ON ENEMY ICE

CHAPTER NINE

ELIAN

The Grand Hall does not feel like an awards hall anymore. It feels like an arena after the ice has melted.

Director Chen taps her mic, murmuring something about mandatory media availability for the Top Sixteen, and the room breaks. The stage lights go down, the house lights come up, and the space transitions into a corporate networking event in about thirty seconds. Champagne flutes clink; chairs scrape the marble.

The press swarms Table Seven first.

For twenty minutes, it is a blur of flashing lenses and audio recorders. The Hockey News, ESPN College, scouts from the NHL. They ask me about being tied for first in the league. They ask Jace. They press us on the upcoming tournament, on linemates, on our draft projections. Jace answers like he’s defending a blue line. Short sentences. A flat, dangerous voice. No wasted motion. I give them the golden-boy routine they paid to see—bright smiles, quick humor, flawless media training.

No one asks us to pose together. No one asks us to hold our trophies up for a joint photo. The media might be vultures, but they aren't stupid.

They can feel the atmospheric pressure between us. We do not look at each other once.

When the cameras finally migrate to the other tables, the air around us turns suffocating.

Jace sits completely rigid next to me. His trophy sits untouched on the linen cloth; his roses are discarded on the floor by his wingtips like trash. His jaw is locked so tight I can see the muscle ticking.

He is entirely unreadable to the rest of the world. But I have spent two years studying the anatomy of his silence. I know exactly where the cracks are.

"You really turned on the charm out there, Rhys," I say, keeping my voice low enough to slide under the chatter of the room. "I almost forgot you actually had a pulse."

He doesn’t look at me. He picks up his water glass, his fingers wrapping around the crystal with enough pressure to shatter it.

"What's the play tonight? Total radio silence?" I lean back, tilting my head. "The brooding, stoic captain. It’s getting a little predictable, don’t you think?"

"I am not playing with you, Cole," he says. His voice is a low, gravelly warning.

"Oh, look at that. It speaks."

"You talked enough for both of us," Jace says, finally cutting his eyes toward me. They are entirely devoid of warmth—just two chips of gray ice. "As usual. You love the sound of your own voice."

"Someone had to give them a quote they could actually print. You looked like you were plotting a mass casualty event. It’s bad PR, Jace. Especially for someone with your family's... background."

A dangerous, quiet stillness settles over him. The kind that usually precedes a bench-clearing brawl.

"I don't need to perform for them," Jace says smoothly. "They voted for my tape, not my personality."

"Clearly. Because if they factored in human emotion, you'd be in the ECHL."

His knuckles go completely white against the glass. "At least my game doesn't require a circus act to look impressive. You skate fast because you’re terrified of getting hit, Elian. Your line has been shielding you from the real monsters since freshman year."

A cold spike of adrenaline hits my chest. I lean forward, planting my elbows on the table, invading his space until I can smell the expensive cedarwood cologne on his collar. "Is that what you think? That I'm protected?"

"I know you are." Jace doesn't flinch. He leans in just an inch, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "You hit like someone who assumes the world will always yield to him. You play like a spoiled rich kid who thinks the ice is a ballroom. You've never actually been broken on the boards, Cole. You wouldn't know what to do with the blood."

"Try me," I dare him, my heart hammering against my ribs—not from fear, but from the sudden, intoxicating rush of finally pulling a spark out of his dead eyes. "We don't need a rink, Rhys. We can go out to the parking lot right now. Show me how you break things."

His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second, heavy and threatening, before locking back onto my eyes.

"I don't do charity work," he says, his voice flatting out again, reclaiming his icy control. "You'll get what's coming to you at camp. When your line isn't there to save you, I'm going to take your legs out from under you."

Before the heat between us can completely ignite, Director Chen’s assistant barks our names, appearing with a clipboard.

"Rhys! Cole! Cut the staring contest. You’re needed for the televised broadcast. Private room, down the hall, mic'd. Move."

Jace stands immediately. He doesn't look back. He leaves his roses in the dirt and strides toward the corridor. I grab my trophy and follow, my pulse still racing from the friction.

The private interview room down the hall is a soundproofed vacuum. It smells faintly of stale coffee and industrial cleaner. Two leather couches face each other, separated by a heavy oak coffee table.

We sit opposite each other. The silence between us isn't empty; it's heavy, pressurized, and violent. He checks his phone once, his dark brows furrowing, before placing it face down on the cushion beside him.

The broadcast crew enters, clips the lapel mics onto our suits, and runs us through five mandatory questions. We handle it like professionals. We lie seamlessly to the camera, praising each other's competitive drive while keeping our eyes fixed on the lenses rather than each other.

The second the crew packs up and the heavy oak door clicks shut, the mask drops.

Jace is sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. He looks like he wants to tear the room apart.

"You're welcome for keeping it civil on air," I say, testing the boundaries again.

Silence.

"What, nothing? No witty comeback about my performance?"

Jace stands up, grabs his trophy by the neck, and walks toward the exit without a single word. He doesn't just ignore me; he erases me from the room.

"Don't do that," I say, snapping to my feet as he reaches for the brass handle. "Don't turn your back on me like I'm nothing. Look at me, Jace."

He opens the door and steps out, letting it swing shut heavily behind him.

The room drops back into a dead quiet. On the couch, his roses are still bleeding petals onto the leather. And right next to them, his phone sits face down on the cushion. Dark. Forgotten.

I stare at the door.

Then, my eyes slowly drift down to the phone.