Page 14 of Boots & Scars

5

Everly

The frigid air of the rink bit at my cheeks as I stepped onto the ice, clutching the boards for dear life. My classmates, an eclectic mix of eager and apprehensive faces, joined me, some more gracefully than others. The professor — if one could even call him that — watched us like a hawk eyeing its prey.

"Press your butts on the board," he instructed, his voice echoing off the ice.

A couple of my peers shuffled awkwardly, their movements stiff and unsure. Time seemed to stretch into eternity as they struggled to comply.

"What's the matter? Your feet glued to the ice?" His tone sliced through the cold air sharper than any skate blade.

I frowned, steadying myself against the board. "Is that necessary?" I asked.

He turned his gaze on me, eyes like flint. "It is," he groused. "It's called motivation."

My brows knitted together in disapproval. "It's called being a bully," I shot back without thinking.

Murmurs swirled around me as some of my classmates whispered, their words tinged with awe and disbelief. "That's Cooper Sinclaire... can't believe he has a job here."

Cooper Sinclaire?

I had heard that name before, but I didn't remember when.

The man before us, all scars and brooding looks, pushed off from the wall and skated into the center of our motley crew. "I'm Cooper Sinclaire," he said, a smirk playing on his lips as if he enjoyed a private joke. "And before you ask, no, I have no intention of remembering your names." His eyes scanned the group, landing on each of us just long enough to make it uncomfortable. "This class doesn't technically start until two weeks from now, but the dean insisted you get used to this…" He gestured broadly with a sweep of his arm. "Though judging by some of you, that's not going to happen."

His bluntness hit like a slap in the face. My classmates shuffled on their skates, some with flushed cheeks, others with eyes cast downward. A murmur of disbelief and resentment buzzed through the air.

"Is it true you almost beat Aaron Matthews to death?" The question came from a guy near the back, his voice a mix of fear and fascination.

Cooper didn't flinch. "It is," he replied, as if discussing the weather or last night's hockey scores.

My eyes widened at his nonchalance. How could someone speak so casually about violence? It felt wrong, like a dark cloud had passed overhead and blocked out the sun.

"Why?" I found myself asking before I could clamp down on my own curiosity.

Cooper's attention snapped to me like a magnet. He glided over with an ease that spoke of years on the ice. Without warning, he boxed me in between his arms against the boards,an invasion of personal space that had my heart hammering in my chest.

"Why, what?" he asked, his voice low and steady.

"Sinclaire!" Dean Walker's voice cut through the tension like a blade through silk.

But Cooper didn't move; he didn't even blink. His eyes held mine captive in their amber gaze.

"Because," he said in a low voice, ignoring the dean's call, "sometimes people need to learn lessons they won't forget."

Walker's footsteps echoed as he descended from the bleachers. His tone carried authority and a clear warning. "Sinclaire."

The moment stretched out between us, charged with an energy that made my skin tingle.

"Looks like our dean has a little favorite," Cooper said, his smirk spreading like a crack on thin ice.

I straightened my spine, refusing to wilt under his condescension. "What lesson could possibly be taught using violence as a method?" I demanded.

His eyes narrowed slightly, but the smirk remained. "I'm glad you asked, little girl," he replied before finally pushing away from me.

Heat rushed to my cheeks, not from embarrassment but from indignation. "It's Everly," I spat through gritted teeth.

"Excuse me?" Cooper's voice held an edge of genuine surprise.

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