Paper hearts on ice

​Most people on this campus spend their Tuesday nights at the campus bar down on Main Street or freezing their toes off in the bleachers at Perch Arena. I spend mine in the basement of the university library, tucked behind row forty-two of the rare collections archive, wearing blue rubber gloves and holding a bone folder. ​Paper has rules. If you treat it with respect, it stays intact for centuries. If you pull too hard, it tears. If you apply the wrong glue, it ruins the original surface forever. ​I like things with rules. ​I leaned closer to the wooden table, carefully applying a tiny drop of archival adhesive to the edge of a map printed in 1894. The basement was dead silent except for the low hum of the climate control system keeping the air at sixty-eight degrees and forty percent humidity. It was peaceful. It was safe. ​Then my phone vibrated against the wood. ​The harsh noise shattered the silence. I flinched, holding my breath to make sure my hand hadn't slipped on the antique paper. Once I saw the map was safe, I took off my left glove and picked up the phone. ​The screen glowed with a text from Chloe. ​Chloe: Maya. Emergency. Where are you? ​I typed back with one thumb. ​Maya: Basement archive. Working on the Vermont maps. What’s wrong? ​Chloe: I need you to come outside. Now. Behind the ice rink. ​I frowned at the screen. Chloe was my roommate, a journalism major with an addiction to campus gossip and cheap iced coffee. She was always having an "emergency," which usually meant she saw a cute guy in her ethics class or lost her favorite water bottle. ​Maya: I’m in the middle of a repair, Chloe. I have forty-five minutes before the curator locks the vault. ​Chloe: I’m serious! I forgot my camera bag on the bench near the maintenance doors of the rink. The security guard said he’s locking the perimeter fence in ten minutes. If I lose that camera, my scholarship editor is going to kill me. Please. You’re closer than I am. ​I stared at the message, letting out a long sigh that fluttered the corner of my test parchment. The Perch Arena was right across the quad from the library basement exit. It would take me three minutes to walk over there, grab her bag, and walk back. ​"Fine," I murmured to the empty room. ​I carefully set my tools on the tray, covered the 1894 map with a sheet of acid-free blotter paper, and stripped off my rubber gloves. I grabbed my heavy winter coat, wrapped my scarf twice around my neck, and took the service elevator up to the ground floor. ​The moment I pushed through the back glass doors of the library, the freezing Vermont air hit my face like a wet towel. Snow was coming. You could smell it in the air—sharp, metallic, and cold enough to burn the inside of your nose. ​I pulled my coat tighter around my shoulders and walked briskly across the paved walkway toward the rear of Perch Arena. The building was a massive concrete structure that looked like a grounded spaceship. On game days, you could hear the roar of the crowd all the way across campus. Tonight, it was dark and quiet, the massive parking lot mostly empty except for a few staff sedans and the team equipment van. ​I rounded the side of the building, heading toward the loading dock where the maintenance doors were located. ​That was when I heard the sound. ​I stopped in my tracks, my sneakers slipping slightly on a patch of black ice. I pulled back against the shadow of a large metal recycling bin, keeping my breath quiet. ​Around the corner, under the harsh yellow glow of a single security light, three guys were standing near the metal ramp of the loading dock. ​Two of them were wearing heavy team jackets with the blue and white logo of the Oakhaven Owls stitched across the chest. Even from twenty feet away, I could tell they were athletes. They were massive, wide-shouldered, and built like brick walls. ​The third guy was sitting on the concrete ground, clutching his nose. Blood was dripping down his chin and onto his white hoodie. ​"I told you to shut your mouth, Brad," one of the guys standing up said. ​His voice was deep, steady, but tight with anger. He took off his thick knit cap, running a hand through a mop of messy dark hair. ​That was Noah Miller. ​Even if you didn’t follow hockey at Oakhaven, you knew who Noah Miller was. His face was on the giant banner hanging above the main entrance of the gym. He was the newly appointed captain of the hockey team, an NHL draft prospect, and the guy every sports writer in the state talked about like he walked on water. ​Right now, he didn't look like a campus star. He looked dangerous. ​"You don't get to say that kind of stuff about the team," Noah said, stepping closer to the guy on the ground. "And you definitely don't bring up my family." ​"You think you're untouchable, Miller?" the guy on the ground spat, wiping his bleeding nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. "You're one bad game away from getting stripped of the captain spot. Everyone knows your uncle pushed the board to give it to you." ​The second athlete standing near Noah—a tall guy with a dark buzzcut who I recognized as Tariq Vance, another starter on the team—stepped forward, looking over his shoulder. ​"Noah, leave it," Tariq warned in a low voice. "Someone’s gonna see. The security guards walk the perimeter every half hour." ​"He came after us, Taz," Noah gritted out, his knuckles clenched into tight fists at his sides. White clouds of vapor rose into the freezing night air with every breath. "He shoved you first." ​"I don't care," Tariq said, grabbing Noah’s shoulder. "Look at him. He’s looking for a fight so he can report it. Don't give him the satisfaction." ​The guy on the ground, Brad, pulled himself up against the metal railing, a nasty grin spreading across his face despite the blood. "Too late, captain. My face is bruised. I’m calling the athletic director tomorrow morning. You’re done." ​My heart pounded against my ribs like a trapped bird. My fingers were stiff from the cold, but my hands were shaking for a completely different reason. I wasn't supposed to be here. If they saw me, I’d be dragged right into whatever mess was happening between college hockey players out in the dark. ​I stepped back slowly, intending to slip behind the dumpster and head back to the library. Chloe’s camera bag could stay wherever it was. ​Crack. ​My heel hit a dry stick hidden under a layer of crusty snow. The snap sounded like a gunshot in the quiet alley. ​All three heads snapped in my direction. ​"Who's there?" Tariq called out, his voice sharp. ​I froze. My throat went bone-dry. Before I could even attempt to run, Noah stepped out from the yellow glow of the security light and stalked straight toward the dark gap between the buildings. ​"Hey," he called out, his voice dropping into a low, commanding tone. "Come out where I can see you." ​I swallowed hard, stepped out of the shadow, and pulled my scarf up slightly, trying to shield my face. ​"How long were you standing there?" Noah asked, stopping only a few feet away. ​Up close, he towered over me. He had a sharp jaw, dark eyes that looked almost pitch-black under the dim lighting, and a fresh cut along his cheekbone that was bleeding slightly. He looked furious, his broad chest rising and falling heavily. He smelled like cold air, leather, and sweat. ​"I... I just got here," I lied immediately, my voice trembling despite my best effort to keep it steady. "I was just looking for a bag. I didn't see anything." ​Noah narrowed his eyes, taking a single step closer until he was blocking almost all the light behind him. The size difference alone was terrifying. He didn't yell; he didn't have to. The sheer physical presence of a six-foot-two athlete in full gear made me feel like I was about to be crushed. ​He leaned down slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that made my stomach drop into a cold pit. ​"Listen to me very carefully," Noah said, his voice dropping into a low, harsh whisper that chilled me faster than the wind. "You were never here tonight. You didn't see Brad, you didn't see Taz, and you definitely didn't see me. If I hear even a single whisper about this tomorrow morning, I’ll know exactly who opened her mouth." ​I squeezed my hands into fists inside my coat pockets, nodding quickly. "I didn't see anything. I swear." ​Tariq stepped up behind him, holding a black leather strap in his hand. "Noah, chill out, she's terrified. Is this the bag you were looking for?" he asked, holding up Chloe’s camera bag. "Found it on the steps." ​"Y-yes," I stammered, taking it with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. "Thank you." ​Noah didn't step back. He held my gaze for three agonizing seconds, letting the silence press down on me until I felt completely paralyzed. ​"Get back inside," Noah commanded softly. ​I didn't need to be told twice. I turned around and walked as fast as my legs could take me back toward the bright glass doors of the library quad, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. ​Once I cleared the corner of the building, I let out a long, ragged breath. I pulled my hands out of my pockets to text Chloe—and froze. ​In my right hand, I was holding my personal digital recorder. ​My throat closed up. I had grabbed it from my jacket pocket without thinking while Noah was towering over me, holding it tight like a stress ball. ​The screen was lit up. The tiny red LED light at the top was pulsing. ​RECORDING IN PROGRESS. ​My blood ran cold. I had left it on voice-activated mode after my afternoon lecture on rare paper conservation. When I stuffed it into my pocket before walking outside, it must have triggered the moment Noah started speaking. ​Panicked, I pressed the stop button. ​BEEP. ​The loud, electronic chime rang out through the freezing night air. ​"What was that?" a deep voice called out from right behind the alley corner. ​My head snapped around. Noah and Tariq hadn't walked away toward the dorms. They were stepping around the edge of the building, just twenty feet away, their eyes instantly locking onto the glowing digital device in my hand. ​Noah’s face hardened, his dark eyes snapping up to meet mine. ​"Is that a recorder?" Noah asked, his voice deathly quiet as he took a long, deliberate step toward me. ​I backed up a step, my knuckles white as I clutched the device to my chest.