Paper hearts on ice

Chapter 2

The glare of the safety lamp overhead caught the small black plastic casing of the digital recorder. The red light had stopped pulsing, replaced by a solid screen showing

FILE 004 SAVED.

​I couldn't move. The cold air burned my lungs, but my breath stayed trapped in my chest.

​Noah didn't rush me. That made it worse. He walked with a heavy, deliberate stride, his heavy winter boots crunching over the frozen snow. Tariq followed a step behind him, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, his expression shifting from annoyed to deadly serious.

​"Hand it over," Noah said. His voice wasn't raised, but it carried a weight that made my instinct tell me to drop to my knees and surrender whatever he wanted.

​"It was an accident," I gasped out. My voice sounded thin, pathetic against the howling wind whipping across the quad. "I didn't turn it on for you. It's for my library lectures. It's voice-activated."

​"I don't care why it's on," Noah said, stopping two feet away from me. He was so close I could smell the faint metallic scent of copper from the cut on his cheek. "Give me the recorder, Maya."

​"No," I said, the word slipping out before my brain could process how stupid it was to say no to a six-foot-two athlete who looked ready to break something.

​Noah’s eyes narrowed. "No?"

​"This belongs to the university library department," I said, backing up until my spine hit the cold brick wall of the main library structure. "And I... I didn't mean to record you. I can just delete the file right now."

​"Then delete it," Tariq put in, stepping around Noah’s side to cut off my escape path toward the quad. "Do it right here. Let us see you press the button."

​My fingers were trembling so badly I could barely hold the device. I lifted it up, my thumb hovering over the red trash can icon on the small screen.

​"Wait," Noah commanded sharply.

​Tariq looked at him, confused. "What do you mean, wait? Let her delete it so we can get out of here before Brad calls the cops."

​Noah kept his gaze locked on my face. He stepped closer, casting a shadow that completely blocked out the security light. "Show me the screen."

​I held out the device with a shaking arm. Noah reached out and grabbed my wrist.

​His grip wasn't painful, but it was solid as iron. His fingers were broad and warm against my freezing skin. He pulled my wrist closer to his face, tilting the tiny LCD screen toward the light.

​"File 004," Noah read aloud softly. His thumb—rough, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick—brushed against mine as he pressed the menu button himself. The audio bar popped up. He hit play.

​The speaker cracked to life with static, followed instantly by the sharp sound of Brad’s voice: "...everyone knows your uncle pushed the board to give it to you."

​Then Noah’s deep, furious voice rasped out of the speaker: "He came after us, Taz. He shoved you first."

​Noah paused the file.

​The silence that followed was suffocating.

​"He shoved Taz first," Noah repeated slowly, as if he was processing the words for the first time. He looked down at me, his dark eyes shifting from anger to something far more complex.

​"Yeah," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "The audio... it proves you didn't start it. It proves Brad went after your friend first."

​Tariq let out a low whistle. "Holy s**t. Noah... Brad told the coach he was going to say you jumped him from behind. If he goes to the board with a black eye, the board is going to take his side. They’re already looking for a reason to strip your captain badge after that bar video last month."

​Noah didn't say anything for a long moment. His grip on my wrist loosened slightly, but he didn't let go entirely. His thumb hovered over the small plastic casing of my recorder.

​"You didn't turn this on on purpose?" he asked me.

​"I swear I didn't," I said, my voice steadying just a fraction. "I keep it on auto-detect for my condition reports. When I put my hands in my pockets while you were talking to me, the microphone picked up your voice."

​Noah looked from the recorder to my face. The cold wind blew a lock of dark hair across his forehead. Up close, under the harsh yellow lights, I could see dark circles under his eyes. He didn't just look mad; he looked exhausted.

​"If Brad reports this," Noah said, his voice dropping into that low, heavy register again, "he's going to lie. He's got three guys on his line who will swear I attacked him without warning. The athletic board won't care about my word against four people."

​"Noah, don't," Tariq warned softly. "Don't bring her into this."

​"She's already in it," Noah said without looking away from me. "She has the only recording of what actually happened."

​I pulled my wrist back. This time, Noah let me go. I snatched the recorder close to my sweater, wrapping both hands around it like a shield.

​"I am not getting involved in team politics," I stated, trying to sound as firm as possible. "I work in paper restoration. I have a scholarship to maintain. I can't be listed on some official sports investigation report."

​"Nobody is putting you on an investigation report," Noah said smoothly. "If the board sees this file, Brad’s claim gets thrown out before it even reaches a hearing. Nobody ever has to know where the file came from."

​"No," I said firmly, taking two steps back toward the library doors. "I'm deleting it. You told me to forget I was ever here tonight. I'm going to do exactly that."

​I lifted my thumb to hit the clear command.

​"Maya, stop," Noah said.

​He didn't grab me this time. He just stood there, towering in the snow, his posture straight, his eyes fixing me with an intensity that made me pause.

​"If I lose the captain spot," Noah said quietly, "I lose my ice time. If I lose my ice time, the scouts stop coming. My entire career ends before it even starts."

​"That isn't my problem," I replied, though the sight of his jaw clenched in quiet desperation made a small prick of guilt stir in my chest.

​"I'll buy the recorder from you," Noah offered immediately. "Name a price. Five hundred dollars. A thousand."

​I let out a harsh, dry laugh. "I don't want your money, Miller."

​"Then what do you want?"

​"I want to go back to my basement," I said. "I want to finish repairing my 1894 maps, hand Chloe her stupid camera bag, and never see your face again."

​Noah looked at Tariq, then back at me. A slow, calculated look passed over his features. The desperate edge disappeared, replaced by the calm, strategic focus of a guy who spent twenty hours a week analyzing game footage.

​"You work in the rare collections department?" Noah asked.

​I blinked, thrown off by the sudden change in subject. "Yes."

​"The historic archives project?" Noah continued, stepping closer again. "The one funding the digital preservation of the state's founding documents?"

​My stomach tightened. "How do you know about that?"

​"My family's foundation funds forty percent of the university's humanities grants," Noah said calmly. "My father is on the board of trustees. The athletic department isn't the only thing they sponsor."

​I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat.

​"The library foundation board meets next Thursday to approve the spring budget," Noah said, his tone smooth, conversational, and entirely dangerous. "If I ask my father to look into the restoration department's funding... I'm sure he could make sure your specific project gets all the resources it needs."

​"Are you blackmailing me?" I asked, my blood running cold for a completely different reason now.

​"I'm offering a trade," Noah corrected, his dark eyes unwavering. "You give me the file. I make sure your quiet life in the basement stays funded for the next two years."

​I stood under the freezing Vermont sky, holding the small black device that suddenly felt heavier than a stone. I looked at Noah Miller—his bleeding cheek, his expensive team jacket, and the quiet, immovable power he carried just by existing in this university.

​He was asking me to break my rules. And I hated him for it.

​"One file," I whispered.

​Noah’s lips twitched into a faint, victorious smile. "Just the file."