Page 32 of Shattered Ice
When I turn, the front doors of the lecture hall slam open. Hinges bark. The quad wind cuts like wire. Adrian steps out alone, his shoulders filling the frame. For a heartbeat, the campus noise dies. He locks onto me with a stare that strips away pretense—the way a predator calculates the kill zone before the lunge. His jaw clenches. The air between us crackles. He doesn’t approach. My lungs burn with relief, but my skin burns with something else entirely.
I hold his gaze until my pulse hammers and I taste copper. Then I slice my gaze away like I’m cutting a lifeline and force myself to walk, not run, in the opposite direction.
Chapter 18
Clara
Thetextmessagearriveslike a summons, a single, sterile line on my phone screen.
Ms. Harrington, please see me in my office at your earliest convenience. – Coach Addison
My blood runs cold.Convenience.A word that doesn’t exist in my world. I’m standing in the library stacks with a heavy history book in my hand, and the simple message feels like a verdict handed down before the trial has even begun. My heart starts a low, anxious thrum against my ribs, and my hand tightens on the book, the sharp corner of the spine digging into my palm.
The walk to the arena is a gauntlet of my own anxieties. Each step on the manicured stone path feels like a steptoward a chopping block. The air inside the athletic complex is different—colder, sharper, smelling of sweat, disinfectant, and the immense, unspoken pressure of money and expectation. Trophies gleam behind glass, silent testaments to a legacy of victory I have no part in. This is Adrian’s world. It’s a place I used to love coming to, the roar of the crowd and the clean, cold smell a comfort I inherited from my dad. Now, I’m an intruder, and every echoing footstep reminds me of what’s at stake.
Coach Addison’s office is neat, intimidating, and devoid of personal warmth. Game plans are mapped out on a massive whiteboard, the X’s and O’s a familiar language I’ve always understood. The sheer size of his oak desk is designed to make you feel small. He doesn’t ask me to sit. He gets straight to the point.
“I’m looking at Adrian’s progress reports, Ms. Harrington,” he says, tapping a folder on his desk. The sound is sharp, final. “And while there’s been some marginal improvement, his midterm eligibility is still on the razor’s edge.”
I grip the strap of my backpack, my knuckles turning white. My throat feels tight, dry. “We’re making progress. He’s putting in the work.”
“Is he?” The coach’s gaze is sharp, analytical, devoid of empathy. He’s not looking at a student; he’s looking at a variable in a very expensive equation. “The donors, the board, my boss—they don’t care about progress, Ms. Harrington. They care about results. His name carries the weight of this program. If he becomes ineligible, the fallout will be… significant.” He lets the word hang in the air, a threat wrapped in professional courtesy.
My mind races, translating his words.If you fail, there will be consequences. For him. And for you.
“I understand, sir,” I say, my voice a tight, steady line I’ve spent years perfecting. “I’ll redouble my efforts.”
“See that you do.” He dismisses me with a nod, already turning back to the papers on his desk.
I walk out of his office, my heart hammering, the weight of his expectations a physical thing on my shoulders. I’m trying to pull myself together, to shove the panic down, when a voice cuts through the hallway’s silence.
“Clara.”
Adrian is leaning against the far wall. He must have heard. He stalks toward me. “What did he want?” he growls. “If he’s giving you shit, I’ll handle it.”
“It’s handled,” I say, trying to brush past him. I don’t need his protection. I need him not to be the source of all my problems.
He steps in front of me, blocking my path. His eyes scan my face, and I know he sees the stress I’m trying to hide. “Look,” he says, his voice dropping. “I saw you in the last study hall, staring at the bookstore website.”
My blood freezes.He saw that.Of course he did. He sees everything. The knowledge that he witnessed that private moment of panic feels like a violation, leaving me raw and exposed.
“If you’re stressed about money for books or course codes,” he continues, his tone gruff, almost awkward, “just tell me. I’ll take care of it. It’s not a big deal.”
The words hit me like a slap. A hot, prickling shame crawls up the back of my neck. The final, crushing humiliation. The coach sees me as a tool. Adrian sees me as a charity case. My composure shatters.
“Nota big deal?” I snap, my voice trembling with a fury that shocks even me. “You think my entire life is ‘not a big deal’? I am not your charity case, Hale! This isn’t about money, it’s about respect! The only thing I need from you is for you to do the goddamn work so I can keep the scholarship I am killing myself to earn!”
I expect anger in his eyes, or annoyance. But for a split second, his expression shifts. The arrogance falters, replaced by a flicker of something I can’t name—not pity, but a flash of raw, grudging understanding. A look that sees my stress not as a weakness, but as a mirror to his own. Then the mask slams back into place, but I saw it. I shove past him, my shoulder hitting his with a force that barely registers against his solid frame, but for me, it’s a tremor that runs through my whole body. I storm out of the arena, his stunned silence following me like a shadow.
Later that night, my dorm room is a pressure cooker. The argument with Adrian, the thinly veiled threat from the coach, the constant, grinding stress of my own classes—it’s all swirling in my head, a chaotic storm with no eye. And on my laptop screen, the bookstore page is still open. $285. The deadline to purchase the access code is midnight.
A sharp knock makes me jump. I pull the door open to find Zoë and Genny, their arms full of popcorn and candy.
“Ready for a full-scale emotional rescue?” Zoë chirps, but her smile falters when she sees my face. Genny’s lighthearted expression fades, replaced by a sharp, immediate concern.
“Clara? What’s wrong?”
I try to force a smile, my hand moving to shut my laptop, but Zoë is too fast, already peering over my shoulder at the screen.
