FROZEN LINES

CALEB The cold still clung to my skin when I pushed open the classroom door. Snow dusted the shoulders of my hoodie, melting slowly as the warmth inside wrapped around me. My lungs still burned from practice, the familiar ache of skating drills sitting heavy in my legs. Morning practices always ran long and Coach had a habit of pretending the clock didn’t exist. The room went quiet the second the door creaked open. I held their stares, I’d been the center of attention in this town since I was sixteen. A late entrance into a classroom wasn’t going to rattle me. What I hadn’t expected was the man standing at the front of the room. Tall. Dark coat draped neatly over the chair behind him. Sleeves rolled at the wrist. His posture was straight , one hand resting lightly on the edge of the desk. His eyes lifted from the attendance sheet. “Mr. Foster,” he said evenly. His voice calm. “I assume the ice rink does not operate on the same schedule as my classroom.” A few student

CALEB Professor Elliot Ward still hadn’t returned to class. That was confirmed the moment I walked into the lecture hall Monday morning and saw the substitute again. She was already writing on the board while students trickled in, their voices low with the usual speculation. Someone asked the question before I even sat down. “Is Professor Ward okay?” The substitute nodded politely. “Yes. He suffered a leg injury recently. Nothing permanent, but he’s been advised to stay off it for a while longer.” I leaned back in my seat, spinning my pen once between my fingers. A smile slowly making its way on my face. I knew exactly how that happened. The image of Ward trying—and failing—to walk down Frost Ridge flashed through my head. The stubborn way he’d insisted he was perfectly capable of getting down the mountain alone… seconds before nearly collapsing. The lecture itself dragged. The substitute didn’t run the class the way Ward did. People whispered. By the time class

CALEB There were only so many ways to unwind after a brutal week. Tonight’s option happened to be lying on my bed with my phone in one hand and absolutely zero interest in studying. Practice had been ruthless. Coach was pushing us harder with every passing day. So instead of thinking about hockey—or class—or the irritatingly composed literature professor who somehow kept appearing in the wrong places at the wrong times—I opened the app. It wasn’t complicated. No awkward small-town conversations. Just profiles, brief descriptions, and the occasional meeting if the conversation went well. I scrolled through a few profiles without much interest. Most of them were from nearby towns or travelers passing through. Then one profile caught my attention. No face picture. Just a photo taken from behind—a man sitting on a balcony somewhere snowy, a glass in his hand. Dark coat. Broad shoulders. The image had been taken carefully. The username read - NorthBound. His descripti

CALEB I didn’t make it past the door. Fuck it. Eliot Ward was exactly where I’d left him. Leaning against the wall, cane in one hand,arranging his items in his bag. His head lifted the moment he heard me coming. “You—” My hand caught his coat and pushed him gently back against the wall, closing the distance between us in one step before my mouth crashed into his. A sharp inhale escaped him, his fingers tightening instinctively in the front of my jacket. His mouth moved against mine. Weeks of irritation and tension seemed to unravel all at once in the narrow space between us. His cane slipped slightly against the wall as his free hand grabbed the collar of my shirt, pulling me closer. The kiss deepened, charged tension that had been building since the first time he’d looked at me across that lecture hall. I braced one hand against the wall beside his head, trapping him between my arms. Eliot exhaled sharply against my mouth, his grip tightening. “You,” he mutt