Page 1 of Shattered Ice
Chapter 1
Adrian
Thepre-gamewarm-upismine alone. No barking coaches, no teammates tainting the ice with their noise, their need. Just me and the cold, electric hush before blood is spilled. Out here, I am untouchable—until someone dares to try. This isn’t a rink; it’s a consecrated altar. A sanctuary. A confession booth. My battleground.
Each stride cuts a fresh wound into the untouched sheet of ice. My blades carve a clean, surgical hiss through the hollow echo of the arena. The air bites sharp: ozone, cold iron, and the chemical tang of frozen water that feels cleaner than any air outside these walls. Out there, the city is rotting. Leaves bleed out on concrete while the stench of decay and exhaust chokes whatever passes for innocence. In here, it’s just cold. Honest.Brutal. The Zamboni’s path gleams like a bleached bone field begging for violence—untouched ice, waiting to be ruined. For these moments, it belongs to me. All of it. No one else is worth the first scar.
This is my kingdom, my dominion. My law is silent, the only one that matters. My vow is carved into the surface with every blade stroke:this is mine, and one day, she will be too.
I exhale slowly. Fog blooms white in the fluorescent glare, vanishing as quickly as luck. My grip shifts around my stick—left hand loose, right-hand iron. Ritual. Repetition. The tape beneath my glove is rough, comforting; the carbon fiber is the only thing that ever truly obeys me. Control, hard-earned and absolute. Here, at least, I am the only thing not bought or sold.
I skate backward to the blue line, tuning out the hum of the arena, the empty seats, the ghosts in high places. My world narrows to blades, breath, and the cold bite as I drive a full-speed arc around the net. My body coils low, every stride a measured act of violence. Three laps. Inside out, outside in. Rote muscle memory. The discipline that lets my mind go blank—a mercy I don’t deserve. Then, center. Always center. For these minutes, I am the eye of a storm no one sees coming.
I stop hard. A sharp, carving halt bites a crescent of snow from the surface. I tap the toe of my blade at center ice, the sound a declaration. Ritual sealed. The ice knows who commands it. It’s my brand burned into the bone-white surface, a mark no one touches. Not the puck. Not the players. No one touches this scar. It belongs to me alone until I decide otherwise.
Above me, behind glass that pretends at safety, the elite gather in their private boxes—navy suits, gold rings, watches worth more than a man’s life. They don’t cheer. They watch. Predators judging another predator. I know the game. They want a return on their investment, a guarantee against the hairline fracture,the weakness in the weapon they paid to keep sharp. I give them nothing—just the cold, merciless efficiency they bargained for.
A donor flicks a glance at his watch, diamonds winking like a threat.Be worth it, the gesture says. Their cufflinks gleam like teeth, and every fold of their arms is a reminder that I’m chained to their expectations. My stomach knots, an icy fist clenching inside my gut. The reminder is relentless: I am not a person here. I am their product. Their most volatile asset. No one in this arena gives a damn about the love of the game. It’s only ever about the performance, the profit in pain.
My father’s seat—still empty. Always empty. He’ll breeze in late, just in time for the spectacle, never for the work. I stopped hoping he’d arrive for me years ago, but the void is still there, a chill under my skin colder than the ice itself. The empty chair glares down like a judgment.
I roll my shoulders, grinding the thought into dust, and pick up speed—one more lap, tighter, harder. My jaw locks. My gear creaks: carbon fiber rasping on skin, armor shifting over bruises. Sweat slicks the leather of my gloves, and the salt-sting in a cut on my knuckle is a sharp reminder that binds me to the weapon in my hands. Control starts here. The burn and the pressure—necessary pain. Part of the machine.
A scream rips through the stands—high, slurred, desperate for attention. I don’t look. I never do. They don’t want me, not really. Just the mask, the blood, the myth. They want a hero they can eat alive, someone who proves survival is possible. All I give them is meat for their altar—survivors carved from sacrifices.
The tunnel gapes open like a hungry maw as the Titans pour out, chaos riding their blades. Calder pounds his stick, calling something up from the dark. Cole Maddox is already boasting, betting body counts and sorority numbers. I lead them to the ice, but my eyes search for the one man who matters. Down the ice, Declan is already in his sanctuary, tapping the posts of hisnet like a lone sentinel. He’s been the last one on the ice since we were kids at Northwood, the only other person here who understands the game behind the game. As I skate past center, his eyes meet mine from behind the bars of his mask. It’s not dread in his gaze; it’s a promise. A silent pact we made years ago:no matter what happens out here, I have your back.I nod once, the only confirmation he needs.
Southport skates out—hungry, puffed up, pretending this isn’t a slaughter. Their captain plants himself at center, defiant. Legs wide, jaw set, eyes flickering. He’s already lost, watching me instead of the puck, hoping to see the monster, never the man. Too late. There’s nothing left but the blade.
The ref leans in. My pulse goes silent. The arena hushes for a last breath before the kill. This is the edge, the razor between everything and oblivion. Right here, all the noise—my father, the investors, the need and the history—it all falls away. There’s only the puck, the stick, the ice, and the cold certainty of what I was born to do.
The puck hits ice.
I strike. Quick, lethal, mine. I flick the puck between my skates before Southport’s center even blinks. Rylan flanks right. Calder ghosts left. Dante Voss is already barreling to the net; he knows how this ends. We move as one—a single, devastating attack. Their defense bites on my fake, a fatal hesitation. My wrists snap. The puck rockets, high and merciless, top shelf over the goalie’s glove.
The net shudders. The crowd erupts in an animal roar, a sound you feel in your ribs. Glass shakes. Palms slam. The arena howls as if it smells blood, and the announcer’s voice is reverent, breaking on my name.
“Hale.”
Not mine. His. The brand, the inheritance, the curse.
I don’t celebrate. Never do. The goal is the work. My reward is the silence—the brief, clean hush before it all starts again. The rest of the team loses their minds in the noise, Cole grinning, Calder basking in it. Their joy is just more noise, as useless as cheering at an execution. I skate a slow circle back toward our zone, ignoring them all, my eyes finding the net. Declan taps his stick twice against the ice—a sharp, resonant sound only I’m listening for. His approval is the only one that doesn’t feel like a transaction. The message is as clear as it was when our fathers used to watch us from the box seats in prep school:I see you. Now make it hurt.
I will.
Faceoff again. Southport’s captain tries for bravado. “Nice shot, princess,” he sneers, his breath fogging. “Guess Daddy’s checks are finally clearing.”
I give him nothing. My silence pisses him off more than any insult could. Inside, a dark pleasure coils. He’s still focused on the wrong game.
They send out the bruisers—meat for the grinder. Across from Rylan is number twenty-eight. They call him Brick; he’s all bone and malice. He says something ugly that I don’t need to hear. I see Rylan flinch. They want to provoke, to make us crack and bare our throats. Predictable.
The puck drops. Brick hooks Rylan—blatant, dirty, and ignored by the ref. Rylan stumbles, recovers, and glares. Brick just grins, daring me to lose control. Inside, I want to break him on the glass, watch his head bounce, and shut him up for good. But that’s what they want: the spectacle, the slip. I deny them.
Next play, Brick comes for me. I let him. I drop low and drive my shoulder into his chest—a legal hit, brutal and final. The impact is a wet, satisfying crack that echoes through the arena, a sound of bone and plastic and pride breaking all at once. The vibration climbs my spine, sweet and savage. I don’t lookback. I don’t care. The crowd is rabid, fewer fans than investors watching their stock rise. Scouts and columnists will whispervolatility. I hate the way they write it, the words twisting on the page, making me into something I’m not. Let them. If they think I’m dangerous, they’re right.
By the second period, it’s no longer a game; it’s an execution. By the third, it’s a warning.Fear us.The horn blares, mournful as a funeral bell. We line up for handshakes—a ritual of pretense, a lie.
“Good game. Good game. Good game.”
