Page 75 of Shattered Ice
She stiffens. “Coach.”
“I’ve spoken with the academic program.” His gaze flicks to me, then back to her, weighing us both. “Based on your work with Hale here—and with Talia’s recommendation—you’ll be offered an internship next semester. Hands-on. With this team. Real athletes. Real stakes.”
Clara blinks, speechless. Then the joy breaks over her face so fast it almost knocks me back. “That’s… incredible. Thank you. I don’t know what to say.”
“Say yes,” Addison replies smoothly. “It’s good for the team. And for optics. Donors like progressive moves. And Hale’s performance this season proves you can handle the pressure.” He claps me on the shoulder, the gesture heavy, deliberate. “You’ll keep her honest, right, Hale?”
My jaw tightens. My hand on Clara’s squeezes too hard, but she doesn’t flinch. I give him the barest nod. He smirks, satisfied, and strides off into the shadows. Clara is still glowing, her whole body humming. She turns to me, her eyes wide.
“Adrian—did you hear him? I’m going to be here. With you. With the team.”
Jealousy claws hot at my ribs. The thought of rookies leaning on her, letting her crawl into their heads the way she crawledinto mine—fuck. Rage simmers. I can already picture their eyes following her across the locker room, waiting for her to steady them. And worse: she’ll give it. She’ll do for them what she did for me. I drag in a breath, swallowing the fire that screams at me to say no, to lock her away, to keep her for myself. But I won’t be the man who dims her light. Not after everything she’s given me.
My voice comes out rough, the words tasting like a surrender. “I’m proud of you.”
Her smile is pure sunlight, so bright it hurts to look at. She rises on her toes and kisses me, soft and sure. For a moment, it’s enough. But the heat in my chest doesn’t fade. It shifts, coils, hardens into a promise:They can lean on her, but they’ll never have her. She’s mine.
After practice, the corridor hums with voices and the stink of sweat. Two rookies linger near the exit, heads bent close.
“…he said my sister should learn some manners.”
“…what the fuck does that mean?”
“…means if she doesn’t, our family will regret it. Word for word. ‘Families like mine don’t forget an insult.’”
The rookie’s jaw is clenched so hard I hear his teeth grind. I step into their shadow. “Who?”
They both freeze. The kid who spoke swallows hard, color draining from his face. “Hale, it’s nothing—”
I take one step closer, letting the silence burn. My voice comes out flat, lethal. “Who. Said. It.”
The other rookie nudges him. “Just tell him, man.”
The kid drops his eyes. “Cavendish. One of the donors. He was in the box tonight.”
Cavendish. Old money. My father’s circle. The kind of man who thinks his last name makes him untouchable. My fistsclench. The old me would’ve found him tonight and broken his jaw. The itch for it is still there, alive in my bones. But Clara’s voice cuts through my head, sharp as glass.Don’t play his game. Change the rules.
So I do.
I call him after midnight. No pleasantries. “Hale. To what do I owe—”
“You don’t go near him again,” I say, my tone ice. “You don’t look at his sister. You don’t use this team’s families as leverage. You don’t breathe our air.”
A pause. A scoff. “Do you have any idea who you’re speaking to?”
“Yeah.” I lean forward, phone pressed tight to my ear. “A man one headline away from being ruined. I pick up the phone, and theChronicleruns a story about you cornering an eighteen-year-old and threatening his sister. Try explaining that to your board. To your wife. To every so-called friend who’ll cut your throat the second you stop being useful.”
Silence. He’s choking on it.
“You wouldn’t—”
“I would. And that’s the polite option. Pull your funding if you want. We’ll survive. But if I see your face again, if I hear your name in my locker room…” My jaw aches with restraint. “You won’t have to worry about headlines. You’ll have to worry about me.”
The line goes dead quiet. I hang up before he can answer. The violence is still there in my fists, begging to be let out, but for once, I don’t give in. The satisfaction is colder, sharper, like the clean bite of steel against my tongue.It feels like power.
The next day at practice, a rookie cracks under pressure. His stick wobbles, the puck skitters wide, and the jeers start.
“Nice hands, princess.”
