A Season For Us

chapter 2

Zack Dalton didn’t need to try.

Not when life had always been handed to him on a sterling silver platter—engraved with the Dalton name and polished until it gleamed.

At 6’2" and 210 pounds of pure, chiseled arrogance, he turned heads without lifting a finger. Piercing blue eyes, messy dark curls that curled perfectly just past his ears—what the guys in his hometown lovingly called a hockey haircut and what Cole always referred to as The Flow. It bounced with every confident stride, every cocky tilt of his head. His grin? That alone should’ve come with a warning label.

He had it all. And he knew it.

Zack was starting his sophomore year at Ironridge State and coming in hotter than ever. He had classes, practice, parties, hookups… rinse, repeat. If last year was the warm-up, this year was the main event.

His dorm? Perfect.

A three-bedroom suite with Cole and Deeks—his ride-or-dies since before high school puck. Three hockey lifers now turned college royalty.

They’d barely finished dragging in the last duffel bags and gear before Zack was sprawled across the couch, one leg hanging off, flipping through party invites on his phone like they were fan mail.

“Damn, this place is sweet,” Deeks muttered, cracking open a soda and tossing his stick bag in the corner. “You think they’ll mind the late-night puck sessions?”

“They’re not gonna hear the late-night puck sessions,” Zack said, grinning. “Walls are thick. Unlike half this school’s freshman class.”

Cole laughed, but didn’t look up from his course list. “You’re gonna bomb out of intro psych if you keep skipping class like last year.”

“I passed it, didn’t I?”

“Barely.”

“Passing’s passing,” Zack shrugged, like he was talking about a beer pong match instead of college credits.

Zack never worried. About anything. He didn’t have to.

His parents—power couple if there ever was one—were almost caricatures of elite success. His dad, now CEO of the Dalton Corporation after the old man died, was already pushing for Zack to drop the hockey “fantasy” and start preparing to take over. His mom? A renowned trauma surgeon who lived half her life in scrubs and the other half somewhere between an OR and a first-class airport lounge.

They weren’t bad people. Just... distracted. Absent. Distant.

Zack and his brothers were raised by a rotating door of high-end nannies and private school instructors. Lavish birthdays, new cars, winter vacations in Aspen, summer homes on the Cape—but no one ever came to the games. No one really listened when Zack said he didn’t want to run the company.

Hockey wasn’t just a hobby to him. It was his life.

It was the only place that made sense. Where he could breathe. Where he could be. The cold of the rink, the chaos of the game—that was his peace.

His dad didn’t get that. He probably never would.

“You’ll walk away from it eventually,” Mr. Dalton had said, swirling bourbon in a cut-glass tumbler like he was giving career advice to a junior exec. “It’s just a game.”

Zack had stared him dead in the eye. “It’s not just anything.”

And that was the end of it.

So here he was—back at Ironridge, back on the ice, back in the only place that ever felt remotely like home.

He kicked off his shoes, pulled his snapback low over his eyes, and checked his phone again.

Texts from three girls, two party invites, and one from Coach with tomorrow’s practice time.

“Jesus, dude,” Deeks said, peeking over Zack’s shoulder. “You ever think about installing a revolving door?”

“Thinking about it,” Zack said, grinning. “Could put a sign over it too: Enter at Your Own Risk.”

They all cracked up.

Zack leaned back, hands behind his head. He had it all figured out.

Classes were a formality. Hockey was priority one. The Dalton name? That could wait. His calendar was full of chaos, ice, girls, and glory—and that’s exactly how he liked it.

This year wasn’t just about the game.

It was about winning.

---

The alarm buzzed at 6:30 a.m., cutting through the comfortable stillness of Eleanor’s dorm room. She blinked awake, rolled over, and stared at the ceiling for a long second. Her first official shift at Grounded Bean started at 8:00, and nerves fluttered low in her belly. The coffee shop was just off campus, a fifteen-minute walk if she didn’t dawdle—and she wouldn’t.

She was never the type to be late.

By 7:10, she was dressed in black jeans, a plain grey tee, and a cardigan to stave off the late-August chill. Her hair was twisted up in a clip. Clean, simple. Efficient. She grabbed her backpack, slung on her name tag (still sharp-edged and new), and made her way out, the sky still wrapped in early-morning gold.

---

Saturday – Training Day One

Grounded Bean was warm inside, humming with the scent of roasted espresso, brown sugar, and vanilla syrup. The place had rustic charm—exposed brick, mismatched chairs, and chalkboard menus curling at the edges. It felt… comfortable. Lived in.

“Eleanor?” a perky voice called from behind the counter.

She turned to find a girl in her early twenties waving her over. Sharp bangs, a septum ring, latte-colored eyes, and a faded band tee under her apron.

“I’m Skye. Assistant manager and coffee snob. You’re shadowing me today.”

“Nice to meet you,” Eleanor said with a nervous smile.

Skye grinned. “You’ll be fine. You’ve got the look—like you’d shame someone politely for ordering a pumpkin spice latte in July.”

“I’d never,” Eleanor said, surprised by her own laugh.

The first few hours were a whirlwind: how to operate the register, grind beans, steam milk without scorching it, and the unspoken etiquette of navigating the back kitchen without stepping into anyone’s way.

“Rule number one,” Skye said as she poured a cappuccino, “the espresso machine has feelings. Respect her, and she’ll treat you well. Abuse her, and you’ll have a mess of burnt shots and rage.”

Eleanor made three drinks under supervision, memorized the basic menu layout, and learned that oat milk was sacred and tips doubled if you smiled.

By the end of her shift, her feet ached, her apron smelled like hazelnut syrup, and her hair had escaped its clip. But she felt good—grounded, even. It was honest work. Busy work. The kind that kept her thoughts in the present.

Skye high-fived her on the way out. “You’ve got a solid head on your shoulders. No panic eyes. That’s rare.”

“Thanks. I kind of like it here.”

“You’ll love it by midterms. It’s the only place on campus that sells sanity by the cup.”

---

Sunday – Coffee, Classrooms, and Curiosity

The second shift was smoother. Eleanor remembered how to ring in modifiers, where to find the chai, and how to handle a rush without looking like she might bolt. Her lattes came out with better foam, and she only spilled syrup once.

It was busy. Constant. No time to overthink. Which, in her case, was a blessing.

But even here, in the corner of a coffee shop filled with caffeine-deprived students and early risers, Zack Dalton’s name kept cropping up.

“He comes in here all the time,” Skye said casually, restocking pastries. “Usually hungover. Always orders black coffee. Always flirts.”

“Who?” Eleanor asked, genuinely confused.

“Zack Dalton. Hockey prince. Tall, broody, rich. Walks around like he owns the rink. Or the world. You’ll know him when you see him.”

“Oh,” Eleanor said with polite indifference. “Sounds like a lot.”

Skye snorted. “He is a lot. Girls lose their minds when he walks in. One time a freshman asked him to sign her bra. He actually did.”

Eleanor blinked. “Why?”

“Because he can,” Skye replied. “You’ll see.”

---

After her shift ended at noon, Eleanor changed into more comfortable clothes and set out on foot with her campus map. She had a goal: visit every building she had a class in. Know the routes. Figure out what hallways creaked, which stairwells were faster, which professors had office hours posted already.

She started at the humanities building, her favorite by far—tall windows, ivy climbing the stone walls, and reading nooks built into the stairwell landings. Her literature professor’s office was on the third floor. She scribbled that in her planner. Next, she visited the science wing, noted where the labs were, then crossed campus to the lecture halls near the stadium. Her political science class would be in one of the big ones.

Campus was quiet, save for the hum of late summer. Students trickled through here and there, but classes hadn’t started yet. She moved unbothered, efficient. Focused.

By late afternoon, Eleanor had everything mapped. She returned to her dorm, made a snack, then climbed into her bean bag with her tablet and and the first copy of her favorite book series, rereading it not because she had to—but because she wanted to.

At exactly 5:30, she double-checked that her new TV was connected. Her room was cozy now—soft purple bedding, bean bag, shelves partially filled with novels and notebooks. A small peace carved out of the chaos that had once defined her.

The only real luxury she’d allowed herself was the white grapefruit shampoo, conditioner, and body wash set. It reminded her of summer. Of something soft. Of something normal.

That night, she prepped her backpack for Monday: notebooks stacked, laptop charged, pens in a neat row. She had a plan. She had structure.

She had control.

---

And still—she hadn’t met him.

But his name floated through the air like perfume. Whispered in dorm hallways. Laughed about in the student union. Brushed against her every time she stepped onto campus.

Zack Dalton.

He was a storm on the horizon. Loud. Unseen. And coming.

She just didn’t know it yet.