Page 44 of Shattered Ice
I’m prying at the bars of a monster’s cage, and I don’t know if he’ll thank me or devour me first.
But I'm building the key anyway. And if he hates me for it, so be it.
Chapter 26
Adrian
Thepuckslamsintothe boards six inches wide of my stick, a sharp crack of vulcanized rubber on plexiglass that sounds like a warning shot. I don’t even move to chase it. My legs feel like they’re filled with sand, quads turning to sludge. My head is full of static, a white-noise hiss like faulty lights.
Her hair,a stupid, intrusive voice in my mind whispers.The way it fell over her shoulder.
Addison’s whistle splits the air, sharp and shrill. “Hale! What the hell was that?”
I turn slowly, my shoulders tight, my jaw grinding. My skate catches in a shallow rut, and for half a second, I almost go down. Steel bites the groove; balance shears sideways. The ice underme fractures with a hollow crack, as if it’s done pretending I’ve got my shit together.
“Off his game,” Calder mutters behind me, the tone meant to be heard but not answered. Rylan smirks, a flicker of satisfaction at the captain’s failure. Dante just looks pissed off, his jaw tight. They see a mistake. They don’t see the reason.
Rylan calls louder this time, a cruel edge in his voice. “Lose your edge, Hale, or did your tutor take it?”
I don’t bite. Not yet.
Addison skates toward me, fast and all fury, his face a mask of cold disappointment. “Again,” he snaps. “Try playing like you remember what the puck’s for.”
We reset at center ice. The puck drops. Dante wins it back to me, a perfect, clean pass. A simple breakout drill we’ve run a thousand times. I’m supposed to hit Rylan on the wing as he crosses the blue line. My mind knows the play. But as I pull the puck back, my eyes catch the light glinting off the glass, and I see her face. Not really, but she’s there. The way she looked at me when the lights came back on, her eyes wide with a fear she couldn’t hide. This time, I miss the pass by a full stick length. It slides uselessly into the corner. Rylan has to peel off, his frustration a visible wave.
The whistle is immediate, ear-splitting, the shriek needling straight through my skull.
“Hale!” Addison bellows, his voice echoing off the empty seats. “You drunk? Concussed? Or just trying to piss me off today? Get your head out of your ass and onto the ice!”
The stick falls from my hand with a sharp clack. I breathe in through my nose, slow and hard, the frigid air stinging my lungs, trying to push the fury back down my throat. It rises anyway, hot and acidic.
“On the line,” Addison roars.
We skate suicides until someone hurls into a trash can by the bench. Ice fog hangs, rank with bile and failure. It’s not me, but it might as well be. My legs burn, my lungs feel like they’re full of broken glass, but the thoughts of her don’t stop. Each sprint is a punishment, an attempt to outrun her, and with every line, I fail. The air razors my throat. My lungs taste like pennies. It’s the taste of being haunted.
As I skate the last line, my legs screaming, I see Talia Addison by the boards near her father, a manila folder clutched in her hands. She’s not looking at him. She’s watching the chaos on the ice, her expression tight with a concern that mirrors his disappointment. Her eyes find Declan’s across the rink, and they share a brief, grim acknowledgment. Two people watching a train wreck in slow motion. The train wreck is me. The knowledge adds another layer of ice to the shame already freezing my gut.
By the time Addison blows the final whistle, I’m soaked, spent, and vibrating with a tension so tight I feel like a guitar string about to snap. I’m the first one off the ice, my blades carving deep grooves across the rink as I head for the tunnel. I see Talia by the boards, a blur of a dark coat. As I pass, Declan glides toward the exit, a dark shape against the white ice. I register their heads bend together for a second, a brief exchange I don't hear and don't care to. It doesn't matter. Nothing does except the fire in my lungs and the rage coiling in my gut.
The locker room is thick with the familiar stench of sweat and rubber. I rip my helmet off and hurl it into the cubby. It hits with a hollow thud that doesn’t feel nearly loud enough to match the violence in my head. I want to break something. To put my fist through a wall. My knuckles itch for the bright bloom of pain that might drown out the noise.
I’m halfway through peeling the tape off my gloves, my fingers trembling with contained rage, when I feel him—Declan—step into my orbit. A shadow, a quiet space in the rising chaos.
He doesn’t say anything, just leans against the lockers opposite my stall, a silent, steady presence.
“Don’t start,” I mutter, my voice a low rasp.
“I haven’t said anything.” His voice is calm, unbothered.
“You’re about to.”
He watches me for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You missed two passes a rookie could make in his sleep,” he says finally, his tone flat. “Took a bad line on the breakout drill. Then tried to check the boards like they slept with your girlfriend.”
I rip the last of the tape from my glove, crushing it into a sticky ball. “I’m fine.”
Declan raises a single, dark brow. “You keep using that word like it meanssomething.”
I let out a harsh breath that tastes like copper and swallowed pride. I sit down hard on the bench, my legs giving out from under me. My gloves drop between my feet.
