Hockey,Dance and his mirror self

The heavy brass doors of the Redwood University Athletic Complex swung shut behind me, cutting off the crisp Northern California breeze and replacing it with the sharp, familiar scent of polished wood, ice, and expensive floor wax. I pulled my oversized knit sweater tighter around my shoulders, my fingers digging into the strap of my dance duffel. Today was supposed to be a fresh start. Instead, it felt like walking straight into a firing squad. Just twenty-four hours ago, the Redwood Athletic Board had delivered the devastating verdict. Following the "unfortunate judging incident" at the regional contemporary dance finals—where I had publicly called out a corrupt judge for tanking our scores—our funding was frozen. The board's solution to save our department from complete dissolution? A mandatory, high-profile merger. To boost stadium ticket sales and repair the university’s public image, the contemporary dance team was being forced into a joint contract with the university’s golden boys: the Redwood Championship Hockey Team. We were to choreograph and perform collaborative half-time shows, blending our grace with their raw, ice-bound brutality. "Don't look so miserable, Zuri," my best friend and co-captain, Maya, had whispered to me before she headed to the training rooms. "At least we still have a studio to dance in." I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. I could handle the board. I could handle the corrupt judges. I could even handle the condescending sports reporters. But as I walked down the grand, high-ceilinged corridor of the athletic wing, my mind wasn't on the contract. It was on a promise. “Redwood University,” a low, beautifully accented British voice echoed in my head, a phantom memory from a sun-drenched beach in Maine. “I’ll be there in the fall, Zuri. Look for me.” Damien. For three months, those words had been my anchor. During the worst of my family’s suffocating silence and the fallout of my public ruin, I had clung to the memory of the quiet, hardworking resort bartender with the electric blue eyes. The boy who had spent his rare free hours watching me dance on the sand, sharing his headphones, and making me feel like I actually mattered. A sudden burst of loud laughter erupted from the end of the hallway, snapping me out of my thoughts. A group of varsity hockey players was walking toward me, their massive frames clad in matching dark green and gold Redwood athletic jackets. They moved with the easy, arrogant confidence of kings who owned the campus. And right at the center of the group, my breath caught in my throat. It was him. The messy dark curls that always fell slightly over his forehead. The broad, athletic build. The impossibly sharp jawline. It was Damien. A wave of pure, dizzying relief washed over me. The anxiety that had weighed on my chest for weeks evaporated. He was really here. He hadn't forgotten. Without thinking, I took a step forward, a genuine smile breaking across my face for the first time in months. "Damien!" I called out, my voice carrying down the echoing corridor. The group of players slowed to a halt. The boy at the center turned his head, his striking blue eyes locking onto me. But as I closed the distance between us, my smile faltered. There was no sudden spark of recognition in his eyes. There was no warm, relieved smile. Instead, his gaze slid over me with a cold, analytical indifference that felt like a bucket of ice water poured straight down my spine. "Damien?" I repeated, my voice dropping, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed. I stopped a few feet away from him. "It's... it's me. Zuri. From Cresthaven. The Meridian?" One of the players next to him, a tall guy with a smirk, nudged him with an elbow. "Yo, Sterling. Who’s the chick? Another fan girl from the summer?" The boy—the boy who wore Damien's exact face—looked at his friend, then back at me. His handsome features twisted into a look of sheer, mocking amusement. "I have absolutely no idea," he said, his voice smooth, British, and laced with a cruel, dismissive edge. He didn't look like the boy who had gently held my hand under the stars. He looked like a stranger playing a sick joke. "Look, love. I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but I’ve never seen you before in my life." The hallway went completely silent. My heart hammered violently against my ribs. "What?" I whispered, my voice trembling. "What do you mean you don't know me? We spent the entire summer together. You... you gave me your number. You promised—" "I promised?" He let out a sharp, mocking laugh, stepping closer. Up close, he smelled of expensive cologne, not the fresh ocean salt and cedar I remembered. "Listen to me closely, darling. I don't do 'summer promises.' And I certainly don't do desperate girls who make up stories to get close to the varsity captain. If you're looking for an autograph, talk to my publicist." The players around him erupted into snickers. "Oof, brutal rejection, Cal," one of them laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. My face burned with a toxic mix of humiliation and hot, raging anger. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. I stood my ground, my hands clenching into tight fists at my sides. "You're a jerk," I spat, my voice raw but steady. "I don't know what kind of pathetic power trip you're on, but you can go to hell." He didn't even flinch. He simply raised an eyebrow, a cold, smug smirk playing on his lips. "Have a nice day, crazy." With a casual shrug, he turned his back on me and continued walking down the hall with his team, their laughter echoing off the concrete walls. I stood frozen in the middle of the corridor, my chest heaving as I watched them disappear around the corner. The world felt like it was tilting beneath my feet. The boy who had been my sanctuary, the boy who had made me believe in something real, was gone. In his place was a wealthy, arrogant monster who looked exactly like him. My grip on my duffel bag tightened until my knuckles turned white. The merger was starting today. I was going to be forced to work alongside his team for the rest of the semester. But as I turned toward the dance studio, my heartbreak hardened into something sharp, cold, and dangerous. If Damien Sterling wanted to play a game of pretend, I would play. And I was going to make sure he regretted ever forgetting my name.