Page 79 of Shattered Ice
“Santa can choke,” I mutter.
But I reach for it anyway. Swipe. My gut drops. Three missed calls from my agent. Two texts.
Answer your goddamn phone. It’s the call.
The call.
My pulse spikes so hard it makes me dizzy. I shove to my feet and storm out of the room. The hallway is colder, quieter—just cinderblock walls and the hum of fluorescent lights. My teammates’ voices fade behind the door. I hit redial with a thumb slick from sweat.
One ring.
“Finally,” my agent explodes. “Where the hell have you been? Listen to me—this is it. The front office wants you. They’re circling for the draft.”
The floor tilts under me.My dream. Right. Fucking. There.
“But,” he snaps, fast and brutal, “they need to know you’re clear.”
My throat locks. “Clear how?”
“You know how,” he spits. “Your old man’s reputation. TheChroniclephoto. The whispers about your temper. They don’t want to inherit a headline. They want a franchise player. Can you give me that?”
For a second, all I hear is my heartbeat. Then I laugh, low and jagged. “You’re telling me my entire goddamn life comes down to whether or not I can convince them I’m not my father?”
“Exactly. You’ve got the talent. Everyone knows it. But talent doesn’t mean shit if the league thinks you’re reckless. Or compromised.”
His words hit harder than any body check. I stagger back until my shoulders slam the wall, the cinderblock cold and roughagainst my skin. My hand fists in my hair, pulling until pain sparks. The NHL. My dream since I was a kid taping broken sticks together in the driveway. Elation roars in my chest, electric and wild—until rage drowns it out. Because even here, at the edge of everything I’ve worked for, I’m still chained to him. Still fighting the ghost of his voice, his shadow, his blood in my veins.My dream isn’t mine. Not yet. Not unless I kill him first.
I hang up before my agent can say another word. The phone clatters to the floor. My breath saws in and out of my chest, every muscle vibrating with fury.
I’ve never wanted the ice more. I’ve never wanted blood more.
Clara finds me twenty minutes later outside the rink, my back pressed against the chain-link fence, hands braced on the cold metal like I could hold the world back.
“Adrian?” Her voice is soft, cautious.
I look up. The floodlights throw silver across her hair. Her eyes are sharp, searching. She only needs one glance at my face before she knows. “It’s the call,” I rasp, my throat raw.
Her lips part. “The NHL?”
I nod once, the motion stiff. “They want me. But only if I’m clean. No father’s shadow. NoChroniclescandals. No fucking distractions.”
She steps closer, her boots crunching on gravel. Her fingers graze my arm, tentative. “You’re not a distraction. You’re building something they can’t ignore.”
A laugh tears out of me, sharp and ugly. “Tell that to the suits. They don’t see me, Clara. They see a Hale. My old man’s face in a younger body. His sins waiting to repeat.”
“Then prove them wrong.” Her voice doesn’t rise, but it cuts. She tips her chin up. “You already are.”
“Christ.” I drag both hands over my face. “My whole life comes down to optics. Not how hard I train, not the fucking blood Ileave on the ice. Just whether I can convince them I’m not his son.”
She doesn’t flinch. She steps between me and the fence, her palms flat against my chest, grounding me. “Then let’s make optics our weapon. Again. We’ve done it before. We’ll do it bigger.”
Her gaze locks on mine, steady, relentless. She’s not pleading; she’s demanding I remember who I am when she’s beside me. The storm inside me shifts—not gone, but tethered, leashed by her certainty. My pulse is still wild, but for the first time since the phone rang, I feel something like control. Because she believes. And if she believes, maybe I can too.
That night, Clara’s stretched across my bed, still in her jeans and a thin camisole, sneakers kicked off. I’m pacing the room like a caged animal, the NHL call still buzzing under my skin, half ecstasy, half fury.
The door slams open. Gio barrels in, tie hanging loose, face pale. He doesn’t knock. Just shoves his phone out like it’s a live grenade.
“Bro,” he rasps. “You need to see this.”
