Shattered Ice

The Enemy’s Desk

If hell had a seating chart, mine would have had my name scrawled right next to: Tutor: Damon Kane.

I stood outside the glass-walled study room, clutching my notes so tight they wrinkled in my hands. Through the glass, he was already there, slouched low in the chair, legs sprawled like the table belonged to him. Hoodie unzipped, hair damp, phone glowing in his hand. Not a care in the world.

Meanwhile, my stomach was tying itself into sailor’s knots. I was one bad grade away from losing everything.

I pushed the door open. “Kane.”

He didn’t bother looking up. “Charity case.”

Heat shot through me. “That’s not my name.”

Finally, his eyes lifted, pale and sharp, a slow smirk tugging at his mouth. “Right. Torres. The girl who thinks she can take me down with a coffee order.”

I dropped my books on the table with a thud. “I’m not here to take you down. I’m here to keep you from failing and dragging me with you.”

That caught him. The smirk wavered. “Dragging you?”

“Dean’s orders.” The words tasted bitter. “If you fail, I lose my scholarship.”

His brows knit, just for a second. “They tied your scholarship to me?”

I clenched my jaw. “Congratulations. My future is officially tethered to whether you can spell ‘economics.’”

He leaned back, the grin creeping back in slow motion. “So what you’re saying is… I own you now.”

I nearly hurled my notebook at his head. “No. What you own is three hours of my week. Use them or don’t, but if you tank this, you don’t just kill your season, you take me down with you.”

His smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened, like he liked the sound of the stakes. “Guess we’re both playing for keeps, Torres.”

The session was agony.

“Define this term,” I said, pointing to the textbook.

He tilted his head, lazy grin firmly in place. “Why don’t you define it for me?”

“Because you’re the one being tested, not me.”

“I’m testing you.”

“On what?”

“Patience.”

I squeezed the pen so hard it almost snapped. He was doing this deliberately, poking, prodding, waiting for me to lose it.

But I wasn’t some girl who’d giggle and slide him the answers. I’d fought for every inch I had, and I wasn’t about to let him make me crumble.

So I leaned across the desk, close enough to see the faint scar along his jaw, close enough to watch his eyes sharpen. “Listen, Kane. You don’t scare me. And if you think I’ll risk my scholarship just so you can coast, you’re wrong. Open the book, or I walk out and let you explain to your coach why the team’s golden boy can’t stay eligible.”

For the first time, silence. His jaw worked. Then, without a word, he cracked open the book.

Score one for me.

An hour later, I staggered out of the room, brain buzzing. He’d fought me every step, but I’d wrung half a page of notes out of him. Half a page more than he started with.

As I packed my bag, he leaned in, close enough that his voice brushed my ear.

“You fight harder than most people I know.”

I froze. Didn’t answer. Didn’t dare.

Because part of me, traitorous and stupid, liked the way he said it.

****

That night, I was back behind the café counter, drowning in espresso shots. My coworker nudged me with her elbow. “Hey, isn’t that your new… student?”

I looked up. Damon Kane stood there. Alone this time. No teammates. No entourage. Just him, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed on me.

“I’ll take whatever you recommend,” he said, voice low, steady.

Something twisted in my chest.

But before I could answer, the door chimed. A girl swept in, tall and gorgeous, Damon’s jersey hanging off her like it belonged to her. She slid her arm through his without hesitation.

“Ready to go, babe?” she purred.

And just like that, the smirk returned, like it had never left. “Always.”

He walked out with her on his arm, leaving me standing there with an empty cup in my hand and heat crawling up my throat.

I shoved the cup under the counter before anyone could see the way my hands shook.

This wasn’t just tutoring.

This was war.