Page 6 of Sticks & Serpents

“Just as long as you don’t fucking go to jail this time,” Sawyer Wolfe interjected from across the room.

He lounged against his locker like some sort of lazy predator—slender yet deceptively powerful with that white hair falling just so over his eyes and that cocky grin plastered on his face. He always seemed to have an air of nonchalance about him, but beneath it lay sharp instincts and a fierce competitive edge.

“Fuck off,” Morgan snapped back, clearly irritated by Sawyer’s trademark sarcasm.

I could see why they clashed—the two were opposites in every sense. Morgan was all intensity and discipline; Sawyer exuded laid-back confidence that often landed him in hot water. Yet there was something appealing about that carefree attitude; it was like watching a cat toy with its prey before pouncing.

The chatter faded into the background as I mulled over the weekend—a mandatory gala where every player would be expected to shine like polished silver while pretending we belonged to this elite circle of privilege and influence.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that this whole event was just another way for my father to reinforce his legacy—just because he was retired didn't mean he wanted to be forgotten. It was like a spotlight shining bright on all my flaws while he grinned like a goddamn puppet master. I clenched my fists, fighting against the rising frustration gnawing at me from within.

Morgan finally dismissed us, his voice echoing in the stillness that followed his tirade. I watched my teammates disperse, their chatter buzzing around me like flies drawn to a festering wound. They all seemed so caught up in the glitz of the gala, the promise of rubbing shoulders with NHL legends.

I grabbed my bag and slung it over my shoulder, forcing myself to focus. As I headed toward Logan, who was still pulling on his shirt and chatting with some other players, the air between us crackled with unspoken tension. He laughed at something one of them said, the sound irritatingly carefree.

“Hartley,” I said, my voice low and sharp as glass.

He turned, a cocky grin plastered across his face that quickly morphed into something more guarded when he saw me closing the distance.

“You touch Holly Walker,” I warned, leaning in closer so only he could hear. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

His brows shot up in surprise, but there was no backing down from me—not now. I had seen how he looked at her, and that wasn’t going to fly.

“What’s it to you?” he replied, feigning indifference as if my words didn’t hit home.

But there was a flicker of something in his eyes—was it fear? Confusion? Whatever it was barely masked by his bravado.

“It’s everything,” I shot back, every word dripping with intensity.

Before he could respond with another snide remark or a challenge of his own, I turned on my heel and left him behind without another word. The locker room faded away as I stormed outside.

Chapter3

Holly

Ahandful of students huddled around a table, flipping through binders and jotting down notes. They were all strangers to me, faces I hadn’t seen before, yet they shared an air of determination that felt strangely comforting. Faculty supervisors leaned against the walls, their arms crossed, but one figure stood out—my father, John Walker.

He glanced up as I entered.

“Glad you could make it,” he said, gesturing toward an empty chair next to him.

“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it,” I replied, forcing a lightness into my voice. I slid into the chair and tried to focus on the papers strewn across the table instead of the prickling sensation at the back of my neck.

I couldn’t let myself think about Damien again—not here, not now.

I sat at the table, glancing around at the handful of volunteers who filled the small space. There was a surge of nervous energy and focused determination in the room. The first was Daphne Samuels, a girl who seemed to embody the spirit of her namesake—long, red hair, a tight, purple summer dress, and an ever-present smile that felt a bit too eager. She fidgeted with a stack of flyers, clearly excited about every detail of the event.

Next to her sat Freya Reynolds, and I wasn’t surprised to see her here. Her father had been dean before my dad took over after the scandal that rocked the college, so she’d always found herself roped into charity work. Freya had an easy charm about her—blonde hair that fell in waves over her shoulders and freckles dusting her cheeks like scattered confetti. Her bright green eyes sparkled as she spoke, animatedly discussing ideas for the event.

“Maybe we could do something fun during intermission? Like a mini-game or a raffle?” Freya suggested, twirling a pen between her fingers.

“Not everyone likes games,” Daphne chimed in. “What if we just keep it simple? People are coming to watch hockey, not play it.”

Their back-and-forth banter reminded me of how easy it used to be to get caught up in this world—the lightness and camaraderie that often felt like an escape from reality. But now? It felt like trying to breathe underwater.

I tried to shake off my unease as I scanned the table again. Two other students joined us—Sam Peters, tall and quiet with a serious demeanor that seemed out of place among our group, and Lucy Chen, whose bright pink hair made her stand out even more than Freya’s vibrant personality. Lucy doodled on her notepad while occasionally throwing in suggestions that were quirky but surprisingly insightful.

Daphne stood up, her energy radiating across the room. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and cleared her throat, commanding attention.

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