Page 10 of Iced Out
I used the eraser to pull out a highlight in his lower lip. Another above his brow. I was chasing light and edge and all the things I would never be able to say.
Around me, students murmured, chairs scraped, the teacher droned on about structure and line weight. None of it mattered. I was buried in the lines of a guy who hated me, who still looked at me, unable to decide whether to destroy or protect.
I didn’t even realize I was breathing easier until I looked down and saw the page nearly finished. Even if nothing else made sense, this did. This was mine. He used to be too.
That night, at home, I checked the school’s tagged stories on Instagram. There it was. A looped video of Luke on the ice. Scoring the game-winning goal. The crowd exploded. Avery was there, cheering on the sidelines. And I—just like I’d been for the past year—was the ghost. Still watching from the edge. Still missing from the picture.
CHAPTER FOUR
LUKE
Iwas built for this. The pre-game silence. The slight weight of protective gear strapped tight to my shoulders. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, a countdown to war. In here, before the blood and ice and violence, I was steel. Calm. Locked in. Nothing else existed.
Not my family. Not the dynasty pressuring me to carry their legacy on my back. Not the whispers about who I used to be before I was crowned captain. Not the girl who vanished in the dead of night and left a crater in her wake.
Not today. Today was Crestview. Our oldest rival. The kind of game that set the tone for the entire season. And I was ready to detonate.
The guys gave me space. They always did when I got this way. They thought I was just in the zone—clinical, methodical, ruthless. Focused.
Theo cracked jokes in the corner, tearing an energy bar open with his teeth. Chase was pacing, hyped and twitchy. Jax sat near me, lacing his skates with that quiet, dangerous intensity that matched mine more than anyone else’s. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.
I didn’t look up. Just tightened my grip on the hockey stick between my knees, rolling my shoulders to shake off the last of whatever wasn’t game-related.
But it was still there. In the back of my head—Mila. The earthquake beneath the surface I hadn’t prepared for. The fault line I’d forgotten could still split me wide open.
She shook my world. But that didn’t matter now. Because when everything else failed, I came back to the one thing I could count on. The ice. The game. The violence that asked for nothing but instinct and grit.
Not love. Not loyalty. Just blood, breath, and blades. And tonight? I was ready to burn.
My brother had texted me an hour before warm-ups.You’ve got this.Followed by a picture of him and his fiancée Claire at some business dinner, perfectly polished.
I didn’t respond.
Drew was back in the fold now. Wearing ties. Playing house with the girl who’d saved his reputation. Pretending like he’d never fallen. But I remembered the nights he hadn’t come home. The headlines our father had to bury. The glassy eyes and empty bottles.
The way he looked at me now—as if he wanted to believe I had it all under control, but he wasn’t sure. He, most of all, knew the pressure our father put on us, and when he was counted out, the mantle had settled on my shoulders. It still rested there despite how he’d returned and stepped up. Our father didn’t like unknowns, chances that weren’t a sure thing—and Drew had, for a while, looked like one. Dad still treated him that way, and it pissed me off. I didn’t understand how he could partially dismiss his oldest son.
Drew had cornered me in the kitchen before I left. Tie loosened, phone in one hand, the other braced on the counter.“You good?” His eyes searched too long. “Because if something’s off—I can help. I’ve got your back.”
I lied the way we all did. A short shrug, eyes steady. “I’m good.”
His mouth had pressed flat, as if he’d wanted to say more but swallowed it.
I was the last one out of the locker room. The sound of my skate guards on concrete echoed down the tunnel, counting down each step toward the rink.
The air hit colder when I stepped onto the ice. The arena was packed—Blackwood Academy black and silver everywhere, chants vibrating against the plexiglass.
And then there she was. Not Mila. Avery. Dead center behind the bench, palms flat on the plexiglass, mouth already moving. Probably yelling at Chase. Probably loving every second of it. The seat beside her was empty. It used to be Mila’s.
She’d sit with her legs folded, hoodie pulled halfway up over her hair, clutching a coffee, as if it could shield her from the cold she hated. I’d look over during breaks and found her watching me—not the game,me—as though she were memorizing every second.
And now she was gone. Still not here. But I felt her, a phantom limb. A song that used to play on repeat in the back of my head until I forgot how to stop humming it.
Coach called the first line. I didn’t hesitate. Didn’t think. I hit the ice and chased the puck as if it owed me something.
Crestview’s forward made a lazy attempt at a cross-check near the blue line. I answered with a hit that rattled his bones. He dropped like a stone, stick sliding across the ice.
The crowd exploded. The ref’s whistle came late—an afterthought. I didn’t stop. Didn’t blink. Just skated away while the trainers rushed the ice.
