Lahat ng Kabanata ng Breaking The Ice Between Us: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

Logan POVThe clang of weights against steel fills the Titans’ gym. It’s the kind of gray morning that smells like rubber mats and sweat, the air thick with effort. Cole’s spotting me, counting reps under his breath.“Fourteen. Fifteen. You trying to kill yourself, Shaw?”“Not yet.” I rack the bar, chest burning, sweat running down my spine. The harder I train, the less room there is for thinking.Cole tosses me a towel. “You hear Alpha Chi’s throwing a party tomorrow night?”I frown. “Since when?”“Since Harper Lane decided it. No theme, no invite list—just ‘be there.’ Whole campus is buzzing.”“That doesn’t sound like her.”“She’s a sorority president, man. Parties are part of the gig.”“Not her kind,” I mutter. Harper’s events usually have sponsors, spreadsheets, charity ties—not spontaneous chaos. “You sure?”Cole raises a brow. “Why? Thinking of going?”“Hell no. Coach said no distractions. We’ve got the Frozen Four to chase.” I take a long drink from my water bottle. “Last thing

Logan POVThe rink’s colder in the mornings—before the music, before the chatter, before anyone starts pretending they have their lives figured out.Just the scrape of blades, the slap of sticks, breath fogging in the air.Usually it’s my favorite part of the day. Clean. Predictable. Safe.The one place nothing can get inside my head.Except today, everything already has.I dig in harder, sprinting across the ice. Each stride burns. Each turn feels like punishment. The repetition should clear me out: stride, cut, stop, pivot. Again. Again.But all it does is bring her back.Harper.Standing in that kitchen, eyes sharp, lips trembling just enough to notice.“You don’t get to decide who talks to me.”I hit the boards too fast and curse.“Easy, Captain.” Cole’s voice cuts through the echo. “You trying to take the whole damn rink down with you?”“Just pushing speed.”“Yeah?” He smirks. “Looks more like you’re running from something.”“Same thing.”Cole lets out a low whistle and blows the

Harper POV The night air hits harder than I expect — crisp and biting, the kind that steals heat and forces honesty. If cold could shock common sense back into me, I’d welcome frostbite. It doesn’t work. My heels snap against the pavement, echoing in the quiet stretch between Greek Row and the athletic houses. Leaves skitter across the sidewalk like they’re running from something too. I can relate. Every step away from the Ice House should make it easier to breathe. Instead, my chest feels tight, heart knocking around like it’s looking for an exit. Logan’s voice still threads through me, low and dangerous, the memory almost warm against the cold: You really shouldn’t look at me like that. Maybe both. I shouldn’t like that I heard desire under the annoyance. I do. And that’s the problem. I wrap my coat tighter — armor against air, against him, against myself. Then the Ice House door bursts open behind me. Music explodes into the night. Laughter. Someone yelling “dude, get

Harper POVThe lecture hall smells like coffee, chalk dust, and too many lives moving forward without hesitation.My notebook is open in front of me, but the lines blur. Professor Keene is talking about demand elasticity — a concept I normally love — but today it may as well be ocean noise.Because all morning, all night, one text sits like a live wire in my chest.Maybe I like when you come find me.I hate how my skin reacted to that.I hate how my breath caught.I hate how I read it three times like it meant something.I hate most of all that I believed, for a single dangerous second, it wasn’t a game.A high-pitched laugh cuts through the room. Someone joking with friends. Normal life.I adjust in my seat, force my hand to stop shaking, and tell my pulse to calm down.Do not look for him. Do not give him space in your world.Too late.I feel his presence before I see him — back row, right side, in his usual seat. Logan Shaw, hoodie sleeves shoved up, jaw tense, pen tapping against

Logan POVIt starts on the ice, because of course it does.The rink feels colder than usual — crueler. Every stride slices, every breath scorches on the way in. I’m skating like I’m trying to outrun a ghost, and I already know which one.Her voice keeps replaying in my head.You don’t get to be jealous.I fire the puck so hard it screams off the boards.Coach’s whistle cracks through the air. “SHAW! Are you skating or trying to commit homicide on the ice?”“Just skating.”He barks a laugh. “Bullshit. Get your head right or go hit a punching bag before you break someone’s ribs.”I dig harder. No thinking. No feeling. Just pain until everything numbs.Cole glides beside me, annoyingly steady. “You wanna tell me why you look like you’d fight your own shadow?”“Drop it.”“Great. He’s in denial mode again. My favorite version.”If I answer, I’ll punch him, so I don’t.By the time practice ends, my lungs feel like they’re bleeding and it still isn’t enough.I rip my gear off in the locker r