Chapter Text
The road to Hale wound through miles of dark forest, pine boughs bowing heavy with the memory of snow. Even in late August, the air held the bite of cold that never quite left northern Maine, a quiet warning of the winter to come.
Ray Garraty sat in the passenger seat of his mother’s car, one hand resting against the cool glass, watching the trees flicker past. His duffel bag was wedged between his feet, the familiar smell of laundry detergent and ice melt rising from his clothes. The drive had been mostly silent. His mother had tried, once or twice, to make conversation—about classes, about how proud his father would’ve been—but the words had fallen between them like loose change.
When the campus finally appeared through the trees, it didn’t look real. Hale University rose out of the mist like something carved out of a Gothic cathedral—stone turrets and ivy-wrapped spires, windows that caught the late light like shards of frozen glass. The air was thick with the sound of bells, somewhere distant.
His mother parked near the dorms, her hands still on the steering wheel after the engine shut off.
“You’ll call,” she said.
“Yeah. Of course.”
“And eat something green, once in a while. Not just whatever hockey boys eat.”
Ray smiled a little, eyes fixed on the windshield. “Gatorade and spite.”
That got a laugh out of her. A soft one. He turned to look at her then—the worry lines around her eyes, the lipstick she always reapplied before seeing him off anywhere. Her smallness against the immensity of this place.
“You’re gonna do fine,” she said. “You always do.”
He didn’t tell her how his chest had felt too tight for weeks, or how he’d been waking up drenched in sweat at 3 a.m. thinking about drills, about expectations, about himself. He just nodded, opened the door, and lifted his bag.
The Victorian house that would serve as his residence, along with the other freshman boys on the team, stood on the edge of campus, a few hundred yards from the rink. It was beautiful, in a way that made you uneasy—a tall, gabled mansion with cracked stained-glass windows and a wraparound porch warped by frost. A brass wolf-head knocker gleamed faintly on the heavy front door.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of wood polish and damp gear. The floors creaked under his weight as he climbed the stairs, following the sound of voices and laughter echoing from down the hall.
The attic room was at the very top, beneath a steeply slanted ceiling crisscrossed with old beams. The space was huge but oddly intimate, the kind of place that collected cold in the corners. Sunlight filtered through a half-moon window, throwing pale stripes across the floorboards.
There were two beds—one by the window, one against the far wall.
The bed by the window was already claimed. Sheets tucked military-tight, hockey sticks stacked in perfect parallel against the wall, and a small framed photo sitting on the nightstand: a younger boy on a rink, mid-stride, face half-hidden by a helmet. A folded gray hoodie rested on the pillow, creased neatly like a flag.
Ray set his bag down on the unclaimed bed. He ran a hand along the rough wood of the beam overhead, then crouched to unzip his duffel. His mother had slipped a note inside—just love you, proud of you—tucked between his socks. He folded it carefully and slid it into the pocket of his jacket.
He was hanging up his jersey when the door swung open.
A rush of colder air came with the sound of heavy boots on wood.
Pete McVries filled the doorway like someone who already owned it—broad-shouldered, tall, his presence electric even in stillness. His skin was the warm brown of late autumn, his hair cropped close, and a thin scar traced down his left cheekbone, catching the light. His eyes were sharp, assessing, but not unkind.
“You must be Garraty,” he said, voice low and even.
Ray turned, too quickly, caught himself. “Yeah. Uh—Ray.”
“Pete.” McVries crossed the room, tossed his gloves on his desk, and took in the space with a glance that somehow managed to be both casual and territorial. “You can take that side. I don’t snore. Much.”
Ray tried for a smile. “Good to know.”
McVries crouched to retie the laces on his sneakers, then straightened. Up close, he was almost too much to look at—clean lines, quiet confidence, that scar that made him look half myth. Something twisted in Ray’s stomach before he could name it.
He cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how small his side of the room looked. “Uh, my girlfriend helped me pack,” he said, too quickly. “Back home.”
He hadn’t meant to bring her up. Ex-girlfriend, technically. They’d said goodbye two weeks ago in the parking lot behind the rink, the air smelling of gasoline and frost. She’d cried. He hadn’t.
McVries glanced over, a hint of a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth—half amused, half something else. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Ray said, fumbling with the zipper of his bag. “She, uh—she’s great.”
McVries tilted his head, that faint smile deepening into something like understanding. “Cool. Hope she sends care packages.”
He turned toward the window, resting a hand on the frame, looking out over the campus. The last of the sun caught his profile in gold.
“Anyway,” he said, after a beat, “some of the guys are heading to the diner in town. You should come. First night tradition or whatever.”
Ray hesitated. He wanted to unpack, to breathe, to get used to the walls and the weight of his new life. But McVries was already halfway out the door, glancing back with that same amused look—like he’d already read every nervous thought in Ray’s head.
“You coming, Garraty?”
Ray swallowed. “Yeah. Sure.”
He grabbed his jacket, the note from his mother crinkling softly in the pocket, and followed him down the stairs—into the cold evening, into the noise of Hale, into whatever waited next.
Outside, the bells were still ringing.