The rain pounded against the bus window like it was trying to break through, matching the dull throb in Alex's head. He stared out at the blurry campus buildings sliding by, his jaw clenched tight. This was supposed to be a fresh start—Evergreen College, some mid-sized school in the middle of nowhere, far from the streets of his old life. But fresh starts didn't erase the past. Not when your girlfriend gets gunned down in a drive-by meant for you. Not when you're the reason she's gone.
Alex shifted in his seat, the worn leather jacket creaking under his weight. He was tall, broad-shouldered from years of scrapping in gangs, but now he just felt heavy. At 20, he looked older, with dark circles under his eyes and a scar running down his left cheek that he didn't bother hiding. The court had given him a deal: community service, therapy sessions, and enrollment in college to "turn his life around." Bullshit. He didn't deserve a second chance.
The bus lurched to a stop at the main gate, and Alex grabbed his duffel bag—the only thing he owned worth carrying. He stepped out into the downpour, hood up, ignoring the stares from students rushing by with umbrellas. The campus was alive with freshmen excitement: laughter echoing from dorms, groups huddled under awnings chatting about classes and parties. It all felt fake to him, like a movie set.
He made his way to the admin building, dripping water on the tiled floor as he handed over his papers. The clerk, a middle-aged woman with too much makeup, glanced at his file and forced a smile. "Welcome, Mr. Ramirez. Your dorm is in West Hall, room 212. Orientation starts in an hour in the auditorium."
Alex nodded curtly, not bothering with thanks. He wasn't here to make friends.
West Hall was a brick monster, four stories of faded red with windows blasting music and chatter. He pushed through the door, the smell of cheap pizza and body spray hitting him like a wave. Up the stairs to the second floor, he found room 212. His roommate was already there—a lanky kid with glasses and a band T-shirt, unpacking posters of some indie rock group.
"Hey, man! I'm Jake. You must be Alex." Jake stuck out his hand, grinning like an idiot.
Alex ignored it, tossing his bag on the empty bed. "Yeah."
Jake's smile faltered, but he kept talking. "So, where you from? I'm for Seattle. This place seems cool, right? They got a killer hockey team—tryouts are next week if you're into that."
Alex unpacked in silence, pulling out a few shirts and jeans. Hockey? He'd played street versions back home, rough and dirty, nothing like the organized crap here. But maybe it could burn off some steam. "Maybe," he muttered, more to himself.
Classes started the next day, but Alex skipped the morning lecture. He wasn't ready for the bullshit yet. Instead, he wandered the quad, hands in pockets, avoiding eye contact. That's when he first noticed her.
She was leaning against a tree with a group of girls, all dressed in trendy jeans and hoodies, laughing loudly. Long dark hair, sharp eyes, and a smirk that screamed trouble. Mia Thompson—though he didn't know her name yet. She was the type who owned the place, captain of the debate team or some shit, always in everyone's business.
As he walked by, she spotted him. "Hey, new guy! You lost or something? This isn't the prison yard."
Her friends giggled. Alex stopped, turning slowly. His face was stone-cold, but inside, anger flickered. "Mind your own business."
Mia's eyes narrowed, but she didn't back down. "Ooh, touchy. Where you from, anyway? You look like you crawled out of a bad action movie."
He stepped closer, his voice low and harsh. "None of your damn concern. Back off."
She crossed her arms, unfazed. "Touchy and rude. Fine, mystery man. But don't think you can just slink around here like a ghost. People talk."
Alex turned and walked away, her laughter following him. Great. Just what he needed—a nosy bitch on his case.
That afternoon, he hit the gym. The college had a decent setup: weights, treadmills, and an ice rink attached for the hockey team. He watched from the glass as players skated drills, sticks cracking against pucks, bodies slamming into boards. It looked intense, controlled chaos. Something stirred in him—maybe this could be an outlet.
Tryouts were posted on a bulletin board: Open to all, no experience required, but bring your A-game. Alex signed his name at the bottom, ignoring the doubt gnawing at him.
The next few days blurred into routine. Classes were a drag—English Lit, Intro to Psych, shit that made him zone out. Jake tried to drag him to parties, but Alex shut him down. "Not interested."
Mia kept popping up, like she was stalking him. In the cafeteria, she'd slide into a seat nearby. "So, what are you doing here? Studying criminal justice? Fits the vibe."
He'd glare, fork stabbing his food. "Leave me alone."
Or in the library: "Hey, scarface. What's your story? Ex-con?"
"Shut up," he'd snap, voice edged with warning.
But she didn't stop. If anything, it egged her on. One evening, as he headed back to the dorm, she cornered him in the hall. "Come on, tell me something. Where are you from? What's with the attitude?"
Alex pinned her with a cold stare, his depression twisting into something sharper. "You don't want to know. Trust me."
She tilted her head, curiosity sparking in her eyes despite the bullying tone. "Try me."
He walked away without another word, the ghost of his dead girlfriend haunting his thoughts. This place was supposed to be escape, but it felt like another cage.
Little did he know, tryouts were tomorrow—and Mia would be there, watching from the stands.