The 2:00 AM Knock

The snow in Boston didn't fall; it assaulted. It threw itself against the windows of Sophie Miller’s third-floor apartment with a violence that made the glass rattle in the frames.

Sophie was asleep, curled deep inside a nest of flannel sheets and a weighted blanket, dreaming of a world where the heating bill wasn't due on Friday. Her apartment was small, a clutter-filled sanctuary of second-hand furniture, towering stacks of paperback novels, and the lingering scent of vanilla candles. It was a soft place. A safe place.

*THUD. THUD. THUD.*

The sound didn't belong in her soft world. It was heavy, frantic, and demanding.

Sophie bolted upright, her heart hammering against her ribs. She glanced at the glowing red numbers on her bedside clock: *2:14 AM.*

*THUD. THUD.*

"Sophie!"

The voice was muffled by the heavy oak of the front door, but it cut through the fog of sleep instantly. It was a voice she knew better than her own heartbeat. A voice she usually heard through the filter of a television screen, shouting insults at referees or growling in post-game interviews.

She scrambled out of bed, grabbing her robe and rushing through the dark living room, stubbing her toe on a stack of medical journals but ignoring the pain.

She threw the deadbolt and yanked the door open.

The hallway light was flickering, casting long, twitching shadows. And there, filling the entire frame of her doorway, was a monster.

Gavin Graves. Six-foot-five on skates, probably six-seven in his boots. He was wearing a charcoal suit that cost more than her car, but the crisp white shirt underneath was ruined, soaked through with crimson. His knuckles were split open, raw meat against the fine wool. His left eye was swollen shut, a grotesque purple bulb.

He looked like a car crash. He looked like the violence he sold to the league every night.

"Gavin?" Sophie breathed, her hand flying to her mouth.

He was leaning heavily against the doorframe, his good eye tracking her with a desperate, hazy focus. He smelled of cold air, metallic blood, and the ozone scent of adrenaline crashing.

"Soph," he rasped. His voice was wrecked. "I didn't... I didn't know where else to go."

"The hospital," Sophie said, her nurse brain trying to override her shock. "The team doctors. Gavin, you’re bleeding."

"No doctors," he grunted, shaking his head. The movement made him wince. "They'll bench me. Protocol. Just... just need a minute."

He tried to step forward, but his knees buckled.

Sophie moved before she thought. She wasn't big—five-foot-four on a good day—but she had spent her childhood dragging this boy out of scrapes. She wedged herself under his arm, taking his massive weight.

"You idiot," she whispered, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a fierce, terrifying ache. "You absolute idiot. Come inside."

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