paint.”
“I’m expanding my horizons.”
“You’re being a pain in my ass.” Elliot grimaced, and for a second he looked less like the polished team captain and more like my frustrated older brother. “Dad’s satisfied enough that you made the roster. Keep your head down, put in time at practice, and he’ll stay off your back. There’s no reason to play the martyr here.”
Satisfied. The word grated against my ribs, right where the sharp corner of a pre-med biology textbook was stabbing me through the canvas of my duffel bag. I shifted the strap higher on my shoulder. “He wasn’t that satisfied. If he was, I wouldn’t be a nineteen-year-old freshman.”
Elliot’s hands dropped from his hips. A tired exhale left him. “The PG year wasn’t a punishment, Karter. Dad just wanted you physically ready to take college-level hits. He was looking out for you.”
“He was looking out for the Johnston legacy. He couldn’t stand the thought of his youngest son stepping onto the same ice as you and looking like a failure.”
“He wasn’t wrong to worry. You were a hundred and sixty pounds soaking wet.”
“And now I’m a hundred and seventy. Growth spurt. Miracles happen.”
Elliot didn’t laugh. He just stared at the dead lawn, mouth pressed into a thin line. “I’m staying here,” I said.
“It makes zero sense.”
“Good thing it’s my decision.”
“You’re going to hate it.”
“Then I’ll hate it.” I hoisted the bag onto my shoulder. “But at least it’ll be my mistake.”
Three guys stood on the front porch. They stopped their conversation the second we pulled into the driveway. Lookingpast the scattered beer cans, I locked onto one guy in particular. He stood perfectly still. His dark, watchful eyes tracked our every move. The sheer width of his broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a frayed gray hoodie.
Elliot shifted his stance, stepping in front of me to block my view. “Don’t look at him.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Aleksey Zotov.” Elliot kept his voice low. “He likes to play enforcer. He’s a scholarship psycho.”
“He’s just standing there.”
“He’s got a huge chip on his shoulder.” Elliot pointed a subtle finger over toward the porch. “He takes stupid penalties, starts fights, and doesn’t care who gets caught in the crossfire. Seriously, Karter. Just steer clear.”
