Page 2 of Shattered Ice
Their captain grabs my glove, holding on too long. “See you next time, Hale.”
I let him look. I let him see the emptiness, the proof he never touched me.You’ll never get in.My bones only stay intact because I allow it.
Above the glass, the donors rise, smug and fat with victory. And there he is—finally—my father. Late on purpose. My shoulders tighten in an old, involuntary flinch. He never applauds. He stands with another suit, a man who looks at me like a line item, not a person. My father gestures at me, not with pride, but with the cold satisfaction of an auctioneer unveiling his most dangerous beast.
See? He’s worth it.
My stomach knots, not with rage, but with that hollow, familiar ache. His gaze is a mirror, and all I see is absence. I skate into the tunnel, letting the cold shadow devour me. No one follows. No one dares.
This was my altar, my dominion, my iron cage—sacred only because it draws blood. For now, it’s enough. But I know, in the marrow of my bones, the ice will not stay empty forever. Eventually, something will break through the silence.
Sooner or later, someone will try to touch what is mine.
And when that happens, I’ll bleed for it all over again.
Chapter 2
Adrian
Thelockerroomdetonatesthe moment the door swings open. Not just noise—ritual. A thunder of sticks slams the floor. Helmets hit lockers with the force of a challenge. Gear is dropped, pads stripped, everything discarded like fallen armor. Music explodes from the speakers—Cole’s choice, some throbbing bass meant to drown out anything soft or real. The sound bounces off tile and wood, shaking the bones of the building, a war drum for the monster they’re all trying to worship or outrun.
But I’m already beneath it, not escaping, just slipping under where nothing can touch me. The noise is both shield and distraction, a chaos I can walk through untouched. I move through the storm of grins and shouts and testosterone-fueled posturing, feeling none of it. This isn’t brotherhood; it’s performance. Every laugh is a dare, every slap on the back a test. They’re all convincing themselves they’re invincible, that the world can’t get to them as long as they snarl louder and hit harder.
Calder’s already stripped down, a towel tossed over his shoulders like a prizefighter, flexing in the mirror with the lazy arrogance of someone born to be admired. He lives for this reflection, for this adoration. He’d fuck his own image if he thought it would moan his name.
“That goalie’s gonna have PTSD,” Calder crows, raking a hand through sweat-damp hair. “Should send him a sympathy bouquet.”
“Should send him flowers for his funeral,” I mutter, low enough that no one answers, sharp enough to sting if they hear.
“I’ll hand-deliver it,” Cole Maddox yelps, dropping onto the bench next to him, half in and half out of his pads. He’s grinning like a dog that’s never felt a boot, desperate for approval, starving for it. If that hunger were mine, I’d carve it out before it consumed me.
“Write him a poem, Cap.Roses are red, your crease is a mess—”
“Try again when you’ve got chest hair,” Dante Voss interrupts, his voice razor-sharp, all edge and no warmth. He leans back in his stall, long legs sprawled as he watches everyone with a predator’s patience. “Or when you stop screaming every time you get hit.”
“Wasn’t screaming,” Cole snaps, cheeks flushing. “Strategic noise-making.”
“Sure.” Dante’s smile is all teeth. “Scream that loud when the scouts are watching.”
Laughter slides through the room, low and dangerous. Not friendly. Never that. It’s the sound of knives being sharpened, aconstant search for weakness. Everyone in here is prey if they slip. In the corner, Declan Reid unlaces his skates with surgical precision—slow, methodical, unbothered. He doesn’t need to join the banter; his silence is heavier than their noise, pressing down harder than their laughter—a noose tightening for anyone foolish enough to step into it.
His eyes meet mine, a question sharp and unspoken. You good?
My answer is silence, but I hold his stare a second too long. Not really.
I break the connection, shedding my gear piece by piece until I’m free. I push past the bodies, ignoring the hands that try to grab my shoulders, and disappear into the showers. The spray is scalding, a punishment that feels close to cleansing. I turn it hotter, welcoming the burn, letting the water flay the skin from my back. Steam scalds my lungs—a punishment I can’t scrub away. I stand there until the chaos fades to a dull, muffled roar, leaving only the sound of my own breathing and the loud, frantic beat of my heart. The one rhythm I can’t out-skate.
When I step out wrapped in a towel, the room is quieter. Most of the team has cleared out, leaving behind the lingering scent of sweat and cologne and the damp chill of a room slowly emptying. The music keeps humming, but without bodies, it’s hollow. An empty church, an empty prayer. It’s in this hollowed peace that my phone buzzes against the bench.
I already know who it is. No one else would dare. Even before I see the screen, I can taste his disappointment, sour and metallic in the back of my throat. I reach for the phone, fingers still damp.
The caller ID is a curse: HALE.
I answer, jaw tight. “Yes?”
“The investors were in the box with me.” No greeting. Nogood game. His voice is ice—sharp, clear, inhuman. “They noted your hesitation on the defensive pivot in the second period. Sloppy.”
The silence that follows is suffocating, thick as blood. My own silence is my rebellion, the only line he can’t cross. It hums like a blade pressed to my throat.
