Page 1 of Sticks & Serpents

Chapter1

Holly

Ididn’t want to come back here.

Crestwood held too many ghosts, and the biggest one still lurked in the shadows—Damien Sinclaire. I had promised myself that I’d leave him behind when I packed up for summer. But here I was, on campus in July, forced onto the planning committee for Crestwood’s annual charity hockey game.

The sun blazed overhead, casting long shadows on the cracked sidewalks of campus. Bright flowers dotted the edges of the paths, but they couldn’t distract me from the memories that clung like a heavy fog. The vibrant greens of summer made everything look deceptively cheerful, yet my heart felt as grey as a winter sky.

I glanced toward Pandora's Box, the on-campus ice rink. The sound of blades slicing through ice echoed in my mind, a haunting reminder of the last time I was at a rink with Damien. He’d been electric then—full of life and charm—but also chaos that had pulled me under before I even realized it. Now, I focused on the empty bleachers, hoping he’d choose to stay away this time.

“It’s fine,” I muttered under my breath, forcing myself to breathe through the tightness in my chest. “He has no reason to bother me anymore.”

At least, that was what I hoped.

I had just finished my freshman year at Crestwood, and so far, he hadn't bothered. Not even when my best friend started dating his older brother.

And I wanted it to stay that way.

As I crossed the quad, students strolled by with carefree laughter, unaware of my internal battle. Some were soaking up rays on blankets spread out across the grass; others huddled over laptops at outdoor tables like they were solving world issues instead of cramming for summer midterms. A few upcoming second years tossed a frisbee back and forth, their energy infectious yet foreign to me now.

I approached Pandora's Box, standing tall like a glistening jewel against the summer sky. Its sleek, modern design made it look almost out of place among the older brick buildings of Crestwood. The glass facade shimmered, reflecting the vibrant greens of the surrounding trees, but all I could focus on was the dread curling in my stomach.

The moment I stepped inside, a rush of cool air greeted me, contrasting sharply with the heat outside. The scent of freshly cut ice filled my lungs as I moved past the entrance. It was a clean space—bright lights illuminated the rink, casting sharp shadows across the smooth surface that beckoned to be skated upon. The bleachers wrapped around like an embrace, painted in deep blue and adorned with the Crestwood logo proudly displayed at center ice.

The rink itself sparkled under the fluorescent lights, each blade mark etched into its surface telling a story. A single player could command this space, their movements a dance—a rhythm I once understood intimately when I watched Damien played. My fingers brushed against the cool metal railing as I stepped closer to the edge, memories rushing back unbidden.

I recalled those winter nights when we had huddled together in our thick jackets after late-night practices. Damien's laughter echoed in my mind, wild and carefree, while my heart raced just being near him. He’d toss his head back and let loose with that cocky grin that always drew me in, making it hard to remember why it was best to keep my distance.

As I walked past the rink, that familiar sound cut through the air—bodies colliding with the glass. The sharp crack echoed like thunder, jolting me back to winter nights filled with adrenaline and raw energy. Too violent for a summer scrimmage.

I should keep moving, just keep my head down and walk away. But the sound—each thud and crash—pulled me closer.

With each step, I could feel the energy swirling around me. It wasn’t just noise; it was a heartbeat, pulsing beneath my skin. The scent of ice mixed with sweat and the metallic tang of blood hung in the air like a heavy fog. Memories surged forward like waves crashing against rocks, threatening to pull me under.

I paused at the entrance, torn between safety and that exhilarating rush I used to crave. The heat of unrestrained aggression washed over me as I caught sight of players on the ice—black jerseys clashing against white ones, their movements swift and powerful. They danced a dangerous waltz, weaving in and out like they were both predators and prey.

The sharp screech of skates slicing through ice resonated in my ears, reminding me of every moment I’d spent watching Damien dominate this very rink. He’d glide effortlessly across the surface, fierce determination etched on his face as he fought for every inch.

I stepped closer to the glass, my breath fogging up the cool surface as I peered inside. A player slammed another into the boards hard enough to make them bounce back like a ragdoll; laughter erupted from those on the benches, wild and uninhibited. It should have turned my stomach, but it ignited something deep within me—a longing that felt dangerous.

I shook my head slightly, pushing back against it. No matter how intoxicating this was, I didn’t belong here anymore. I had chosen a different path—the one that kept me safe from chaos and heartbreak.

But standing there, staring into that world where Damien thrived amidst all the madness made my resolve waver just a bit more with each body slam against the glass.

I pressed my hands against the glass, feeling the chill seep through to my fingertips. The scrimmage unfolded before me, a chaotic ballet of bodies moving in unison, each clash echoing off the walls like thunder. This was supposed to be a warm-up for charity—a friendly match to raise money for Hockey Is For All, an organization dedicated to bringing hockey to intercity youth. But here, on the ice, all pretense fell away.

Damien Sinclaire skated like he had something to prove. He darted across the rink with an intensity that took my breath away. His silver-blond hair glinted under the harsh lights as he moved, sharp and calculated—faster than anyone else on the ice. He didn’t just play; he hunted. I could feel it in my bones—the way he commanded attention without saying a word, his presence suffocating yet magnetic.

With each pass and check, he drew all eyes toward him, leaving behind trails of chaos and confusion. I swallowed hard as I watched him weave through defenders, carving out space as if he owned it all. But it wasn’t just his speed; it was how he made everything feel like a fight—a war unfolding in front of me.

Then I saw him—Logan Hartley—his dark jersey standing out against the ice like a target painted bright red. The rival team’s golden boy smiled at me, completely oblivious to what was coming.

Just a week ago, Logan had been texting me, sharing snippets of his life and asking about mine in that sweet, unassuming way that made me believe maybe I could find normalcy again after everything with Damien.

But now? My heart stopped as Damien set his sights on Logan with predatory focus.

“No,” I breathed out before I could stop myself.

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