Page 26 of Iced Out
Her eyes darkened. Rage showed for a heartbeat, then she swallowed it. Instead, she dragged a fingertip down my chest. “People remember what I tell them. A twist here, a lie there—and suddenly, we’re history again.”
I grabbed her wrist before she could pull back. My grip was steel, controlled. “Don’t drag me into your games. Or you’ll regret it.”
Recognition flickered in her eyes. Not fear—but respect. She slid back, saying, “Fine. But… if I didn’t write the note?”
I leveled my stare. “Then we’ve got a bigger problem.” Even as I said it, I knew she was lying. Or someone else was pulling her strings. Either way, she was the one that dropped the threat into my locker because I recognized her handwriting.
Later, I found myself outside, leaning against the iron railing near the athletic quad after school and before practice. Mila walked across campus, bag slung over one shoulder, the wind tugging at her dark hair. She paused, brushing it away with a flick of defiance.
Her fingers brushed the hollow of her throat, as if reaching for something long gone. For a second, I almost asked her why. Then I remembered—I already knew. I’d been holding the reason in my hand the night she walked away.
She didn’t know I watched. And this time, I wasn’t tracking her to figure out how to break her. I was keeping tabs because she might be in deeper trouble than even she knew.
Between Elise’s threats, the note, Dad’s warning, and what I overheard last week—mentions of money, damage control, someone cleaning up—I saw a pattern. I knew too much to ignore it.
I went inside and took it to the ice, hoping the cold would carve the noise from my head. But after two hours of drills and contact, the only thing I managed to shake was the skin off my knuckles. The storm stayed.
Later, I headed home, mind scrolling through scenarios. I walked through the front door aimlessly until I found myself in the kitchen. I paused, the dark feeling heavier here. Barefoot, water glass in hand, I stared through the window at empty streets.
I didn’t hear Drew until he was already moving in—sparkling water in his hand, face calm.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Just thinking.”
He twisted the cap off the water and leaned against the counter. “Thinking’s a dangerous game at 2 a.m.”
I thought again of the note. “You ever wonder if we don’t know everything about Dad... about the company?”
He took a slow sip, eyes steady. “Dad built this from nothing. That kind of power always leaves blood behind.” He set the chilled bottle down.
“You sound like him.”
He shrugged. “I used to hate it. Now I get it.”
I put my hands on the counter. “And you think he’s hiding something?”
He offered a faint, unreadable smile. “He’s always ten steps ahead. If there’s something he’s hiding, it’s not bullshit. It’s why you shouldn’t worry.”
My eyes flicked to the hallway that led to his home office. “What if it’s already in motion?”
His tone softened. “Then you deal with it. But don’t forget who you are—and where you came from.” He shoved off the counter and strolled away. “Try to sleep, bro. You’ve got a game tomorrow. And, Luke?”—he waited until I met his eyes—“I’ll handle the company. Nothing’s falling on your shoulders. School. College. That’s your job.”
My brother was trying to protect me, which I appreciated. Part of me recognized that he’d come into his own, that he thrived in dad’s world, that it had become his. And maybe he would even shoulder that weight for me too, but that wasn’t really me. I didn’t let anyone take on my battles, and this one felt like it was headed my way.
I stayed long after he left, the note heavy in my pocket. One way or another, I had to decide what Mila meant to me—liability, or something I couldn’t let go.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MILA
The rink was silent. Just the faint hum of overhead lights. The soft scrape of my blades against the ice. My breath, jagged and shallow, echoed back—not even mine anymore. Here, the noise in my head dulled.
This was the one place that still gave me a thrill, probably because it used to be ours—mine and Luke’s. When things were simple. Not the borrowed bedrooms or rundown rentals. Not the fake smiles and quick getaways. Just this—cold, clean, endless. The sound of nothing and the feel of flight. The rink was peace before I knew what peace cost. Before we knew what was coming. Before he became the guy who looked at me with anger and hate. Before it all fractured.
I pushed harder, faster, slicing across the smooth surface until my thighs burned and my lungs ached—as if speed alone could strip the truth from my ribs. But I didn’t get far.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” His voice cut through the quiet, sharp as a slap.
