Page 72 of Shattered Ice
I hover over the send button for a heartbeat that feels like a cliff. Then I click. For a long time, I just sit there, listening to the old radiator tick. It isn’t peace. It’s better. It’s a plan.
My phone lights up.
Adrian: Outside your door.
I freeze mid-breath and move to the door. The hallway smells of wet wool and old detergent. I press my palm flat against the cool wood and wait. From the other side, he mirrors the gesture—two taps of knuckles against cold wood. I can’t hear the words, but the message travels through the door anyway.
Good girl.
The distance between us is an inch of wood and a universe of consequences. It feels like the exact right width. He lingers a breath, a silhouette cut out of the night, then turns and melts into the darkness. I slide down the door, my forehead resting against the wood until it cools. His scent lingers on the shirt he “forgot,” a map I wrap tighter around me. Tomorrow we start the work. Tonight, I sleep with my hand over my heart and the memory of his knuckles at my door.
Chapter 42
Clara
Gamedayfeelslikestepping into a storm I asked for. The rink is alive with noise and bodies—students in blue and white, alumni in pressed coats, the air sharp with sweat, popcorn salt, and beer. My pulse beats in sync with the stomping feet in the bleachers.
Zoë hooks her arm through mine, practically vibrating. “God, I live for this energy. Half the student body’s drunk, the other half’s horny, and all of them are screaming for Hale.”
“Mostly the drunk half,” Genny mutters, but her mouth quirks.
Talia glances sideways at me, her eyes catching on the jersey I’m wearing. “You sure about this?” she asks, quiet enough that it doesn’t cut through the roar. “His name on your back is one thing in private. In here, it’s… bold.”
I tug Adrian’s jersey tighter. It hangs heavy, an armor and a brand at once. HALE, 17. His name, his number. The weight of it is both protection and target, and every time someone’s eyes flick to it, to me, I feel the claim settle deeper.
Zoë grins, unabashed. “Bold is the point, Tal. Look at her—she’s glowing. And don’t even try to act like Hale isn’t about to light this place on fire just because he knows she’s watching.”
I flush as Genny steps away to take a call near the tunnel entrance. As she slides her phone back into her blazer, she nearly collides with Coach Addison, who is making his way toward the ice.
"Ms. Laurent," he says, stopping.
"Coach," Genny replies, her tone perfectly even. "They looked sharp in warm-ups tonight."
He doesn't smile, but the tension in his shoulders seems to ease. "They'd better be." His gaze is intense. "My daughter speaks very highly of you. Says you're a good influence."
Genny's mouth curves into a cool, knowing expression. "Talia is a smart girl. She knows loyalty is a valuable asset. You should know that better than anyone."
The coach holds her gaze for a beat too long, a silent, weighty conversation passing between them. He just nods once and continues down the tunnel. Genny returns a moment later, her expression unreadable as she settles back into her seat.
Before I can ask what that was about, the team bursts onto the ice in a roar of blades and collisions. My breath catches when I see him. He skates like war personified—fast, brutal, precise. His shoulders cut through the defense like they’re ornamental. Every pivot, every snap of his stick, is for me. I know it in my bones.
Zoë whistles low. “Told you. Man’s possessed.”
Genny leans forward, arms folded. “More like unhinged. But if it works for the scoreboard, I’m not complaining.”
Talia doesn’t say anything, her sharp eyes flicking from Adrian on the ice to me, as if already calculating the fallout.
The final horn blares. Victory. The crowd detonates.
Before I can blink, he’s there—pushing past teammates, ripping his helmet off, his hair damp and wild. His eyes find me instantly, sharp and unerring.
“Oh my God,” Zoë breathes, clutching my arm. “He’s coming over here.”
“Of course he is,” Genny mutters, her tone holding more awe than judgment.
Talia shakes her head, her mouth tight. “Clara—”
But then he vaults the barrier and his hand fists in my hair, hauling me forward. His mouth crashes onto mine before I can breathe. The kiss is brutal, unashamed, tilting me up so I can’t retreat. The taste of sweat, ice, and Adrian floods me, drowning out the roar around us. My knees nearly give, but his hold is iron.
