Page 32 of Iced Out
Chase closed his locker hard enough to make the metal ring. “He’s not wrong. One minute you’re telling us to steer clear, the next you’re playing fucking bodyguard.”
My jaw locked. “Doesn’t matter what it looks like. She’s off-limits. Anyone touches her—even as a joke—they answer to me.”
“Yeah?” Theo asked from across the room, arms folded. “You know we got your back, but are you sure about that?”
The air snapped between us as I gave him a curt nod. That was the problem—I wasn’t sure. Not about any of it. Mila wasunraveling shit in me I didn’t even know was still knotted. Stuff I’d buried deep enough I thought it couldn’t hurt anymore. But now? It was rising—and I didn’t know how to stop it.
Doubts crept in. Family loyalty ran deep, but something in my gut kept saying things weren’t right.
Then there was the note.She shouldn’t be here. Fix it.
It had to be Elise. I swore it was her handwriting, and it reeked of her flavor of petty. Especially lately, with desperation written all over her red matte lips. She wanted more—more status, more control, more of me. What we’d had wasn’t a relationship. It was convenience. Temporary heat in the dark when I needed to forget. Nothing that had ever held weight.
She spun fantasies out of our past, dressing them up as promises I never made. She thought a ring down the line would save her. That being Mrs. King would buy her freedom from her father’s leash and lock her into a lifetime of easy power.
She was delusional. We’d hooked up a few times before I’d met Mila and once at a party a few months ago. I wasn’t sure why she kept pretending we were a thing when I’d made sure to clarify that it was a one-time event. Either way, I wasn’t playing along. I’d outgrown the game. And I was done letting parasites feed off my name.
By lunch the next day, whispers started.
Elise worked fast—weaponizing truth and half-truths the way only someone with money and motive could. I caught pieces of it in the halls, fragments that hit harder because they weren’t entirely false.
Mila, sleeping her way into Blackwood. Her mom, conning her way through the board. Social climbers in counterfeit couture, cashing in on reputations that weren’t theirs to claim.
The worst part? IknewMila’s mom wasn’t clean. I’d heard enough. Seen enough. I was aware she was seeing Principal Miller. Knew she’d charmed him the same way she had everyman with a title. And yeah, maybe she took a little here and there. Maybe more. But Mila? Mila wasn’t like her.
I saw Mila on campus, walking next to Avery, chin high, as though she wasn’t breaking apart beneath the weight of the rumors. But I noticed the way her eyes blazed in challenge, her fingers curled into her palms as if she was preparing to strike out.
Avery played it cool—loyal as hell, ready to go feral if someone said the wrong thing. But even she couldn’t stop the stares. The barely masked judgment in every sideways glance.
Outside the auditorium, I cornered Elise. She was laughing too loud with Tori and Nina, basking in the aftermath of her own chaos.
“Drop it,” I said, voice low, threading steel through the warning.
She turned, all venom in silk. “You’ll have to give me something in return, Luke.”
I stared her down. “I wouldn’t touch you again if you paid me.”
Her smile thinned. “Careful who you piss off.”
I walked. But I knew she wasn’t done. She would never be done until I made it hurt to keep trying.
The guys would get the message. Anyone thinking about crossing my line would find themselves corrected. And if they didn’t? I’d make an example.
That night, I stood outside the arena. Hands in my pockets. Heart pounding the way I’d just run sprints, even though I hadn’t moved. I had no reason to be there. Except… I knew she would be inside. The light above the side entrance cast a pale glow over the ice, and even before I stepped in, I felt her.
Mila always used to haunt the art studio on the boardwalk. That was her place. Her escape. Her rebellion. Her mom hated it. Called it a hobby for the hopeless. Something that would landher on the streets instead of behind a desk with a six-figure salary.
But the rink? That was mine. Which meant it was familiar. Safe. And maybe… maybe she came here tonight because she wanted to feel tethered to something.
To me. She wouldn’t admit it, but I felt it. That pull. That ache. Every movement deliberate but heavy with something she couldn’t shake. Like she wasn’t just clearing her head. She wasfightingit. Trying to outrun the whispers. The past. Me.
I stayed for a while and watched her skate, needing an escape just as much as she did. The rink was quiet except for the scrape of her blades carving into ice. Her reflection shimmered beneath her, a second shadow. She moved with purpose, but it wasn’t peace she was chasing.
It was distance. And it gutted me. Because I remembered what we had. I remembered the first time she let me pull her into the far corner, and she kissed me as if I was her only anchor. I remembered the way she used to wait for me here, hoodie swallowing her frame, nose red from the chilled air, fingers always cold.
Now she didn’t wait for anyone. Not even me. And maybe that was my fault.
But as she moved—strong, precise, so goddamn alone—it was a bruise under my ribs. If she wasn’t the villain in this story—what the fuck did that make me?
