Ice Between Us

The Ryan Holloway Problem

"Miss Brooke, you're up."

The words sent a fresh wave of nerves crashing through me.

Fantastic.

I grabbed my notes, pushed out of my seat, and made my way to the podium.

Showtime.

"Good day, everyone. My name is Layla Brooke, and today I'll be presenting on truth in documentary filmmaking."

Not to brag, but I sounded pretty confident.

Maybe even a little impressive.

"Documentaries are built on real people, events, and experiences. While they cannot capture every aspect of reality, they use research, interviews, and observation to present a truthful representation of it. Like journalism and history, documentaries do not need to show everything to communicate truth. Therefore, truth in documentary filmmaking is the honest representation of reality –"

"Sorry to interrupt."

The voice cut through the room.

I froze.

The speaker wasn't anyone I recognized.

Every head in the class turned in the same direction.

"I appreciate your perspective," he said casually, "but I disagree."

My grip tightened around my notes.

Excuse me?

I hadn't even finished my introduction.

Heck, I hadn't even gotten started.

"Documentaries don't simply capture reality—they shape it." He spoke with the confidence of someone who clearly enjoyed hearing himself talk. "Every choice a filmmaker makes—where to place the camera, what footage to include, what to leave out—changes how audiences perceive the truth."

He paused.

I was already annoyed.

"Think about it. Two filmmakers cover the same protest. One focuses on peaceful demonstrators demanding justice. The other focuses on violence and destruction. Both use real footage. Both present facts. Yet they leave audiences with completely different impressions. If documentaries were just recordings of reality, wouldn't they tell the same story?"

I blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

That was supposed to be a question?

Because all I heard was a TED Talk nobody asked for.

"I understand your point," I said, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. "But complete truth and truthful representation aren't the same thing. No one expects a documentary to capture every second of reality. That's impossible."

And just like that, we were off.

Back and forth.

Point. Counterpoint.

Argument. Counterargument.

It was less of a classroom presentation and more of a verbal boxing match.

Twenty minutes later, neither of us had backed down.

My pulse was racing.

Partly because I was enjoying the challenge.

Mostly because this was worth a grade.

And this stranger had somehow turned my presentation into a public debate.

Who even was this guy?

Mrs. Tones certainly wasn't helping.

Instead of stopping us, she sat there looking thoroughly entertained, like she'd paid for front-row seats.

The rest of the class wasn't much better.

At some point, my presentation had become today's entertainment.

Eventually, with only a few minutes left before class ended, Mrs. Tones finally decided she'd had enough fun.

"Alright, that's enough."

Thank goodness.

I wrapped things up and returned to my seat.

Not that I was convinced I'd made a single coherent point by the end of it.

My confidence had packed its bags and left halfway through the debate.

"So," Mrs. Tones said cheerfully, "I'll grade the presentations and let you know exactly how badly you all did."

A collective groan swept through the room.

Typical.

"But there's good news. For this course, you'll be completing a group documentary project instead of writing an exam."

The room exploded.

Cheers.

Clapping.

Actual celebration.

You'd think she'd just announced free money.

Mrs. Tones looked mildly concerned by our enthusiasm.

"I see everyone prefers projects to exams."

Understatement of the century.

"You'll be working in pairs."

The cheering died down.

Immediately.

Because projects were great.

Group projects?

A different species of suffering.

"I'll start with Evans and Brooke."

My stomach dropped.

No.

No, no, no.

"I loved the debate. The chemistry was excellent. I'm sure you'll make a great team."

I wouldn't call trying to destroy each other's arguments chemistry, but okay.

"I'll post the remaining groups later."

And before anyone could object, she gathered her things and walked out.

Coward.

The classroom buzzed with conversation as everyone processed their fate.

I slowly turned around.

My newly assigned partner was already looking at me.

And smiling.

The nerve.

I wasn't surprised I didn't know him. I barely knew anyone in this class.

What did surprise me was that he was getting up.

And walking toward me.

Still smiling.

Oh, this couldn't possibly be good.

"Hi, I'm Lloyd."

He dropped into the seat beside me like we hadn't just spent twenty minutes publicly arguing in front of the entire class.

"Oh."

Brilliant response, Layla.

"I am—"

"Layla. I know."

Of course he did.

Meanwhile, I couldn't even remember seeing him before today.

A tiny stab of guilt hit me.

Just a tiny one.

"That was a good presentation," he said.

I stared at him.

"Good? You hijacked it."

His grin widened.

"I prefer the term improved."

"You turned it into a debate."

"And yet everyone stayed awake."

I narrowed my eyes.

He looked far too pleased with himself.

"Seriously, though. Sorry about that."

The apology sounded sincere.

Almost.

"It didn't feel very sorry."

"Fair point."

I folded my arms.

"So why did you do it?"

His expression turned suspiciously innocent.

"I wanted to introduce myself."

I blinked.

"What?"

"You never seem to notice anyone in class."

"That's not true."

"It absolutely is."

I opened my mouth to argue.

Then closed it again.

Because he wasn't entirely wrong.

"I figured if I challenged your argument, you'd finally remember my face."

I stared at him.

"Your plan for introducing yourself was publicly attacking my presentation?"

"When you say it like that, it sounds bad."

"Because it is bad."

He laughed.

The nerve of this guy.

To my horror, I almost laughed too.

Almost.

The conversation somehow became easier after that.

We talked about the project.

Documentaries we liked.

Classes we hated.

Professors we were both convinced enjoyed our suffering.

Before long, we'd settled on a topic for our documentary and exchanged numbers.

Not bad for two people who'd spent most of the afternoon arguing.

Eventually, we headed our separate ways.

I met up with Charlotte outside the building, and together we made our way to the library.

We both worked there.

As we walked, Charlotte glanced sideways at me.

"So."

I immediately knew that tone.

"No."

"You made a new friend."

"No, I didn't."

"You exchanged numbers."

"That's called being project partners."

Charlotte smirked.

"Sure, Layla."

I rolled my eyes.

"I am very invested in a topic you couldn't care less about."

"What topic?"

"The sudden increase in male activity around you."

I groaned.

"Oh, please."

"No, seriously. First your debate boyfriend—"

"He is not my boyfriend."

"—and then your ridiculously attractive roommate."

I pointed a finger at her.

"Keep talking and I'll stop telling you things."

She gasped dramatically.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would."

"Please don't."

I laughed.

She laughed.

And just like that, the conversation moved on.

"We got paired for a project," I explained. "We're doing a documentary on Holloway Construction, so we'll probably have to travel to Massachusetts."

Charlotte grabbed my arm.

"Oh, I love this for you."

I laughed.

"What exactly is there to love?"

"You survived a terrible breakup, and now the universe is sending hot men directly into your path."

Dan.

The name flashed through my mind.

For a moment.

Then disappeared.

It had been two months since the breakup.

Two whole months.

I was stronger than a broken heart.

Besides, I hadn't seen him since.

I was over it.

Mostly.

Okay, completely.

Probably.

"Kenya!"

My smile vanished instantly.

I knew that voice.

Of course I knew that voice.

Couldn't he ignore me for one day?

Apparently not.

I kept walking.

He kept coming.

Unfortunately, he walked faster than me.

"Kenya, I've been calling you."

Ryan appeared beside us, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Hi, Ryan," Charlotte said.

"Hey."

Then his attention shifted to me.

Big mistake.

"See you at home."

At.

Home.

The man actually said it out loud.

In public.

In front of Charlotte.

Then he casually walked away like he hadn't just dropped a grenade and left the scene.

I slowly turned toward my best friend.

She looked seconds away from passing out.

"You know him?" I asked.

"Know him?" she squeaked.

Then her eyes widened.

"Wait."

Oh no.

"Don't tell me."

Here we go.

"He's your roommate?"

"Housemate," I corrected.

Charlotte let out a noise somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

"Oh. My. God."

"What?"

"Layla, you're living with the hottest jock on campus!"

I blinked.

"Oh."

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

"That's all you have to say?"

I shrugged.

"I didn't know he was a jock."

Charlotte stared at me like I was beyond saving.

Then suddenly, her eyes lit up.

"Wait."

That tone never led anywhere good.

"What?"

"He can help with your project."

"How?"

She stopped walking.

Actually stopped.

Then she looked at me like I'd just asked why the sky was blue.

"Because he's Ryan Holloway."

I frowned.

"And?"

Charlotte's jaw dropped.

"And?"

She grabbed my shoulders.

"Layla. Ryan Holloway is the heir to Holloway Construction."

Everything inside me screeched to a halt.

The same Holloway Construction Lloyd that I had just chosen for our documentary.

The same Holloway Construction we'd be travelling to Massachusetts to research.

The same Holloway Construction.

My mouth slowly fell open.

"No way."

Charlotte grinned.

"Oh, yes way."