Page 16 of Shattered Ice
“Shortcuts don’t get you through finals.”
“They get me goals.”
“This isn’t hockey.”
I lean forward until I can see the flecks of darker blue in her irises. “Everything’s hockey if you think long enough.”
She slams her palms flat against the table. “Back up, Hale.” But she doesn’t retreat an inch. I see the fine tremor in her hands, the effort it costs her to hold the line. Her pupils swell, black eclipsing blue, the silence stretching taut until it hums with threat.
I break it, scribbling down an answer. “Happy now?”
She scans it. “Wrong. Again.”
“You’re relentless.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a compliment.”
“Still taking it as one.” A twitch at the corner of her mouth—almost a smile, bitten back. She’s a puzzle, and I’ve always liked puzzles that bite back. I give the next answer wrong on purpose.
Her eyes narrow. “What are we even doing here, Hale?”
“I’m learning,” I say. “Or maybe I’m just waiting to see how far I can push before you break.”
Her chin rises. “Idon’tbreak.”
I lean across the table, close enough that my breath skims her skin, every inch of space between us collapsing. “Everyonebreaks, Harrington.” My voice drops to a growl. “It’s not the hits that crack you open. It’s the pace. The relentless fucking pressure until you can’t breathe. We’ll see.”
The air electrifies, then—footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, carrying that smug drag I’d know anywhere. Camden. The metallic click of the door echoes like a gun cocking. No knock.
“Everything good here, Cap?” He drags his gaze down Clara, slow and insolent. “Didn’t know study hall came with concierge service. You taking tips, Harrington, or is this pro bono for the program?”
A possessive rage flashes through me—hot, savage. The thought is immediate, instinctual.Mine. She’s mine to provoke, mine to figure out. Not yours.My vision tunnels, every instinct screaming to put him through a wall. I move the chair with a sharp scrape, angling to block his view. My body, a wall. My voice drops to the register I use before a fight. “Get the fuck out.”
Camden’s smirk falters. He lingers, then mutters, “Coach wants me in his office,” and disappears.
Clara’s chin ticks up. She doesn’t speak, but her eyes pin me—sharp, demanding.Why didn’t you say more?
My phone buzzes. The screen lights up with the group thread.
Camden: Cap babysitting the help?
Dante: Tell her to color-code us a playbook.
My jaw locks, fury burning. As I read the messages, a separate notification slides down.
Declan: You good?
The contrast is a punch to the gut—the team’s bullshit versus Declan’s simple question. I stare at it, then flip my phone face down with a hard thud that reverberates like a gavel. She catches the motion.
We go back to the math. Clara drills harder, her voice clipped. It’s not patience; it’s assault. By the time she’s packing, thetension she’s holding coils under every motion, the zipper on her bag ripping closed like a violent seam.
I lean forward, elbows on the wood, my voice low. “Careful, Harrington. You’ll break before I do.”
She freezes, then meets my eyes. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s advice. And a promise.”
