Page 45 of Shattered Ice
“You want the truth?” I ask, staring at the scuffed floor tiles.
“Always.”
I rake a hand down my face, stubble scratching my palm. The heat of humiliation burns under my skin. “She’s in my head.”
There’s a beat of silence. Not surprised, just processing. Then he nods once, simple and sure. “Clara.”
I don’t have to confirm it.
“She’s not just… there,” I say, tapping my temple. “She’s rearranging shit. Quietly. Constantly. Like some kind of goddamn virus overwriting my entire operating system.She rewires the board while I’m mid-play—quiet, relentless, permanent.”
Declan snorts. “A virus.”
“You know what I mean. I can’t focus. Can’t shut it off. Everything comes back to her.”
A ghost of a smirk touches his lips. “You look infected.”
I huff, the sound humorless. “You know what my dad would do if he found out I was falling for a scholarship girl who thinks I need fixing?”
Declan’s mouth tightens, the humor gone. “Probably what he always does when something doesn’t fit the Hale mold—cut it out and call it a necessary business decision.”
The words land with the clean, cold finality of a blade.
I stare at a curl of old, gray tape on the mat. “It’d be more than that this time.”
Declan says nothing, but his attention sharpens. He knows I’m not exaggerating.
“If he finds out,” I say slowly, the thought calcifying into a hard, cold certainty, “he’ll pull me. From the team, the school, this coast if he has to. I’ve seen him do worse for less.”
“I know,” Declan says, quiet and unflinching. “But I also know he’s not here. And you’re nottwelveanymore.”
“That’s the problem,” I mutter, the confession tasting like shame. “I’m not twelve. I’m twenty, and I’m still flinching like I’m waiting to get slapped for coloring outside the lines.”
There’s a silence then that only someone who’s lived it can hold.
“You’re not the only one,” Declan says eventually, his voice dropping a register. “Pressure doesn’t come with a manual. Just bruises and expectations.”
I glance up at him, jaw clenched. “Your dad too?”
He shrugs, a slight, almost imperceptible movement. “Different breed, same leash.”
We sit with that for a moment, the shared weight of it settling between us. It’s the most he’s ever said about his life. More than I’ve ever said about mine.
Then, quieter, the real heart of the problem spills out. “She sees it.”
Declan tilts his head, waiting.
“The thing,” I say, my throat tight. “The thing I’ve buried so deep it doesn’t have a name. She’s circling it. Closer every time.”
“The reading?” Declan asks. No judgment in his voice. Just fact.
The simple, non-judgmental question hits me harder than any insult ever could. My throat tightens. I manage a single, sharp nod.
“Is she going to use it against you?”
“No.” The word is out before I can think, an instinctual, absolute certainty.
Declan’s gaze holds steady. “Then maybe it’s not a weakness.”
