Page 64 of Shattered Ice
“Their defenseman, number four, he’s getting lazy on the left side,” Calder grits out between breaths. “He’s cheating toward the middle every time.”
“I see it,” I say, my eyes locked on the opposing center, who is smirking at me, his mouthguard a slash of ugly green.
Dante glides into position. “Draw it back to me. I’ll get it to Rylan. We can catch him flat-footed.”
“No,” I say, a new, clean, and brutally simple plan forming in my head. “Draw it back to me. I’m taking it.”
Dante gives me a sharp, questioning look, but he just nods. He trusts me. As I get into my crouch, my eyes instinctively scan the crowd. A sea of faces, Briarcliff colors, the usual blend of bored donors and drunk students. I’m not looking for anything in particular.
And then I see her.
The roar of the crowd fades to a dull hum, the world narrowing to a single point of light ten rows up. She’s sitting just behind the goal, next to Talia, just… watching. Her expression is intense, analytical, the same way she looks at a problem set, as if she’s trying to figure out the formula that makes me work.
And she’s wearing my jersey.
It’s huge on her, swallowing her small frame, the blue and white a stark contrast to her dark hair. Across the back, I can just make out the letters: HALE. And beneath it, my number: 17. The sight of her, in my colors, in my world, wearing my name like a declaration, hits me harder than any body check. A punch of pure, possessive pride right to the gut.
She came. She’s here. She chose to be here.
A jolt, hot and potent, shoots through me, a surge of adrenaline more powerful than any pre-game shot. The puck drops. Everything shifts. My focus narrows to a razor’s edge. This isn’t for my father. Not for Addison or the scouts or the team.
This is for her.I need her to see what I am in my element. I need her to see me win.
The puck hits the ice. I win the draw clean, pulling it back between my skates. I pivot, my skates carving deep. I see the opening Calder spotted, a sliver of space their defenseman is too slow to cover. I skate with a ferocity I haven’t felt all season, my legs burning, my lungs screaming. The puck feels like an extension of my own body. I deke past one player, a move of pure instinct. Another comes at me, and I use his own momentum to spin off him as the crowd roars to life. I cross the blue line. I see the net. I see the goalie’s eyes, the flicker of panic. I see his weak side. I let the shot fly—a hard, vicious wrister that sings through the air and finds the top corner of the net with a satisfying thud that echoes in my bones.
Goal.
The horn blares, a beautiful, violent sound. My teammates mob me, their shouts muffled against my helmet, their gloves pounding my back.
“HOLY SHIT, HALE!” Calder screams in my ear, shaking me by the shoulders. “WHERE DID THAT COME FROM?”
I just grin inside my helmet, a raw, triumphant feeling surging through me. I raise my stick to the crowd, but my eyes are already scanning, searching, finding her. She’s on her feet. Not cheering wildly, but her eyes are wide, and there’s a small, almost imperceptible smile on her face. A smile just for me.
In that moment, it’s the only validation in the world that matters.
The high from the win follows me off the ice, a raw, chaotic energy filling the locker room. The air is thick with the spray of champagne that someone, probably Calder, smuggled in. The bass from the speakers is a physical force. For a single, fleeting moment, it doesn’t feel like pressure. It feels like victory.
“Fucking poetry, Hale!” Calder is shouting, shaking a bottle. “Absolute filth!”
Gio is already re-enacting my goal with a taped-up sock. “Did you see that spin move?” he yells to Rylan. “The goalie’s jock is still hanging from the fucking rafters!”
The guys are shouting, laughing. It’s the ugly, loud, beautiful sound of a win we bled for. I’m grinning, a real, stupid grin I can’t seem to wipe off my face, my mind already on finding her.Getting out of this room, finding Clara. I know she’ll be waiting.
I’m showered and dressed in record time, my heart hammering with anticipation. I grab my bag, give a quick nod to Declan, and head for the door to the family waiting area.
I’m halfway there when the energy in the room just… dies. The music, a celebratory roar a second ago, suddenly feels obscene. Calder lowers the champagne. Gio stops his reenactment. Every player in the room seems to shrink, their shoulders hunching. The temperature drops twenty degrees. I don’t have to turn around.I know he’s here.
Then the voice, cold and familiar, cuts through the noise. “Adrian.”
I freeze. My father is standing by the exit, his arms crossed, his face an impassive mask. He’s flanked by two of his business partners, their expensive suits a stark contrast to the raw energy of the locker room.
“A decent performance,” he says, his voice devoid of warmth, loud enough for the donors beside him to hear. “Don’t get complacent.”
The compliment is a dismissal, a pat on the head for a prized horse. The pride from the win immediately curdles in my gut. I see him clock the direction of my gaze, toward the public exit where I know she’s waiting. A flicker of something cold and calculating passes through his eyes.
“Forget about that,” he says, his voice dropping lower, a quiet, sharp command. “The Jennings are here. They want to discuss the new arena funding. Your job isn’t over when the game ends.”
My jaw tightens. The words are a leash, snapping taut around my neck. “Clara’s waiting for me.”
