Shattered Ice

Broken Edges

The alarm didn’t wake me. The cold did.

I blinked awake to the sting of frozen air clawing at my skin. My apartment always felt like an icebox in the mornings, thanks to the busted heater my landlord swore he’d fix “next week.” That promise was three months old.

I curled tighter under my thin blanket, pretending I had another hour. But my body already knew the truth—shift started in forty minutes. And if I didn’t show, my manager would cut my hours. Again.

Rent didn’t pay itself. Scholarships didn’t cover everything. And dreams? Dreams were the most expensive thing of all.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, the floor biting cold under my bare feet. “Rise and shine, Torres,” I muttered. “The glamorous life of a scholarship student.”

By the time I trudged into the campus coffee shop, the place was already buzzing. Students in sleek jackets clustered in line, their laughter sharp and easy. Hockey posters covered the walls, our team, the Hawks, grinning from every corner.

And front and center, Damon Kane.

Of course.

His face was everywhere: the smirk, the easy confidence, the blond hair that somehow looked expensive even when it was messy. The kind of guy who didn’t just walk into a room—he bent it around himself. Damon Kane wasn’t just a hockey player. He was the hockey player. Son of someone important. The kind of student who had the world waiting with open arms.

I hated him already.

Not personally. Not yet. Just on principle. People like him floated. People like me scraped.

“Torres!” My manager barked. “Let’s move. Big crowd.”

I tied on my apron, shoved my hair into a bun, and dove in. The line stretched long, caffeine-deprived zombies tapping their phones while I scribbled names on cups.

And then he walked in.

I didn’t need to see him to know it was him. The air shifted; whispers rippled through the line; girls straightened up, touching their hair. Damon Kane strolled in with two teammates, laughter rolling off him like he owned the room.

And maybe he did.

I kept my eyes down. Don’t look. Don’t engage. Rich boys were trouble.

“Excuse me.” His voice slid across the counter low, smooth, practiced. “Triple espresso. No line, thanks.”

I looked up. Blue eyes. That smirk. Damon Kane, leaning on the counter like it was a throne.

The girls behind him giggled.

I crossed my arms. “Line starts behind the guy with three textbooks and an existential crisis.”

The café went silent. Then a ripple of laughter broke out. Damon’s smirk slipped, his teammates elbowing him.

His gaze sharpened. “Do you know who I am?”

“Unfortunately.” I grabbed the next order slip. “Still doesn’t change the fact you’ve got two legs. Use them.”

The flush that climbed his neck wasn’t embarrassment. It was anger. His jaw flexed, but he stepped back.

And he waited in line.

The whole time, his eyes never left me.

****

By the end of my shift, my hands were raw from steam burns, my feet ached, and Damon Kane’s glare was still needling its way through my head. Worse, I hated that I’d noticed how good-looking he was up close. I hated even more that it mattered.

Shoving those thoughts down, I hurried across campus to my advisor’s office.

“Lena,” Professor Harding said as soon as I stepped in. Her glasses caught the light, sharp as her tone. “Your GPA has slipped.”

Ice rushed through me. “It’s one class—”

“One class away from losing your scholarship.”

My stomach bottomed out.

“I can’t afford—”

“Which is why I’ve found a solution.” She folded her hands neatly. “You’re being assigned as a tutor. It comes with pay, and it will count toward your academic support hours.”

Relief flickered. “That’s… actually good. Who’s the student?”

Her mouth curved into something not quite a smile. “Damon Kane.”

The relief evaporated.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“He needs to stay eligible. You need to stay enrolled. It’s a perfect match.”

Perfect. Sure. Babysitting a spoiled hockey star while my future dangled by a thread.

Life really had a sense of humor.

Our first session was even worse than I’d pictured.

He slouched into the library, hoodie half-zipped, hair still damp from practice. That same smirk tugged at his mouth when he spotted me.

“You?” His voice dripped disbelief. “You’re my tutor?”

“Don’t sound so thrilled,” I muttered.

He leaned closer, too close. “This is rich. A charity case teaching me? What’s next? do I get gold stars when I spell my name right?”

My fists tightened. “At least I didn’t buy my way in with daddy’s money and brute force.”

The smirk vanished. For a heartbeat, something raw flickered in his eyes. Then it was gone, buried under a hollow laugh.

We lasted twenty minutes before I walked out, swearing I’d rather clean toilets than deal with him.

But walking away wasn’t an option. My scholarship wasn’t optional.

And Damon Kane? He wasn’t going anywhere.

That night, I picked up a shift at the arena concessions stand. The crowd roared when the Hawks stormed the ice. And there he was Damon Kane in his element. Fast, ruthless, electric. The golden boy, untouchable.

I hated the way my chest tightened watching him.

Then chaos broke loose.

A fight exploded on the ice. Damon and a rival slammed into each other, fists flying, blood streaking across the white. The crowd went wild, phones flashing, security dragging them apart. By the time the final whistle blew, his name was already splashed everywhere.

By morning, the scandal was plastered across headlines.

And my phone rang.

“Miss Torres,” the dean’s voice was smooth, clipped. “If Kane fails, he’s benched. If he’s benched, alumni funding disappears. And if that happens… we’ll be forced to reevaluate which scholarships we can sustain. Including yours.”

The line went dead.

I stared at my phone, pulse hammering.

Damon Kane wasn’t just my problem anymore.

He was my sentence.