Page 10 of Shattered Ice
Waiting for Adrian Hale.
Chapter 7
Clara
Igettothelibrary at 4:42 p.m. I hate being late; it’s a luxury for people who’ve never had to fight for their place at the table. Being late is a declaration that your time is worth more than anyone else’s. It’s a kind of violence I can’t afford.
The main floor is half-empty, bathed in the cold blue glow of laptop screens. The silence here isn’t peaceful. It’s pressurized, full of unspoken deadlines and the frantic, near-silent tapping of keys. Students are scattered across long tables, some hunched over books with a desperation I recognize, others pretending to study while their eyes flick constantly to their phones, always looking for a better offer. The air smells of printer paper, burned-out toner, and an overworked HVAC system humming a low, monotonous drone. It’s a place scrubbed of secrets, toopolished to feel like real knowledge ever dirtied these tables. It’s all façade.
Room A312 is tucked between a supply closet and an unused media room—a narrow alcove with beige walls, fluorescent lighting that bleaches the color from your skin, and a draft sharp enough to sting. The air is colder here, the hush absolute. Small. Windowless. Only one way in or out. The thought makes my chest tighten, a familiar, icy fist clenching around my lungs. My instincts scream to map the exits, but I force the feeling down. It’s not a classroom; it’s a bunker. The perfect battlefield.
I set up my materials with surgical precision: Statistics on the left, Biology on the right, History in the center. Color-coded index cards squared at perfect angles. Two pens, two backups, one highlighter. My notebook lies open to a blank page where I write the title:Tutoring Plan: Adrian Hale. I underline it twice.Control is in the preparation. Lose that, and you’re prey.
I sit up straighter, fold my hands on the chilled surface of the table, and wait.
At 4:55, I glance at the door, the silence amplifying the frantic beat of my heart.
At 4:59, I reread my notes, clinging to the neatness of my own handwriting like a lifeline.
At 5:04, I stop pretending I’m not irritated. This is exactly the power play I expected. People like Adrian Hale don’t apologize. They arrive on their own time, expecting the world to warp around them.
I hear him before I see him. Heavy steps, slow, deliberate. Each one echoes down the empty corridor like he owns not just the hallway, but the institution itself.
He fills the doorway when he appears. A dark shape blocking the light, plunging the alcove into shadow. The air in the room thins, chills. Damp hair from the rink clings to his forehead, a gray Briarcliff hoodie stretched tight across broad,predatory shoulders. His backpack hangs from one of them as if weightless. His gaze—the impossible, frosty blue from every highlight reel—locks on me instantly, scanning me from head to toe not with interest, but with a cold, detached calculation, like prey dissected on a slab. The smell of cold air and cedar soap clings to him, a clean, sharp scent that cuts through the sterile space.
He drags the chair opposite me with a loud, grating screech that vibrates up my spine. The sound isn’t careless; it’s a deliberate shriek of metal meant to unsettle me.A reminder: I could be dangerous if I cared to be.
“So you’re the genius they assigned to babysit me.” His voice is a low drawl, like gravel smoothed over by expensive whiskey, lazy but with an edge to it. A dare.
I refuse to let the sound rattle me. I look up, slow, unblinking. “I don’t babysit,” I say, my voice even and cold. “I correct statistical outliers. Right now, that’s you.”
One corner of his mouth hooks upward, a predator’s tell. “Same thing. You talk, I nod, we pretend you saved me.”
“We pretend you earned it,” I bite back.
That lands. A flicker in his jaw. I slide the statistics book toward him, and it bumps his hand. The contact is brief, but his skin is an unexpected shock of warmth against the cold corner of the book. A jolt, sharp as static, arcs up my arm. He doesn’t move his hand.
“You’ve got exams coming,” I say flatly, pushing past the electric crackle of the moment. “You fail, you’re benched. And this isn’t a five-minute major, Adrian. It’s a game misconduct. You’re out. Your dad loses face. The whole dynasty gets a crack in the foundation.”
His gaze sharpens. “You know a lot about me, Tutor Girl.”
“I had ten hours and a grudge,” I reply, my voice sweet with venom. “It’s amazing what you can find when you’re properly motivated.”
He just sits there, a wall of damp cotton and muscle, restless energy radiating off him and making the small room feel even smaller. “And if I don’t care about any of that?”
“Then you’ll waste my time.” I lean back, crossing my arms, mirroring his posture to claw back space. “And I don’t waste time. My time is the only thing I truly own.”
The silence slithers between us, coiling around my throat like barbed wire.
“You’re not scared of me,” he says finally. Not a question; an observation laced with disbelief.
I’m scared of failing,I think.I’m scared of shadows and loud noises and being trapped. But you? You’re just a boy.My hand, which was clenched in my lap, deliberately relaxes. I raise an eyebrow. “Should I be?”
He doesn’t answer. “If I wanted to pass, I’d pass,” he says, voice low. “Don’t mistake boredom for stupidity.”
“Good.” I flip open the book. “Then we’ll move quickly.”
“You expected me to be an idiot.”
