There’s something about Mondays that makes everything feel heavier—the air, my skates, the silence between people who used to know each other better than they do now.

The locker room at Silver Hollow High always smells like old gear and too much cologne. I pull my jersey over my head and sit down, taping up my stick even though it doesn’t need it. I need the motion. The quiet focus. It keeps my hands from shaking.

“Yo, Jace,” Caleb says from across the bench, tossing a puck in the air and catching it without looking. “You ready to destroy Redwood this weekend?”

“Always,” I say without looking up. My voice sounds calm. It always does.

But something’s off.

I can feel it. Not in my chest or stomach—somewhere deeper than that. Like a drumbeat under the floor.

Coach Miller’s voice cuts through the room. “Ice in ten, boys. Let’s move.”

I finish taping and grab my helmet, walking out onto the rink where the cold bites through my jersey. I like it. The cold keeps my thoughts sharp. Keeps the heat in my chest from rising.

We’re halfway through drills when the gym door opens.

Coach barely looks up. “If you’re not on the team—”

“I’m supposed to meet Principal Keller,” a girl’s voice says. Calm, a little tired. I look up out of habit.

And I stop.

She’s standing in the doorway, wearing jeans and a faded hoodie, like she’s trying not to be noticed. Her dark hair is messy, like she fought with the wind and lost, and her backpack looks older than mine. But it’s not her clothes. It’s her eyes.

She doesn’t scan the room like most people do. She stares. Right at me. Like she already knows me and she’s not sure if she wants to remember.

Coach waves her off. “Office is two doors down, kid.”

She nods once and disappears.

And the strangest thing?

The air feels different after she leaves. Like the whole rink took a breath and held it.

Her name is Lena Walker, and by third period, everyone’s already talking about her.

“She came from some place out west,” Audrey whispers to Ava near the lockers. “Transferred after something... happened.”

“What happened?” Ava asks, eyes wide.

“No one knows. She doesn’t talk much.”

I walk past them and catch a word they don’t say loud: “rehab.”

Small towns love stories, especially about people who show up with no history and too many shadows in their eyes.

I don’t say anything. I don’t stop walking.

But I do wonder why someone with secrets like that would choose a place like Silver Hollow.

I see her again at lunch.

She’s sitting alone, by the window, a book in her hands she’s not reading. People give her space like they can sense something’s different, even if they can’t name it. And me? I shouldn’t care. I’ve got enough on my plate—captain pressure, scouts watching, Caleb running his mouth too much, and Dad breathing down my neck about “next steps.”

But I find myself watching her.

Her fingers curl around the paper like she’s afraid to turn the page. Like the next word might say too much.

“Dude,” Caleb says, elbowing me. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You’ve been staring at her for five minutes.”

“I’m not—”

“You are. Look at you. You’ve got the face. The ‘I-want-to-know-her-but-she’s-trouble’ face.”

I roll my eyes and push my tray away. “Get a life.”

Caleb grins. “Just saying, man. We all know you don’t do distractions.”

I don’t. Not usually.

But Lena Walker?

She’s not a distraction.

She’s a question mark I can’t stop circling.

I don’t plan it. After practice, I just… end up at the library. I never go there, not unless I’m forced to. But today, something pulls me there.

And she’s there. Again. Same hoodie, same silence.

She’s sitting in the far corner, sketching something in a notebook. I should walk away. I should leave it alone.

But I don’t.

I take a few steps and then say, “That your spot?”

She looks up. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown either. Just watches me like I’m a puzzle she hasn’t decided to solve.

“You following me?” she asks.

I blink. “What?”

“You were staring at lunch. Then again in the hall. And now… here.”

I raise both hands like I’m surrendering. “Alright. Caught. I’m Jace.”

“I know.”

“Wow. That’s not creepy at all.”

She finally gives the tiniest smile. It’s not warm. But it’s real.

“You play hockey,” she says. “Everyone talks about you.”

“And you don’t talk to anyone.”

“Maybe I like the quiet.”

I nod, then tilt my head toward the notebook. “What are you drawing?”

She closes it before I can see. “Nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing.”

“It’s personal.”

“Okay,” I say, backing up a step. “No offense meant.”

None taken. But she watches me like she’s waiting for me to slip. Like she’s testing what kind of guy I really am.

Before I can say anything else, she says, “You don’t seem like the type to hang out in libraries.”

I smirk. “You don’t seem like the type who cares.”

“I don’t,” she says.

But I don’t believe her.

That night, I can’t sleep.

Every time I close my eyes, I see her—eyes watching, hands hiding, that soft voice asking things she didn’t say out loud.

And I hear my father’s voice echoing in my head: “You’re a leader now, Jace. You can’t let anything or anyone shake that.”

He wouldn’t understand. He never does.

The next day, I find myself at her locker before first bell. I don’t mean to be there. My feet just… go.

She sees me before I speak. “You again.”

“You say that like I’m trouble.”

“I don’t know what you are yet.”

She slams her locker shut, her fingers too tight on the edge. I notice a bruise near her wrist and she tugs her sleeve down fast.

“What happened?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “You don’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

She leans in. Her voice is low. “You think you want answers. But some things don’t want to be found.”

Before I can respond, she walks away.

And I’m left standing there, the hallway full of noise and kids and lockers banging shut—but all I can hear is that one sentence.

Some things don’t want to be found.

The weather turns ugly after lunch. Dark clouds roll in fast, and by the time practice ends, it’s pouring. I’m drenched, gripping my duffel bag as I sprint toward the parking lot.

That’s when I see her—under the bleachers, sitting cross-legged, no umbrella, just… sitting.

I stop.

My heart picks up, though I don’t know why. She shouldn’t be here. No one stays behind after the field lights go out. But she’s there, eyes closed, lips moving. Like she’s remembering something she never wants to forget.

I call out, “Lena?”

She doesn’t open her eyes.

“Lena!” I shout louder, running toward her.

She finally looks up. Her face is pale, soaked, and there’s something in her expression that makes my chest tighten.

“Go away, Jace.”

“Not a chance.”

She stands, slow and careful, like she’s dizzy. “You don’t understand. You need to leave.”

I reach for her arm. “You’re scaring me.”

She jerks back. “Good. Maybe you’ll finally listen.”

Lightning cracks above us. Thunder rumbles the ground beneath our feet.

And then she whispers something—too soft to catch, but her eyes say the rest.

She’s afraid.

Of herself.

And I don’t know what that means yet.

But I will.

Very soon.