The Ice King of Monash

Marlo

I hated the cold, yet here I was, spending another Friday night breathing in the freezing air of the Monash University athletic center.

I twisted out a heavy mop into the yellow bucket, my knuckles aching. The harsh fluorescent lights of the corridor buzzed above me, offering no heat, only a blinding headache. Through the thick glass doors at the end of the hall, the roar of the crowd was a muffled, continuous thunder.

It was just a Friday scrimmage, a practice match before the real season started, but the stands were packed to the rafters. Everyone on campus worshipped the ice. More specifically, they worshipped the monsters who owned it.

I pushed the mop down the hallway, keeping my head down. My oversized hoodie swallowed my frame, and I instinctively tugged the left sleeve down to cover my wrist. The thin silver scar there was a permanent reminder of the night my life burned to the ground. A reminder of why I needed this miserable, minimum lwage cleaning job. Forensic psychology textbooks didn't pay for themselves, and Aunt Siobhan’s pension barely covered our groceries, let alone the medication she needed for her frail health. I was the only thing standing between us and total ruin.

So, I kept my head down. I stayed invisible.

A sudden crash echoed through the walls, vibrating up through the soles of my cheap sneakers. I stopped, I couldn't help it.

Dropping the mop handle, I walked over to the viewing window that overlooked the main rink. The bright white ice was badly scraped, a battleground of deep cuts and shaved frost. But my eyes didn't focus on the ice. They locked onto the man standing in the center of it.

Jarrah Vance.

Even from behind the thick glass, his presence felt like a physical weight on my chest. He was massive, six foot four of pure, lethal muscle strapped into heavy black hockey gear. He didn't just skate; he stalked.

I watched as an opposing player tried to check him against the boards. Jarrah didn't even brace himself. He simply shifted his weight, dropped his shoulder, and drove the boy into the heavy acrylic glass with a sickening crunch. The crowd went completely rabid, screaming his name.

Jarrah didn't celebrate. He didn't even look at the player groaning on the ice. He slowly turned his head, his dark helmet tilted down. Through the metal cage of his mask, I caught the flash of his eyes. Amber. Bright, piercing, and entirely devoid of mercy.

Rumors about Jarrah were the only currency that mattered at Monash. They said he was the heir to a massive shipping empire down by Port Phillip Bay. They said the bruises permanently painted across his knuckles came from underground, bare knuckle coastal fights that the police were too terrified to break up. They said he was ruthless, cold, and entirely untouchable.

He was everything I despised. Everything I spent my life hiding from.

Suddenly, Jarrah began skating toward the glass. Toward me.

My breath hitched. He was moving fast, the blades of his skates carving loud, aggressive tracks into the ice. I took a step back, my heart slamming against my ribs. There were hundreds of people in the stands above me. He couldn't see me through the glare of the glass. He couldn't.

But he didn't look up at the crowd.

Jarrah slammed his heavy, gloved hands against the glass directly in front of my face. The thick acrylic glass rattled violently. I flinched, my back hitting the wall of the corridor.

He stayed there for three agonizing seconds. His chest heaved with heavy, controlled breaths. Even through the barrier, I could see the sweat clinging to his deep walnut brown hair, curling at the nape of his neck and his eyes. Those terrifying, predatory amber eyes stared dead straight into mine. He knew exactly where I was.

A cold sweat broke out across my lower back. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't look away. It felt like a heavy, invisible hand was wrapping around my throat, squeezing just enough to let me know who was in control.

Then, Cal O'Shea, his massive, blond haired vice captain skated over and slapped Jarrah on the shoulder pad. Jarrah broke eye contact, turning back to the ice without a single backward glance.

I stood there for a full minute, my lungs dragging in shaky breaths.

You're imagining things, Marlo, I told myself, rubbing my chest. You're just a cleaner. He doesn't even know you exist.

I forced myself back to the mop bucket. I needed to finish my shift.

Two hours later, the stadium was entirely dead. The crowds had filed out into the freezing Melbourne night. The players had showered and left for whatever wild campus parties were being thrown in their honor. The silence of the athletic center was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the vending machines.

My arms ached as I gathered the last of the dirty towels from the main locker room. I tied off the laundry bag and hauled it over my shoulder. It was time to lock up. I grabbed my ring of master keys from the janitor’s cart and started doing the final walkthrough of the VIP section.

This area was different. Darker. The floors here were covered in thick black rubber, and the walls were painted a dark slate grey. At the very end of this hallway was a solid steel door.

It was Jarrah’s private suite. As captain, he demanded a space separate from the rest of the team. My boss at the facility had given me one very clear rule on my first day: Never, under any circumstances, try to open that door. We weren't allowed to clean it. We weren't allowed to look at it. Whatever Jarrah did inside his sanctuary was his business, and Monash University was more than happy to look the other way as long as his family’s checks kept clearing.

I usually walked past it without a second glance. But tonight, as I approached the end of the hall, my footsteps slowed.

The heavy steel door wasn't shut.

It was cracked open, just an inch. A faint, warm yellow light spilled out onto the dark rubber floor, cutting through the shadows of the hallway.

I froze. My grip tightened on the laundry bag.

Walk away, Marlo. Just turn around and go home to Siobhan.

But there was a strange, pulling sensation in my chest. A quiet voice whispering that something was wrong. Jarrah was very careful, he never left doors unlocked and the facility manager would fire me on the spot if the captain’s room was left unsecured all weekend.

I stepped closer. The smell of the ice rink faded, replaced by the scent of old paper, leather, and sandalwood.

"Hello?" I called out softly. My voice sounded weak, trembling in the empty space. "Mr. Vance? I need to lock up."

No answer.

I reached out, my fingers brushing the cold steel of the handle. I pushed it open just enough to peek inside, intending to quickly pull it shut and lock it.

But the room didn't look like a hockey player's locker room.

It looked like a study. A dark, obsessively neat sanctuary. Walls lined with dark wood paneling, a massive mahogany desk in the center, and a leather armchair. There were no sports posters. No discarded jerseys.

My eyes drifted to the floorboards right beside the desk. One of the wooden planks had been pried up, laying carelessly to the side. Underneath the gap in the floor was a small, dusty space and inside that space was a dark velvet box.

It was flipped open, as if someone had been looking through it in a rush and forgot to close it. Even from the doorway, I could see what was inside.

Envelopes. Dozens of them. Thick, aged paper stacked neatly together.

I shouldn't have crossed the threshold. Every instinct I possessed as a psychology student every red flag in my brain screamed at me to run. But my feet moved on their own. I stepped into the room, the heavy steel door swinging slightly behind me.

I walked over to the desk and dropped to my knees on the cold floor. My hands shook as I reached into the hidden compartment and pulled out the top envelope.

There was no postage stamp. No return address. Just a name written in bold, slashing black ink.

Marlo Cleary.

My breath stopped in my throat. I stared at my own name, the letters swimming in my vision. Why did Jarrah Vance have a letter with my name on it hidden beneath his floorboards?

With trembling fingers, I broke the wax seal on the back. I pulled out the thick parchment. The date at the top made a chill run down my spine.

July 14th, 2016.

Ten years ago. The exact day my childhood home burned down.

I read the first line, the harsh black handwriting blurring as tears of pure shock ran down my eyes.

The fire took everything from her tonight. But the shadows hid me well. I watched her cry on the pavement. I watched the flames eat her past. She doesn't know it yet, but her life didn't end tonight. It just became mine.

A violent shudder ran through my body. The paper slipped from my fingers, landing to the floor. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.

He was there. Jarrah was there the night my parents died.

I scrambled backward, desperate to get away from the box, desperate to get out of this room. I needed to run. I needed to call the police.

I spun around to sprint for the hallway.

Click.

The sound of the heavy steel door shutting and locking echoed through the quiet room like a gunshot.

I froze.

The light from the desk lamp flickered, casting a massive, terrifying shadow against the dark wood panel. The shadow belonged to the man standing right in front of the locked door, blocking my only exit.

Jarrah stepped forward, his massive frame eating up the small space between us. He had showered, his wet brown hair falling over his forehead, dressed in dark jeans and a black t-shirt that clung to his broad chest. His bruised knuckles were resting casually in his pockets.

He looked down at me, kneeling on his floor, surrounded by his dark secrets.

He didn't look angry. He didn't look surprised.

He tilted his head, his amber eyes burning with a dark, suffocating hunger as a slow, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his lips.

"You took your time finding those, little mouse," Jarrah murmured, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration that sent a cold wave of terror straight down my spine. "Now what are we going to do with you?”

I slowly looked at the letters still clutched in my trembling hands. “Why do you have these?” My voice barely came out. Jarrah didn't answer.

Instead, he took one slow step toward me, my back hit the steel door. He stopped inches away, his eyes locked on mine.

“You really want to know what happened that night?” I swallowed hard.

“Yes.” A dark smile touched his lips. “Then you should ask yourself one question first.”

“What?”. His eyes dropped to the letter in my hand. “Why did I save you when I was supposed to let you burn with them?”