All Chapters of ICE AND ARROGANCE : Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

I couldn’t stay in that bed another second. The room felt too small, the air thick with the lingering scent of Caleb’s skin and the memory of his fingers inside me. My body still hummed—raw, oversensitive, unfinished. Every shift of the sheets reminded me of the way he had tasted me on his own fingers, the dark hunger in his eyes as he watched me fall apart. I slipped on a thin silk robe over my tank and shorts and stepped into the hallway, barefoot. The old wood was cold beneath my feet. Moonlight sliced through the window at the far end, painting jagged silver patterns across the worn carpet. The house was silent except for the distant hum of the refrigerator downstairs. I was halfway to the stairs when his door opened behind me. The temperature in the hallway changed instantly. Caleb stepped out wearing only black boxer briefs. Moonlight carved sharp shadows across his chest and abdomen, highlighting every tense line of muscle. He was still visibly aroused, thick and stra

The kitchen smelled like burnt toast and strong coffee when I finally made my way downstairs. My hair was still damp from the shower, and I’d thrown on the first thing I could find—black compression leggings and an oversized team hoodie that swallowed me whole. I needed caffeine. I needed something normal before the Wolves arrived and the arena turned into a battlefield. I wasn’t expecting him to be there. Caleb stood at the counter, back to me, pouring coffee into a mug. He wore gray sweatpants and nothing else. The early morning light cut across the hard lines of his shoulders and the tattoo that ran down his spine. Every muscle was still tense, like he hadn’t slept either. He didn’t turn around right away, but I knew he felt me enter. The air changed the moment I stepped into the room—thicker, heavier, charged with everything we hadn’t finished in the hallway or the bathroom. I moved to the fridge, keeping as much distance as the small kitchen allowed. My hand shook sligh

The scrimmage was less than two hours away, but the house felt heavier than the ice ever could. I sat cross-legged on my bed, gear bag half-packed, staring at the thin wall that separated me from Caleb. My mind wouldn’t stop replaying the bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway—every almost-touch that left me aching and unsteady. I needed to focus. I needed to remember why I was here. So I let the old memories come. I was eight the first time the boys’ league folded the girls’ program and my father drove me to the pond anyway. “They hit hard, Dani,” he’d warned, knuckles white on the steering wheel. I took my first legal body check at nine and got up grinning, blood on my lip and fire in my chest. By twelve I was the only girl left, earning the nickname “Ice Breaker” after one clean hip check put a bully on his back. At fourteen a rival coach told my father I was “ruining the boys’ development.” When I refused to quit, my own teammates voted to bench me for the championship. I sat in

The arena lights buzzed to life one by one, turning the ice into a blinding white stage. The Wolves were already on their half, skating sharp, aggressive circles. Kane Harlow stood at center ice like a king surveying conquered territory. Tall, broad, with a cruel handsomeness sharpened by grief, his dark eyes found me the moment I stepped onto the ice. A slow, predatory smile curved his mouth. I felt it like a blade pressed to my throat. Warm-ups were brutal. Caleb stayed close—closer than captaincy required—his presence a constant shadow at my back. Every time I took a shot or made a tight turn, I felt his gaze. Every time Kane shouted something across the red line, Caleb’s jaw clenched so hard I heard the grind of his teeth. “Eyes up, Jones,” Caleb muttered during a drill, skating beside me. His stick tapped mine once, a small, hidden gesture. “He wants you looking at him, not the puck.” I nodded, but my pulse hammered. Kane wasn’t even trying to hide his focus. He circled

The pain in my ribs sharpened with every stride, but I refused to let it show. The scrimmage had turned into something uglier than a game—more like a public execution Kane Harlow was determined to finish in front of the small but watchful crowd. He came at me again on the next shift, faster this time, stick lifted high the way he had in every clip I’d studied. The hit was textbook dirty: late, high, aimed at the same vulnerable spot between my shoulder and helmet that had ended Lila’s career. I braced, turned my body at the last possible second, and absorbed the impact against the glass. The boards rattled. My vision blurred white for half a heartbeat. But I stayed upright. The crowd murmured louder. Kane skated past, close enough that his breath fogged my visor. “Just like Lila,” he hissed. “One more and you’ll be the next one they carry off. You don’t belong here, Jones. None of you ever did.” The words sank deeper than the hit. I could see her in my head again—Lila on the