Page 36 of Shattered Ice
“I handle my own problems,” I whisper, the words sounding weak even to my own ears.
“No,” Genny says, her voice cutting through my self-pity. “You don’t. Not anymore. Because you have us.” She pulls out her phone, her movements sharp and efficient. “What’s your Venmo?” she asks, her tone leaving no room for argument.
Before I can protest, Zoë is leaning over my shoulder, reading my username off my app profile. Genny’s thumbs fly across the screen. A second later, my phone buzzes, the vibration rattling my palm like a live wire.
Genevieve Laurent sent you $400.
The number is so shocking it feels like a typo. “That will cover the code, the overdraft fee, and your groceries for the month,” Genny says, putting her phone away. “It’s done. It’s not a loan. It’s what friends do. And you are going to accept it.” A humorless, almost bitter expression flickers across her face. “Trust me,” she adds, her voice quiet but sharp. “It’s the only problem my family’s money has ever actually solved. Use it for something that matters.”
I stare at the notification. The urge to say no, to insist on my painful independence, is a powerful reflex. But then I look at their faces—at the fierce, unwavering loyalty in Zoë’s eyes and the quiet, unshakeable support in Genny’s. They’re not offering pity. They’re offering a lifeline. They are refusing to let me drown.
The walls I’ve built so carefully inside myself finally crumble. A single, hot tear escapes, then another. A choked sob is torn from my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words thick with tears. “I’m so sorry. I just… I’m so tired of feeling like a burden to everyone.”
Zoë is beside me in an instant, her arms wrapping around me in a tight, fierce hug. “You arenota burden, you idiot,” she says, her own voice thick with emotion. “You’re our person.”
Genny’s hand finds my shoulder, a firm, grounding pressure. “Letting people in isn’t a weakness, Clara. It’s how you build a foundation strong enough to withstand the storms.”
I lean into them, letting their friendship be the anchor I so desperately need. For the first time in days, I can breathe again, the air tearing into my lungs ragged, like surfacing too fast after drowning.
The library feels like a laboratory. Controlled air, the steady hum of fluorescent lights, sound softened to a perpetual hush. Tonight, it’s emptier than usual, the main desk manned by a bored work-study kid. The quiet of Room A312 is mine before Adrian Hale decides to show up and contaminate it. Even in his absence, I brace as if for a storm door to slam open.
With midterms just a week away, I spread my materials across the table. The lines are looser, simpler. I’ve rewritten the problem sets in stripped-down steps. In the margin, I’ve scribbled our private code: jersey numbers tied to dates, examples grounded in the on-ice geometry he already understands. I’m testing a hypothesis: that Adrian Hale doesn’t stumble when he thinks in patterns he can visualize.
The door opens without warning. Not him. Zoë’s curls bounce in first, her cherry-red sweater even louder than her voice. Genny follows, a vision in a sharp blazer.
Zoë slams a drink down in front of me. “Study troll. Hydrate.”
I blink at the monstrosity. “That’s ninety percent sugar.”
“It’s liquid courage,” she says. “Besides, you’ll need it if you’re meeting Mr. Ice Veins again.”
Genny sets one hip against the table. “We won’t stay long.” Her gaze flicks across my notes. “You’re changing tactics.”
“Adapting,” I say.
Zoë flops into the chair across from me. “You mean babysitting.”
Before I can answer, the air in the hallway shifts. Heavy footfalls. Confident, slow, unhurried. Cold air seeps in, carrying the scent of wet fabric, soap, and something feral underneath. Zoë’s eyes light up. “Speak of the ice prince.”
Adrian Hale doesn’t enter; he invades. He crosses the threshold like a breach—pressure change, oxygen gone. The doorway barely contains him. His hair is slicked back wet, the collar of his hoodie soaked. He doesn’t acknowledge Zoë orGenny. His eyes lock onto mine with a force I feel in my sternum. The chair screams against linoleum as he drags it back, the sound a blade across the quiet. He crashes into it, legs spread wide. But there’s something else there tonight. A tension in his shoulders that isn’t just aggression; it’s restraint. As if he’s holding something back, fighting a battle on a different front.
Zoë leans forward. “So this is your study date.”
He flicks her one glance. Flat. Dismissive. Lethal. The grin on Zoë’s face falters. Genny’s hand closes around Zoë’s wrist. “We’ll leave you to it,” she says. To me, quieter: “Text if you need.” And then they’re gone, leaving a sudden, ringing silence.
It’s just us. Adrian leans back, one arm slung over the back of the chair, his sleeve brushing my notebook. “So. What’s tonight’s experiment?” His voice is different—quieter, rough around the edges, stripped of its usual mocking tone.
I tap the worksheet. “Conditional probability. Simplified.”
He smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The arrogance is there, a familiar armor, but for a split second, I see a flicker of something else behind it—weariness, maybe. Uncertainty. It’s gone as fast as it appears.
“Looks like a children’s menu.”
“Then maybe you’ll finally eat something,” I return, my voice cool.Eat up or starve, Captain.
A pause. A huff of breath. He doesn’t open a book. He just looks at me, as if trying to figure out the new rules of a game he thought he’d mastered.
