Page 13 of Shattered Ice
“Hey, Scholar,” he says, his voice carrying in the quiet room. “Got a question about my thesis.”
Clara doesn’t look up from her book. “You don’t have a thesis, Rylan. You have a series of poorly structured opinions.”
The room doesn’t laugh. It stills, the silence so sudden the flat hum of the fluorescent lights feels loud. Everyone is waiting. My pencil creaks under the pressure of my grip, the wood on the verge of splintering.
Rylan’s smirk tightens. “Sharp tongue. I like it.”
Every second I stay seated is a blade under my skin. I want to cross the room and peel him off her desk.
But I don’t have to. Clara finally looks up, her gaze flat and unimpressed. “Do you have an actual academic question, or are you just trying to get your daily requirement of attention?”
His face flushes. He mutters something about a citation and slinks back to his seat.
“Don’t waste your time on trash,” I mutter, low enough that only she could possibly hear.
The silence that follows feels carved in stone. Inside me, something dark and hot coils. She handled him. Didn’t needme. The realization is a savage twist—infuriating and intoxicating all at once.
When she thinks no one is watching. Her fingers dart across her trackpad, guilty-quick. I see the Briarcliff bookstore logo, then a link for ‘Required Course Materials.’ A page for an organic chemistry textbook loads, and then I see the price: $285. I watch as a flicker of pure, gut-wrenching panic crosses her face. Her lashes press shut hard in a blink that looks like surrender, and it makes my chest burn. She slams the browser shut. Two eighty-five. I could buy it with pocket change. But I wanted her to come to me, to admit she needed something, to give me that piece of her, too. I wanted her to ask.
That’s what she’s really fighting. Not just us. Everything.
I’m supposed to be studying, but the words in my history textbook are just black marks on a page. Her voice from our first session echoes in my head: “I correct statistical outliers. Right now, that’s you.” The memory of her calm, cutting defiance is a constant, irritating thrum under my skin.
At one point, she looks up, catching me watching her.
My mouth tilts, humorless. “Keep looking at me like that, Tutor Girl, and I might start thinking you enjoy this.”
Her voice stays calm, deliberate. “You’re not nearly as interesting as you think.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, sharp and humorless. Irritation cuts clean through, a blade I usually keep hidden. Her words lodge deep. I hold myself rigid, the tension coiling under my skin, begging to break free where she can see it.
The two hours crawl by in a haze of suppressed frustration. I watch Clara help two other players. I watch Talia shut down Gio for trying to watch game highlights on his phone. I watch the clock. Every tick is a countdown to when she’ll look at me again. She never does.
When Talia finally calls time, the collective sigh of relief from the team is almost comical as they surge out of the room like they’ve been freed from prison. Calder mutters loud enough for the guys at our table to hear, “Cap’s pet project again.”
I’m one of the last to leave. As I pack my bag, I see Clara organizing her table, her back to me. Deliberate. Controlled. Like she’s making a point. The urge to walk over there, to shatter that calm mask, claws at me. But I don’t. Not here. Not with Addison’s daughter watching every move like a fucking spy. I walk out, the unresolved tension coiling tighter in my gut. My bag strap bites into my palm as I force myself past her. This is torture—her in reach, me in chains.
Tomorrow is Wednesday.
Tomorrow, I get her in a room alone. No audience. No escape.
And I’ll make damn sure she remembers exactly whose problem she is.
Chapter 9
Adrian
Theweightroomisnearly empty, the air thick with the smell of iron, rubber, and the dry, dusty scent of chalk. It’s a clean smell. An honest one. Sweat, steel, bone-deep exhaustion. The only sound is the low hum of ventilation and the distant, rhythmic clank of someone grinding through a set on the leg press.
This is where I come when the noise in my head gets too loud. Tonight, it’s a fucking roar.
I rack the bar, muscles screaming in protest. The weight is too heavy and my form is unraveling, but I drive harder anyway, chasing the pain like absolution. The clean, brutal language of failure is better than the tangle of thoughts choking me.
Clara.
Her name is an echo I can’t shut off.
Rylan.
