Page 8 of Cold as Ice

“What happened?”

“He was pushy. Weird. And then he disappeared. When I found him, he had his hand up another girl’s skirt.”

Mal’s fists creaked as he clenched them. “I’m gonna kick his ass.”

“No need,” Jane said. “I kicked him real hard in the balls.”

Mal laughed again, the sound escaping out of him rustily.

“I know just where to aim,” she said. “My dad taught me.”

“Good dad.”

“The best,” Jane agreed. She looked over at him. “And you’re not so bad, yourself.”

“Drink your Gatorade,” he said gruffly. “It’s late. And I need to read my econ chapters still.”

“Alright, but don’t be a stranger, okay?” she asked hopefully, gazing at him like she’d seen something in him that he’d missed.

“I won’t,” Malcolm said, promising himself that he’d be present the next time an Alex came around to take her to a frat party. Maybe her dad couldn’t be here, but he could.

“Good.” Jane took a long drink of Gatorade. “Next time you’re coming with me. Or! Better yet, you can take me to one ofyourfrat parties. I bet there’s so many cute athletes there.”

“No chance,” Mal said.

But he already had a feeling she’d be the second reason, besides Ramsey’s passive-aggressive entreaties, that he returned to the Gamma Sigma house.

Chapter 2

A year later

October

“Are you fucking kidding me? Where the fuck is he?”

Ivan glanced over at Mal, apparently unconcerned by Mal’s anger as he stomped around the locker room. “It’s still early, Mal. He’ll be here.”

“I told him to be here early. I even texted him to remind him.” Mal’s temper was usually firmly under control. Except, of course, when it came to Elliott Jones.

Elliott always seemed to make him lose control. Even when he was determined to keep himself locked down tight.

Last year had been difficult enough. The guy bent every rule, though never breaking them, never enough to get into serious trouble. And then there was the way he sauntered around campus, like he was every inch the hot shit hockey player Elliott believed he was. The worst of it was that everyone else seemed to agree, like he was the heir apparent to Ramsey’s bullshit.

But Ramsey’s bullshit had never bothered Malcolm. Not like Elliott’s did.

But this year had been even worse—at least the first few months of the season had been.

Last year Elliott had been relegated to the second line.

But this year, Coach Blackburn, newly returned to Portland U, decided that Elliott had improved enough that he’d ended up on the first line with Mal.

It was intolerable. Made even worse by his deliberate flouting of even the most minor instruction by Mal.

Elliott wanted to play by feel. He didn’t want to practice. He didn’t want to come early or stay late or work on their play formations and liked to skate free and easy, coming up with shit on the fly.

And theworstwas that it worked!

Mal had only tolerated it at first because he’d believed Coach would quickly figure out that it was a terrible idea to let Elliott do whatever the fuck he wanted.

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