SCORED HER HEART, NOT THE PUCK.

ADULT MADISON'S POV: Thirteen years later....... Through the quiet haze of my dream-filled night, the intrusive blare of my alarm disrupted the calm that I was enjoying. It wasn’t the soft buzz I could ignore, but the kind of screech that made my chest pound. My eyes snap open, and my body jolted into an awkward, panic-fueled motion. My feet hit the floor with a loud thud as I scrambled to gather myself. I nearly tripped over Scratchy, my mangy little ball of sass. He always found his way into my path when I least expected it. His one good eye blinked up at me in irritation, and his broken leg made a stilted movement as he tried to hobble out of the way. The poor guy could hardly move without dragging his leg behind him, but somehow, he always managed to get in my way when it counted. "Get out of the way, Scratchy," I muttered, my voice raspy. He gave me that judgmental look he did so well, but I didn't have time to argue. I wouldn't trade that cat for anything, though. He was the only family I had left, and I knew he wouldn't ever give up on me. I yawned, stretching as much as I could with my eyes still half-closed. The room felt blindingly bright, and every muscle in my body ached from the few hours of sleep I’d managed to get. It was as if my brain hadn’t even caught up to the fact that I was awake yet. My eyes burned, that dull, sore feeling setting in as if I hadn’t had a full night's rest in weeks. I dragged my hand across my face, trying to shake the last remnants of sleep off. I barely had the energy to lift my head. I glanced at the clock. My heart skipped a beat. Twenty minutes. Just twenty minutes. There was no way I was going to be ready in time, not with the mess that was my room. Clothes were strewn across the floor, books and papers cluttered every available surface. The place was a disaster, and I didn’t have the luxury of worrying about it. I couldn't help but wonder what the rest of the apartment looked like if my room was in this state. "Damn! I need a minute," I sighed to myself, rushing over to Scratchy's food bowl. I fumbled around for some kibble and fresh water, barely able to focus on the task. The sound of the water filling the bowl felt like a distant, muted noise as my brain went into overdrive. I trudged to the bathroom, dreading the inevitable. The icy water cascaded down on me like a thousand needles, making me gasp. I shivered violently, my skin protesting the shock. But I stood there, teeth chattering, and let the frigid water wash over me. It was a miserable way to wake up, but I had no other choice. I let out a frustrated sigh. "A hot shower would be amazing right about now," I muttered to myself. But I knew it was a pipe dream. The apartment complex's hot water supply always seemed to vanish by morning. To get a warm shower, I'd have to be a morning person - like, a 2 a.m. morning person. Yeah, right. That wasn't happening. I pulled on my only clean scrub, the blue one that always seemed to complement my skin perfectly. It was a simple thing, but when I looked in the mirror, I couldn't help but feel a little better. The contrast between the blue and my skin tone made me feel… I don’t know, put-together, I guess. My hair was twisted into a messy bun on top of my head, little tendrils of my thick, wavy hair slipping free, falling into my face. I couldn't find the energy to deal with breakfast, so I opened the fridge—rundown as it was—and sighed. Two slices of yesterday’s pizza and a half-empty carton of orange juice. Well, at least the juice was still good. I slammed the fridge door shut in frustration. It was time to find something to wear for the most anticipated medical award night at the hospital, coming up later that night. The only thing was, my closet was as bare as my energy reserves. I grabbed my suitcase—the only one I had left after all these years—and started rifling through it. Clothes that were either too worn out or didn’t fit right. The minutes were slipping away, and nothing felt like it would work. I threw a few more shirts aside and finally found it—the black gown. The one I’d bought for myself on my twentieth birthday, my first real splurge, saved up from hours of double shifts, starved stomachs, and every penny counted. It was cheap—thirty bucks, on sale—but damn, it was beautiful. The black fabric shimmered faintly under the light, its form-fitting design making me feel like I belonged in a place far more glamorous than my rundown apartment. I admired it for a moment, my fingers brushing over the fabric, remembering how good it felt to finally buy something for myself, something that wasn’t a necessity but a reward for my independence. It was my first real purchase. I searched around for shoes to go with it and was lucky enough to find the silver heels Maverick had gifted me for my birthday. The damn things were a little too tall for comfort, but they would do. “Perfect,” I yelled out of joy to myself, packing them up into my backpack, along with my essentials for the shift ahead. As I did, Scratchy sidled up to me, his body shifting uncomfortably because of his limp. I bent down, rubbing his underbelly for a moment. He purred loudly, looking satisfied. “You’re in charge of the house,” I told him with a smirk. Scratchy, of course, meowed at me, then hissed in protest. He was a lazy thing, but I had to admit, he made my world less lonely. “Such a lazy cat,” I said to him, yawning again as I straightened up, ready to leave. Just as I reached for the door, my phone rang, the harsh sound calling my attention. “Goodness!” I cursed under my breath, almost forgetting about it. I grunted and shuffled through the pile of clothes to find the phone buried somewhere in the mess. Snatching it up, I pressed it to my ear. “Hello?” I said in irritation. Whoever was calling me at 5 AM better have a damn good reason. "Miss Wallace, this is your lawyer, Sawyer Brooks." His voice was steady, deep, carrying that professional detachment lawyers mastered so well—but underneath, there was something else. Pity. My grip on the door handle tightened. This was either good news or the kind that would turn my world upside down. I prayed for the first, but the way my stomach twisted told me to brace for the second. Sawyer cleared his throat. "Miss Wallace, I regret to inform you—your petition for naturalization has been denied." The air left my lungs. Three years. Three years of saving every cent, working endless shifts, filling out paperwork, and waiting—just waiting—for this moment. And now? It was gone. Just like that. Sawyer didn’t stop. "The decision was based on discrepancies in your background investigation. Previous accusations of theft, concerns regarding your moral character..." My pulse roared in my ears. It didn’t matter that the accusations were baseless, that I'd fought tooth and nail to clear my name. It was on my record, and that was enough for them. Enough to decide I wasn’t worthy. I felt betrayed, believing that those who were supposed to save and protect me had instead orchestrated this evil against me, all just to get rid of me. "What... what does this mean?" My voice came out small, unsteady. Sawyer hesitated, then delivered the final blow. "It means you’re facing imminent removal proceedings. You’ve been found removable." The room tilted. Deportable. The word clawed at my brain, sending ice down my spine. No, no, no... This can't be happening. Not after everything I've been through. All my hard work, all my hope... shattered. And then, just as I was trying to catch my breath, Sawyer’s voice cut through the panic with something even worse. "Miss Wallace... I think it's best if you start planning towards leaving the country as soon as possible. Any encounter with I.C.E or any other government force, would be bad for your record." Everything inside me went still. I had seconds. Maybe minutes. I turned, eyes darting to the window, the door, the mess of my apartment. My body moved before my mind could catch up.