Paper hearts on ice

Chapter 3

The walk back to my dorm room felt longer than it ever had before.

​The wind had picked up, driving sharp needles of icy snow against my cheeks. I kept my chin tucked deep into my scarf, my right hand clenched tightly around the digital recorder inside my coat pocket. My palm was sweating despite the sub-zero temperature.

​I had given him my word, but I hadn’t given him the file yet.

​"Bring it to the Owl’s Nest tomorrow morning at seven," Noah had said before turning to leave with Tariq. "Before morning skate."

​Seven in the morning. I usually didn't even open my eyes until seven-thirty on Wednesdays.

​When I unlocked the door to Room 304, the warm air smelled like lavender air freshener, burnt popcorn, and stale coffee. Chloe was sitting cross-legged on her unmade bed, wrapped in a oversized fuzzy blanket with her laptop balanced on her knees.

​"Did you get it?" she asked without looking up from her screen, her fingers flying across the keyboard.

​I tossed the heavy leather camera bag onto her desk. It hit the wood with a dull thud.

​"You owe me," I said, unzipping my coat and hanging it on the hook behind the door. My hands were still stiff from the cold.

​Chloe gasped, snapping her laptop shut and leaping off the bed to grab the bag. "Maya, you are an actual angel sent from heaven. I thought the security guards threw it in the lost and found. I would have literally died. My editor wants five photos of the varsity ski team by midnight."

​"Yeah, well, make sure you don't leave it behind the arena next time," I said, walking over to my small desk.

​I pulled the recorder out of my pocket and laid it flat on the wooden surface. The tiny black casing seemed to mock me. It looked completely innocent, just a tool for transcribing long lectures on nineteenth-century binding techniques, but inside was an audio track that could blow up the university athletic department.

​"What's that?" Chloe asked, stepping over a pile of dirty laundry to peek over my shoulder.

​"Nothing. Just my lecture notes."

​"You look stressed," Chloe observed, leaning down to inspect my face. She narrowed her eyes. "Why are your cheeks red? Did you run back?"

​"It’s freezing outside, Chloe."

​"Right. Obviously." She turned back to her desk, unzipping her camera bag to check the memory card. "Oh, did you hear the drama on the sports forum while you were out? Apparently, Brad Dawson from the second line got into some huge argument outside the rink tonight. People are saying he’s trying to get Noah Miller suspended."

​I froze with my hand halfway to my laptop charger. I forced my posture to stay relaxed, keeping my voice as flat as humanly possible.

​"Who?"

​"Noah Miller," Chloe said, rolling her eyes as if I were asking who the President was. "The captain? The guy whose face is literally three feet wide on the side of the gym building? Anyway, rumors are saying Brad showed up at the trainer's office with a broken nose, claiming Noah jumped him after practice."

​"Is that what happened?" I asked softly, plugging my recorder into the USB port of my laptop.

​"Probably not," Chloe snorted, pulling her hair back into a messy bun. "Brad's a total snake. He’s been jealous of Noah since freshman year because Noah got the starting spot over him. But if Brad makes an official complaint, the athletic director has to investigate it. And since Noah already got a warning for that stupid bar scrap last month, one more strike could get his captain badge stripped."

​She paused, staring at her laptop screen with a thoughtful look. "It would completely ruin the Owls' season before playoffs even start. Scouts are coming to the game against Dartmouth this Saturday. If Noah’s benched, his draft stock plummets."

​I didn't answer. I watched the progress bar on my laptop screen as the audio file transferred from the handheld device to my local drive.

​AUDIO_004.wav

​It took three seconds. Three seconds to transfer a tiny string of data that held the fate of Oakhaven’s biggest star in its code.

​Noah Miller was a bully. He had backed me against a brick wall, towered over me until I couldn't breathe, and used his family's money to back me into a corner. He was loud, arrogant, and part of a world I spent every single day trying to avoid.

​He shoved Taz first.

​I closed my eyes, the memory of his low, strained voice echoing in my head. He hadn't looked like an arrogant star when he said it. He had looked terrified. Not of Brad, but of losing the only thing that seemed to matter to him.

​"Anyway," Chloe said, flopping back onto her bed with her camera. "I'm going to edit these ski photos. Are you working on your paper thesis tonight?"

​"No," I murmured, staring at the screen. "I’m going to sleep early."

​The alarm went off at six fifteen.

​It was still pitch black outside my window when I pulled on my thick sweater, heavy jeans, and my winter coat. Chloe was snoring softly under her pile of blankets as I slipped my laptop into my canvas tote bag and crept out of the room.

​The campus was dead silent at six forty-five. A fresh blanket of powdery snow had fallen overnight, smoothing over the frozen tire tracks and footprints from the day before. The streetlights along Main Street cast soft, orange halos through the fog.

​The Owl’s Nest Diner sat at the corner of Main and Elm, its vintage neon sign humming quietly against the dark sky. The windows were fogged over from the heat inside.

​I pushed the heavy glass door open, a small brass bell jingling overhead.

​The smell of fried bacon, burnt coffee, and maple syrup hit me instantly. The diner was mostly empty, except for two old men in flannel shirts sitting at the counter reading the morning paper.

​In the back corner booth, partially hidden behind a tall wooden divider, sat Noah Miller.

​He wasn't wearing his team jacket today. He wore a plain gray heavyweight hoodie with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscular forearms covered in fine dark hair. A large white mug of black coffee sat between his hands. He was staring out the window into the dark street, his jaw rigid.

​The cut on his cheek looked redder today, a sharp line against his pale skin.

​I walked over, my boots squeaking slightly against the linoleum floor.

​Noah’s head snapped toward me immediately. He didn't look tired anymore; his dark eyes were instantly sharp, tracking my every move as I stopped at the edge of his table.

​"You're late," he said. His voice was lower in the morning, a rough rasp that sounded like gravel.

​"It's six fifty-eight," I said, sliding into the booth opposite him without waiting for an invitation. "I'm two minutes early."

​Noah looked at his watch, then back at me. He didn't offer a smile, and he didn't apologize for his attitude. He just sat there, dominating the small booth with his broad frame.

​"Did you bring it?" he asked.

​I unzipped my canvas tote bag, pulled out a silver USB drive, and set it on the formica tabletop right between us.

​Noah stared down at the small piece of metal. He didn't grab it immediately. He looked back up at my face, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to figure out if I was playing some kind of trick on him.

​"Is this the only copy?" he asked.

​"It's the file from the recorder," I said, keeping my hands folded in my lap. "I transferred it last night."

​"And the original?"

​"Deleted from the device," I lied smoothly. I had backed it up to an encrypted cloud folder first. I wasn't stupid. If Noah Miller thought he could use his father's money to control me, I needed to make sure I had insurance.

​Noah reached out, his long fingers closing around the USB drive. He tucked it into the front pocket of his hoodie.

​"Good," he said softly.

​A waitress with gray hair tucked behind her ears walked over, setting a plastic laminated menu in front of me. "What can I get for you, honey?"

​"Just water, please," I said.

​"She’ll have a black coffee and two blueberry pancakes," Noah corrected smoothly, looking up at the waitress with a faint, charming smile that made my stomach do a strange, uncomfortable flip. "Put it on my tab, Mrs. Gable."

​"You got it, Noah," the waitress smiled, patting his shoulder before walking back toward the kitchen.

​I glared across the table at him. "I didn't order food."

​"You look like you haven't eaten a full meal since freshman year," Noah said, leaning back against the vinyl seat, crossing his arms over his chest. "And you look freezing."

​"I don't need your charity, Miller. I gave you the file. Our deal is done."

​"The deal isn't done until the athletic board sees the audio and drops Brad’s complaint," Noah said flatly. "Which happens at eight this morning when my uncle meets with the director."

​I leaned forward, keeping my voice low so the men at the counter couldn't hear. "I did my part. Now you do yours. You talk to your father about the library preservation grant."

​Noah watched me for a long moment, his dark eyes searching my face. Up close, without the shadow of the rink hiding his features, he was ridiculously handsome. It was the kind of face that belonged on a billboard—sharp angles, dark eyebrows, and intense, heavy-lidded eyes that made you feel like he was evaluating your every flaw.

​"What's so special about old paper anyway?" Noah asked suddenly.

​I blinked. "What?"

​"The maps," he said, gesturing vaguely with one hand. "The archives. You were ready to let me get suspended last night until I brought up the grant. Why do you care so much about a bunch of old documents?"

​"It’s not just old paper," I said defensively, my voice tightening. "It’s history. It’s physical evidence of things that existed before people like you came along and ruined everything with loud noises and hockey sticks. When something is torn, I fix it. It stays fixed. It doesn't lie, and it doesn't make messes."

​Noah didn't laugh. He didn't make a sarcastic joke like I expected him to. He just stared at me, his gaze dropping to my hands resting on the table.

​"Must be nice," he muttered softly.

​"What?"

​"Having things you can actually fix," Noah said, his tone turning cold and guarded once again as the waitress returned, setting a steaming plate of blueberry pancakes and a mug of black coffee in front of me.

​He pulled a stack of folded bills out of his pocket, tossed a twenty onto the table, and slid out of the booth.

​He stood over the table, towering over me just like he had in the alley last night.

​"Eat your pancakes, Maya," Noah said, pulling his thick knit cap over his dark hair. "I’ll let you know when the board makes their decision."

​Before I could reply, he turned and walked out of the diner, the brass bell ringing above the door as he stepped out into the freezing morning air.