Page 3 of Shattered Ice
“They were otherwise pleased,” he adds, as if we’re discussing quarterly returns and not the bone and blood I left on the ice. “The investment looks sound. Don’t get complacent. Call me tomorrow with your updated academic report.”
A familiar, hot dread coils in my gut, different from the usual anger. The thought of the black and white lies on a page, the neat columns that always feel like a trap, makes my hand tighten on the phone. He hangs up without waiting for a response. That’s how power works in my family—cold, transactional, absolute.
I stare at the black screen, my reflection faint. A pale mask stretched over something ugly and empty. The hollow in my gut deepens into a pit. There’s no love in this legacy, only assessment. The endless, silent proof that I’m nothing more than his best investment. I shove the phone away, the brand of his gaze still cold and calculating on my skin.
I pull on a long sleeve and joggers, the fabric sticking to me like second-rate armor. Addison. Grades. Legacy. The three-headed beast hunts me every night.
“Hale.”
The voice slices what’s left of the silence like a blade. Coach Addison stands in the doorway to his office, one hand braced against the frame, the other clutching a folder. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.
“Office.”
The walk from my stall is a gauntlet. The corridor is colder, the air biting with disinfectant and the metallic tang of anticipation. And she’s there—Maya Maddox, Cole’s sister. Areporter’s notebook in hand, eyes sharp as glass. Same hunger in her blood, but she hides it better. She pushes off the wall as I approach.
“Hale, a moment for theChronicle?” she says, all cool professionalism. “Great opening game. Care to comment on the final goal?”
I don’t break stride. One sharp look, and I keep walking. She’s just noise, another vulture circling the kill.
She presses in. “What about the fight? Looked personal.”
I reach Addison’s door and slam it behind me, shutting her out. I won’t bleed for an audience. By morning, theChroniclewill paint me as uncoachable. Let them. Fear headlines faster than they cheer.
Addison’s office smells of burnt coffee and pressure, the sour stench of rot masked in paper and ink. He drops the manila folder on his desk, his movements as precise as autopsy cuts. He’s dangerous not because he’ll yell, but because he’ll carve you up and call it mercy.
“Academic compliance report.”
My eyes snag on the dense block of text through the plastic. I hate the look of it already. Words on a page are a different kind of cage, one I’ve never learned how to break out of. The pages glare at me—black ink, neat columns of failure. Addison doesn’t hand it over; he reads it himself, each word clipped and precise, like he’s tallying a body count.
“Statistics—two failed quizzes. History—three missing assignments. Biology—half your labs skipped.”
Each line lands like a strike, brutal in its clarity. A muscle jumps in my jaw, a tell I can’t suppress. On the ice, I’m a machine. Off it, I’m a liability. This is what it feels like when the machine stalls.
“If these don’t move before midterms,” Addison says, his voice even, merciless, “you’re suspended.”
Suspended.The word is poison, tasting of blood in my mouth. Instant death wrapped in syllables. In my head, my father’s voice cuts sharp:Hales don’t get benched.
Addison keeps going. “Compliance flagged you this morning. The NCAA won’t care how many goals you score if your grades kill eligibility.”
Something breaks beneath my skin—ice under too much weight.
“I’ll fix it,” I say, low and tight.
“You’ll get help to fix it,” he says, no room for debate. “Mandatory tutoring sessions on Mondays and Wednesdays. The rest of the team has required study hall on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and you’ll be there, too. My daughter, Talia, will be proctoring.”
The word lands like a blow.Tutor. Babysitter. Leash.A hot flush creeps up my neck. Tutors are for kids clawing their way up, desperate to survive. Not for captains. Not for Hales.
Addison slides a paper across the desk. “Library. Five p.m. Mondays. The Academic Center has already assigned someone.” He wants me to feel it, to choke on the shame of being handled. “You’re the captain. Perception matters. You don’t stumble in public. Donors can buy new scoreboards, not eligibility.”
The slap is clean, brutal. My teeth ache from being clenched. “Who is it?”
“Scholarship pool. Top tier. Library staff. No-nonsense. You’ll get the notification tonight.”
Scholarship.The word hits like a puck to the ribs. The ghosts who walk the halls with their heads bowed, terrified of taking up space they haven’t paid for in blood or money. Weak. The idea of one of them seeing me like this—a failure to be pitied—is a humiliation that tastes like bile.
“I’ll be there,” I say. The words come out low, a threat, not a promise.
“Good.” The folder snaps closed. I’m dismissed.
