Page 3 of Frozen Hearts
She gives me a withering glare before tossing her hair over her shoulder and turning her back on me as she returns to her conversation with her friends.Whatever.
Before any more snide comments can be made or I can garner everyone else’s thoughts on the new scholarship student, a voice cuts across the group.
“Welcome, freshmen, to Halston,” a girl greets with a bright grin, casting her eyes around the assembled students. “My name is Bella, and I’ll be your tour guide today. Are we all ready to get started?”
A round of murmured agreements go up before she gets the tour underway, and we spend the next half hour being shown around the campus.
My jaw drops open when she shows us the large, glass building which houses the food court. Every available cuisine you could ask for is on offer, and there’s even a cocktail bar on the mezzanine level.
“Of course, scholarship students eat in thedining hall,” the blonde bitch jeers in a low tone, solely for me.
I can’t even argue back because she's right. The food court is incredible and my mouth waters at the delicious smells wafting in the air, but scholarships don’t include a food allowance, and unless we can pay for it ourselves, our only option for on-campus eating is the school dining hall, which offers free meals three times a day, seven days a week, plus drinks and snacks in between mealtimes.
After the food court, Bella moves on to show us the newly renovated concert hall, a library containing some of the oldest texts in the world, and a state-of-the-art gym. She wraps up the tour by showing us Halston’s ice hockey arena. Apparently, it’s one of the largest in the country, with a capacity for nearly twenty thousand people.
“Ice hockey is our biggest sport here at Halston,” Bella states. “The Huskies are D1 champions, having won the Frozen Four for three years running, all thanks to our star forward, Logan Astor.” Bella says his name with literal hearts in her eyes, and I hear more than one girl in the group release a love-struck sigh.
Seriously?
I never did understand what the big deal was about sports players. Everywhere they go, they’re greeted like royalty. Fawned over. Adored. Idolized. Why? Because they can catch a ball or knock a puck into a net? Big fucking whoop. Congratulations on being born with excellent hand-eye coordination. If you ask me, they’re overrated. Overhyped. Overvalued.
I’m quite certain that this Logan Astor cannot bethatamazing.
“I heard he’s a Husky on the iceandbetween the sheets,” I overhear one girl tittering to her friend.
Really? What does that even mean? That he’s likely to growl at you like a rabid dog? How… kinky.
“I wouldn’t mind letting him into my bed,” her friend giggles, making me roll my eyes at their childish antics.
By the time we make it back to our starting point outside Mercer Hall, I have to rush straight to my meeting with my advisor, located in the main administration building. I follow the directions to his office, pausing outside his door to take a breath as I read the nameplate.Dr. Edmund Whitaker.Knocking on the door, I let myself in when I hear a gruff “come in” from beyond the door.
Dr. Whitaker is an older gentleman, I’d guess in his mid-to-late fifties, with a rotund body and gray, balding hair. He sits behind a large, mahogany desk that is bare except for a pen holder and a small stack of files. Sharply dressed in a hunter-green suit, complete with a mustard-colored shirt that speaks to the era he was born in, he stares at me from behind thin-wired spectacles, the deep wrinkles lining his eyes scored into his flesh as he closely scrutinizes me.
His shoulders drop as he heaves out a sigh, looking frustrated, although I’m not sure why.
“You must be Riley James?” His voice is sharp, authoritative-sounding in a way that can only come from years of teaching.
“Yes, that’s me,” I respond politely. Nervously.
“Mmhmm. And you are this year's scholarship student.”
It’s not a question, but I feel like I should answer him anyway. “I am.”
“Right, well, have a seat. Let’s get this over with.”
I’m sure that’s what every anxious freshman wants to hear from their advisor of studies; from the one person who is supposed to help them navigate the pitfalls and challenges of freshman year.Yeah, I can already tell that we aren’t going to get along.With my hopes for this meeting diminishing by the second, I take a seat opposite his desk and wait patiently as he flicks through my student file.
“I see here that you have not yet declared a major.” His lips are pursed in a severe frown, clearly unimpressed, although I don’t understand why. From my understanding, most college freshmen have yet to decide what they want to major in.
“Y-yes, sir. I wanted to explore my options.”
“Do you have any inkling of what you might be interested in pursuing?” he asks with blatant disapproval.
“Emm, well, I’m good with numbers, and I like science subjects, so maybe something scientific—Engineering or Pharmacology or something like that.” Aware that I’m rambling, I snap my mouth shut.
Dr. Whitaker’s bushy eyebrows furrow. “Those are… challenging career paths.”
“Yes, sir,” I state more resolutely.
