Chapter 1: The Ghost on the Ice
Gianna’s POV
The air inside the Vanguard Arena always smelled the same. It was a sharp mix of frozen water, heavy cooling vents, and the metallic tang of the steel barriers. For six months, that smell meant nothing but trouble. Today, it was just a place to hide.
I stood at the edge of the rink, my fingers dug into the cold wooden gate. I closed my eyes and drew in a long, shaky breath, letting the freezing air burn my throat.
New name. New life. Just survive.
I repeated the words silently. Six months ago, I was Gianna Rossi, America’s top figure skater, locked in to go to the winter games. But a beautifully set-up doping scandal, cooked up by my coach to cover his own missing money, ruined my career in a single afternoon.
By the time his lawyers finished lying to the news, everyone thought I was a fraud. I ran from the reporters, the lawsuits, and the wreckage with nothing but a single duffel bag and a fake ID file.
Now, I was Gianna Cole. A quiet freshman transfer student at Blackwood Sports University, buried in the mountains of Vermont.
I looked at my reflection in the dark ice. The girl staring back was unrecognizable. I had dyed my blonde hair to a heavy, midnight black. I wore an oversized charcoal hoodie, dark leggings, and no makeup. I used to live under a blinding spotlight, letting the world judge every inch of me. Now, I just wanted to be invisible.
I unlatched the gate and stepped onto the ice.
The second my blades cut into the surface, the panic in my head slowed down. The ice didn't read sports blogs, nor did it care about lawsuits.
I pushed off, cutting a long, fast crossover. The wind whipped my face as I picked up speed, letting muscle memory take over. I arched my back, cutting a sharp line across the center, and prepped for a basic double axel just to feel the jump.
I pressed down— sprang into the air, and spun.
One. Two.
I landed with a clean, quiet slice of my blade. For a brief second, I actually smiled. I was free, and nobody was watching.
Then, the heavy double doors of the arena slammed open with a loud crash.
The sound shattered the silence like a gunshot. I stumbled, my blade catching an uneven groove as I skated to a hard halt.
A massive figure stepped out of the tunnel shadows, and walked right onto the concrete walkway.
He was broad, packed with heavy muscle, and carried a hockey stick loosely in his right hand. He wore the university’s gold and black varsity hockey gear. He hadn't put his helmet on yet, leaving his thick, dark brown hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes.
My stomach did a violent flip.
Ryker Barrett.
Everyone in the sports world knew him. He was the lethal captain of the hockey team— a billionaire’s wild heir, and the top player pick for the NHL. He was also famous for a vicious temper that kept the university’s PR team working twenty-four hours a day.
He looked pissed. His sharp jaw was clenched tight. His stormy gray eyes scanned the empty bleachers before locking straight onto me.
He didn't say a word at first. He just glided onto the ice, his heavy skates digging deep, ugly gashes into the smooth surface I had just spent twenty minutes clearing. He stopped ten feet away, leaning his weight over his stick, looking me up and down with total contempt.
"You're in my space, freshman," Ryker said. His voice was a low, gravelly baritone that cut right through the cold.
I didn't back down. I had dealt with aggressive coaches my whole life. I straightened my shoulders, hiding the sudden panic in my chest. "The schedule said the morning slot was open for figure skating."
A dark, mocking smirk crossed his lips, but his eyes stayed cold. "The schedule is wrong. The hockey team owns this ice from five to seven. Get off."
"I have another twenty minutes on my slot," I said, keeping my voice steady and just as icy as his. "You can wait your turn, Barrett."
His eyes narrowed. He skated forward, closing the distance until he completely crowded my space. He was a foot taller than me—6’4” of solid muscle blocking out the overhead stadium lights. He smelled like winter air—leather, and heavy sweat. The physical proximity sent a strange, electric heat straight down my spine.
He leaned down, his face inches from mine, his breath warm against my cold skin.
"I don't wait for anyone, sweetheart," he whispered, his eyes dropping to my lips for a split second before locking back onto mine. "What's your name, and who the hell gave a no-name girl my ice?"
