CHAPTER 1

LIGAYA

Standing in the wings of my high school auditorium, I’m forced to listen to Principal Reinbacher wax poetic about the return of the hockey hero.

Tristan Brian Thorne the third.

More like fucking turd because Tristan is no hero. In fact, he is a wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing. A gourmet burger with a side of E. coli. A five-star resort with a bedbug problem. And a—

“What the hell are you muttering about, Ligaya?” Toby interrupts my mental tirade with a whisper.

Toby and I are the English teachers at Centerstone High School. Despite being a good friend, he has no context for my history with the turd.

Instead of answering, I lift my chin in the direction of the six-foot tall hockey player dressed in a button up shirt and fitted slacks stretched by obscenely thick thighs. His brown, tousled hair is shorter than when we were in high school, but it is as thick as I remember. From the side, Tristan’s sharp jaw and high cheekbones are even more prominent.

How dare he look hotter than he did ten years ago?

Mouth too close to the mic, my boss addresses Tristan. “Any words of inspiration for our audience?” He gestures at the auditorium of rapt teenagers whose phones are put away for once.

“My road to the NHL hasn’t been smooth. After I graduated from Centerstone High, it took me longer than my teammates to make it to the pros,” Tristan responds with a deep voice. “I wasn’t drafted right away. Grinded through college and moved through the minor leagues. I got injured and had to work my way through knee surgery. But I learned a lot at the time. I wish someone told me in high school that there are many roads to your goal. As long as I put my time into getting a little better every day, I’m one step closer. The Mavericks picked me up this summer, which changed everything. If you want something, persist.”

Principal Reinbacher nods sagely, and I’m momentarily agog because how did the turd come up with something so… profound? He more than likely plagiarized the generic advice. Tristan’s idea of persistence is the pranking kind.

“What’s it like to be back in the area?”

Tristan shrugs and smiles, gesturing at his surroundings. “It’s great to be back. I’ve always been proud of Centerstone. The high school holds a lot of good memories for me. Although I don’t remember this much Halloween spirit.”

He’s referring to the Addams Family Musical staging that my students and I have worked incredibly hard to put together. He makes it sound like a mall display. Tristan has always been an enemy of the arts

“Our theater program is state recognized, all thanks to a fellow graduate of Centerstone High. In fact, you might have graduated at the same year!”

No. Freaking. Way.

I turn to sprint away, but it’s too late.

“There she is, our artistic director!” Principal Reinbacher screeches into the mic. “Ms. Torres, please join us on the stage.”

Applause and whistles burst from the audience—probably my cast and crew for the fall musical—which forces me to turn around.

Our eyes catch immediately.

Tristan startles. My breath hitches. Surroundings blur. My heart rate triples.

I haven’t looked straight into his eyes in a decade, but they are impossible to forget. Hazel brown with specks of green framed by lashes even darker than his hair.

Tristan’s mouth opens and shuts abruptly. His face registers surprise, then recognition, then something else. Something warm and enticing, like the glow of stage lights on opening night. He licks his lips and I ignore the delectable sheen left by his tongue.

You know for a fact they taste like heaven, my brain interjects because it refuses to purge the memory of graduation night. We were drunk on cheap wine and heady freedom. It was one kiss and it meant nothing. Less than nothing. Negative value, that kiss.

His eyes narrow into a piercing gaze, taking me in from my boots to my head. A blush threatens to creep up my neck but I quell it with sheer will power.

I step out from the wings, arms crossed, my boots clicking sharply against the wood as I stop just short of center stage.

“Hello, Tristan,” I state between gritted teeth.

         “Ligaya Torres. What a pleasure to see you again,” he mumbles in a similarly pinched tone. Tristan holds out his hand for a shake. I give it a brusque tug. His warmth crawls up my arm so I yank my hand away, no longer able to control my reddened cheeks.

“Let’s show how much we appreciate the esteemed alumni of Centerstone High School!” At the principal’s orders, the auditorium releases its tepid applause. It’s just loud enough to cover Tristan’s snide remarks from other people. But he’s hovering by my side so, unfortunately, I hear him.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Torres the Terror. Still making young lives miserable?”

I haven’t heard that nickname, “The Terror,” in ages. It floods me with memories of irritation. But humor, too. Oh, to be eighteen again and my biggest problem was how to squirt shaving cream into Tristan’s skates.

I snicker. “At least I’m not Tristan Brian Thorne the turd.”

We’re looking at the audience instead of each other but his presence is so annoying, it’s as if no one else is around.

“As always, you are as sharp as a skate blade.” The familiarity of his tone is almost welcoming. Almost.

“Wish I could say the same,” I mutter smugly. “Unfortunately, you’re about as sharp as a knife at a toddler’s tea party.”

Tristan makes a chortling sound.

 I look up to find his hand over his mouth, trying not to laugh out loud. Our eyes catch again and something tugs at the corner of my lips.

It isn’t a smile. That would be ridiculous.