ELENA POV:
The next morning, two men in black suits "escorted" me into a black Cadillac. My only luggage was a simple canvas bag with a few changes of clothes and the one hundred dollars in cash.
The car drove for hours, the scenery outside shifting from the sprawling city to desolate, rolling hills.
When we finally stopped, it was in front of a massive iron gate. The words "Northridge Academy" were spelled out in severe, blocky letters, flanked by a logo of a lightning bolt crossed with a hockey stick. It looked grim and cold.
A large electronic board beside the gate displayed the academy's rules in stark black letters:
NO EXCUSES. NO SPECIAL TREATMENT. MISSED TRAINING MEANS PUNISHMENT.
At the bottom was a name that felt vaguely familiar.
DIRECTOR JULIAN BENNETT.
The men dumped me and my bag at the entrance like a piece of trash. The car sped away without a backward glance.
I stood before the gate, staring at the endless stretches of barbed-wire fence and high walls. The sounds of skates carving ice and pucks slamming into boards echoed from the distant rinks. Every few seconds, a loudspeaker crackled overhead, repeating the academy's strict training schedule and disciplinary rules.
Even before I had stepped inside, I could already feel how tightly this place was controlled.
A long line of new arrivals had already formed. Most were tall, athletic boys in tracksuits, carrying massive hockey gear bags, their faces a mixture of excitement and anxiety.
I stood there in a silk dress and delicate flats, completely out of place. I had never trained for hockey, and I had certainly never imagined I'd end up at a place like this. All I could think about was how badly I wanted to get through this without losing the one thing I had left - my chance to keep painting.
A uniformed guard yelled at the line. "Form a line! One by one for registration!" His tone was harsh, like he was addressing inmates.
I looked at the long line and swallowed my frustration. I wasn't trying to make trouble. I simply had no idea what I was supposed to do, and I desperately needed to find Andrew before anyone tried to send me into training.
I stepped toward the guardhouse, clutching the strap of my canvas bag.
The guard blocked my path, his brow furrowed. "Hey, missy, back of the line."
I stopped, then forced myself to explain. "I'm looking for someone. Andrew Reynolds. He's a coach here. Could you tell him to come meet me?"
The guard blinked, clearly taken aback by my familiarity with the coach's name. He eyed me suspiciously. "You're looking for Coach Reynolds? Who are you?"
I didn't know how to explain everything that had happened. I simply crossed my arms, trying to keep my voice steady despite the knot in my chest. "Just tell him Elena Carlisle is waiting for him at the gate."
He hesitated before finally raising his walkie-talkie. My heart was in my throat. This was my only hope.
Andrew had been my childhood neighbor, a few years older than me. We grew up together, and after college, he came back to coach hockey here.
A few minutes later, a tall figure in an academy-branded tracksuit came jogging out from inside.
When I saw him, my nose stung. I almost burst into tears. It was Andrew.
"Elena?" He looked completely shocked to see me. He rushed to my side, his eyes taking in my messy hair and wrinkled dress. "My God, what are you doing here? What happened?"
He immediately shrugged off his own team jacket and draped it over my shoulders, shielding me from the prying eyes of the other recruits. It smelled of clean soap, a scent that brought a wave of long-forgotten comfort.
"Let's get you inside first," he said, his arm wrapping around my shoulders. He led me past the long line, straight through the iron gates that I had seen as the entrance to my prison.
The guard stepped aside without another word. The students in line watched us curiously, but I barely noticed. My only thought was getting somewhere safe before I completely fell apart.
I glanced back at the line. Those boys were carrying their hockey gear, preparing for a life I had never chosen. I suddenly felt a sharp ache for my own abandoned path. I had come here because my father wanted to break my pride, but all I wanted was to survive this place without giving up painting.
"Was it your father who sent you here?" Andrew asked in a low voice as he led me further into the campus.
I nodded, my voice thick with frustration. "He's a tyrant."
Andrew sighed, ruffling my hair. "Don't be scared. I'm here."
He took me into an administrative building. The blast of air conditioning felt like salvation. He sat me down on a sofa in an office and handed me a glass of water.
I watched his busy, capable form. For the first time since arriving in this hellhole, I didn't feel completely alone.
Thank God I remembered Andrew worked here.
He was efficient, quickly going to handle the necessary arrangements with the administration.
I sat on the soft sofa, sipping my water, watching the sweaty new recruits outside. For a moment, I forgot that I was one of them.
Andrew returned soon after with a key card and a set of new uniforms.
"I've taken care of the paperwork. Let me take you to your dorm," he said with a smile.
I looked at him and said, with genuine feeling, "Andrew, thank you."
He paused. His smile softened. "You idiot. You don't have to be polite with me."
