Page 5 of Shattered Ice
My spine goes straight. “Yes, Professor. Can I help you?”
He waits until a girl drifts away from the counter. “The Athletic Department has flagged a case. Urgent.”
My pulse skips. “Okay…?”
“Adrian Hale.”
The name is a stone to the chest. Briarcliff royalty. The hockey captain I’ve endured Statistics and History with, always sprawled in the back row, jaw cocky, never bothering to take notes. He doesn’t need answers; he is the answer. Everyone knows he takes what he wants, and the school lets him. I’ve worked my whole life to avoid the gravity well of his world. His name alone rearranges the air; I feel myself dragged.
I square my shoulders. “What about him?”
“He’s failing,” Lansing says. “If he doesn’t pass midterms, he’s suspended. That’s a problem.”
I bark a single, humorless laugh. “A problem for who?”
His gaze is a cold slap. “If he’s suspended, your scholarship may be at risk.”
The café dissolves. My stomach flips, a wave of vertigo sending my hand to the counter for balance. “I’m sorry—what?”
“The university bundles Adrian’s athletic package under donor-linked academic funding,” he says. “The same fund your grant pulls from.” The bureaucratic static clears, and the truth lands, sick and heavy. Everything I’ve clawed for—my GPA, my sleep-starved nights, my future—is tethered to a boy who’s never had to work for anything.
“You’re telling me if he fails, I lose everything.” It’s not a question.
Lansing doesn’t blink. “I’m saying the university is risk-averse. You are a high-performing student. He is a high-profile athlete. Right now, we need both.” He searches my face, not for understanding, but for compliance. “This isn’t about fair. It’s about optics. Balance sheets. And right now, you are the most efficient safeguard we have.”
Efficient.Not worthy. Not irreplaceable. Justuseful. My voice comes out brittle. “You’re assigning me to tutor him.”
“Correct.” Lansing’s gaze flicks to his clipboard. “You are top-ranked in three of his classes. Statistics. History. Biology. We considered others. None were as—reliable.”
Reliable.The word has always been my refuge, my shield. It means I keep my promises, do the work, make myself invisible where it matters. I have built my identity on it, and now it’s being used as a weapon to make me complicit in my own exploitation. The urge to say no—to point out I already have a library shift today and three other tutoring appointments this week before I can even think about my homework—rises and dies in my throat. I’m the safe bet. Nothing more.
My jaw aches from holding back. “And what if he doesn’t want help?” The question isn’t fear; it’s fury. No one has ever forced a boy like that to do anything in his life.
Lansing’s eyes flicker up, a bare trace of impatience. “Then make him. Scholastic support is a condition of your grant. Any further objections?”
I shake my head, the movement tight, a single, clipped denial. What else is there to say?
“Good.” He nods, already dismissing me. “Library. Monday. Five p.m. Room A312. Don’t be late.”
He’s gone, stalking out into the crisp October morning, leaving only the bitter aftertaste of control. The conversation lasted less than two minutes, but I feel buried alive.
The bell chimes again, and I flinch, my nerves shot. For a second, his shadow still lingers by the door, a stain on the polished floor. A girl at a nearby table whispers, too loud to be accidental, “Scholarship girl’s about to tutor the captain. Pathetic.”
The words slice deeper than espresso steam, but the voice belongs to Talia Addison, her worn leather backpack slung over one shoulder. She’s a friendly, familiar face in a sea of predators. Coach Addison’s daughter, but she wears it like an afterthought, not a crown. We’ve had a few classes together, worked on a project once. She’s one of the few people here whose smile seems to actually reach her eyes.
She stops short when she sees my face. “Whoa, Clara. You look like you just saw a ghost.”
I force my lips into something that resembles a smile. It feels brittle, like it might crack. “Just a professor with bad news.”
“Lansing?” she asks, glancing toward the door. “Yeah, he has that effect on people. You okay?”
I start wiping down the already-gleaming counter, my movements jerky, the rag squealing against the glass. “I’ll live. Just a new mandatory addition to my schedule.”
Talia lets out a long-suffering sigh, her expression one of profound solidarity. “Tell me about it. My dad just roped meinto proctoring the hockey team’s new mandatory study halls on Tuesdays and Thursdays.” She rolls her eyes. “The collective groan was audible from his office. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be the most hated person on campus for the next two months.”
The information clicks—a small piece of a much larger, more terrifying puzzle. It’s not just Adrian. It’s the entire team. But my punishment is different. More personal. More precarious.
“That sounds… fun,” I manage.
