Alle Kapitel von ICE AND ARROGANCE : Kapitel 61 – Kapitel 70

(Danica) I couldn’t pretend anymore. Lying in the dark of my room with Caleb’s arms still wrapped around me, his steady heartbeat thumping against my back, I felt the weight of everything we’d been hiding finally pressing down. My ribs still ached from Kane’s hits, the bruises a constant, dull reminder of how close he had come to breaking me the same way he’d broken Lila. But the deeper ache lived in my chest — in the way Caleb’s hand rested protectively over my stomach, thumb stroking slow circles just above the worst of the bruising, like he could shield me from the world if he held on tight enough. I turned carefully in his arms until we were facing each other. Moonlight cut through the blinds, painting silver stripes across his face. His grey eyes were open, watching me with that stormy intensity that always made my pulse stutter. No captain’s mask tonight. Just Caleb — exhausted, conflicted, and so painfully honest it hurt to look at him. “I keep thinking about Victor H

(Danica) The thin wall between our rooms had never felt more like a lie. I lay awake again, staring at the ceiling, the faint glow of moonlight cutting through the blinds like silver blades. My ribs still ached with every breath, the bruises from Kane’s hits a constant, dull throb that refused to let me forget how fragile this all was. But the deeper ache lived lower — in the persistent heat between my thighs, in the memory of Caleb’s body pressed against mine, his hardness sliding along my wetness in that torturous half-plunge that left me shaking and desperate for more. A soft knock sounded on my door. I opened it without hesitation. Caleb stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He looked exhausted — hair messy, shoulders tight, the captain’s mask slipping the moment the latch clicked. He crossed the room and pulled me gently into his arms, mindful of my bruises, forehead dropping to mine. “I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered, voice raw. “Pre

(Kane) I stood at the edge of the Wolves’ practice rink, stick in hand, watching the ice like it owed me something. The scrimmage against Harrison was still burning in my veins. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her — Danica Jones — refusing to fall. The way she absorbed my hits and got back up. The way her eyes met mine through the visor like she wasn’t afraid. Like she wasn’t just another girl playing where she didn’t belong. I hated her for it. Or at least… I told myself I did. The truth was more complicated. More dangerous. And I buried it deep, the same way I buried the memory of Lila being carried off on that stretcher two years ago. Lila had been everything Danica was trying to be — fast, fearless, unbreakable. My little sister had fought for her spot the same way Jones did. She took hits that would’ve broken lesser players. She laughed in the faces of boys who told her to go back to figure skating. And then one late hit from behind ended it all. Spinal fracture.

(Kane) The Wolves’ locker room smelled of sweat, icy hot, and the usual post-practice bullshit. I sat on the bench, unlacing my skates with more force than necessary, trying to drown out the noise in my head. The last scrimmage against Harrison still played on repeat — Danica Jones refusing to fall, her eyes meeting mine through the visor like she saw straight through every wall I had built. I told myself it was hatred. Contempt. The same righteous fury that had fueled me since Lila’s injury. But the lie was getting harder to swallow. My linemate, Jax, dropped onto the bench beside me with a shit-eating grin. “So, Captain,” he drawled, loud enough for half the room to hear. “You gonna admit it yet? That little Jones girl’s got you twisted. We all saw how you shoved me out of the way when she almost ate the boards. That wasn’t about the game. That was personal.” The room erupted in low laughter. Another teammate, Marcus, leaned over from his locker. “Yeah, man. You’ve been

(Danica) The arena buzzed with pre-game energy, but my stomach twisted with something heavier than nerves. I stood near our bench during warm-ups, adjusting my gloves, when Kane Harlow skated over from the Wolves’ side. The crowd murmured. My teammates paused mid-stretch. Even the officials seemed to notice. Kane stopped in front of me, helmet under his arm, his usual cruel smirk softened into something almost… human. He held out a bottle of electrolyte drink — cold, unopened, the label facing me like an offering. “For the bruises,” he said quietly, voice low enough that only I could hear. “You took some hits last time. Figured you might need it.” I stared at the bottle, then at him. This was the same man who had tried to recreate his sister’s career-ending hit on me. The same man whose father was calling our AD, pressuring the university to pull me from the roster. Yet here he was, offering me a drink like it was the most normal thing in the world. His eyes held something I