All Chapters of Across The Ice: Falling for my ex’s biggest rival: Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

I saw it in the middle of my last lecture. My phone had been vibrating against my thigh for a while, that persistent little insistence I kept ignoring until the lecture finally broke and chairs scraped and people began to gather their things. Only then did I look. Ava had sent three messages in a row. “Have you seen this???” Then, almost immediately after, “Please tell me you already know about this.” And a link. I stepped out into the hallway as students flowed past me in both directions, laughter and complaints and the easy relief of being done for the day. I opened the link without thinking too carefully about it, which was my first mistake. The headline loaded first. Then the photograph. And then everything else seemed to fall out of focus. “Dean Mercer, son of Mercer Athletics chairman Arthur Mercer, was photographed this week with longtime family friend Sophie Whitfield, daughter of Whitfield Media Group CEO Harold Whitfield. Sources close to both families su

The Easton rink smelled like it always did during championship stretch, sharp ice and old rubber and the specific, electric tension of a team that knew exactly how much was riding on the next six weeks. I stood rinkside with my camera, watching Dean run drills with an intensity that hadn’t been there back in the fall, and felt the particular satisfaction of being good at something, in a place I’d genuinely earned my way into.Click.I lowered the camera just long enough to breathe, then lifted it again as he cut across the ice.Click.Priya appeared at my side the way she always did, as if she had been summoned by efficiency itself, tablet tucked under her arm and her attention already divided into tasks before she even spoke. “Championship promo shoot is Thursday,” she said without preamble, eyes flicking over her schedule. “Full team. Sponsors want usable content across every platform by Friday morning.”“I’ll be there,” I said, though my focus stayed on the ice.“Also,” she added,

I told Dean about the internship while I was still half curled under my blanket, phone pressed to my ear and a mug of hot chocolate sitting on the nightstand like it had already given up on me. “You already accepted it?” he asked. “A few days ago,” I admitted, watching the ceiling instead of the room. “I meant to tell you sooner.” There was a pause on his end, the kind that made me picture him leaning back in his chair, one hand at the back of his neck the way he did when he was thinking too hard. “I found out because Ryan congratulated me at practice,” he said at last, and I could hear the faint edge of confusion beneath the calm. “Which was a little strange, hearing it secondhand.” I let out a small breath, pressing my lips together. “Yeah. That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you first.” “Why?” “Because I didn’t want you stepping in,” I said, shifting under the blanket as if that could make the words easier. “Calling someone. Making sure it went through. I just… I wanted it to b

I was starting to forget what it felt like to have a camera in my hands.Mercer Athletics headquarters had a talent for swallowing entire days. I could walk in with a reasonable schedule and leave hours later with a headache, three unfinished spreadsheets, and the uneasy suspicion that my inbox had been reproducing while I worked.The place was nothing like Easton’s media office. Everything at Mercer was glass and polished floors, conference rooms with names instead of numbers, and people who seemed to know exactly where they were going. I was still learning which department handled what, which meetings mattered, and which emails required an answer instead of a polite nod and a prayer.Technically, I still belonged to campus. I went back to Easton once or twice a week, still attended lectures at Northbridge, and tried to keep my capstone project alive. However, my adviser had started sending messages that sounded increasingly like threats disguised as concern. Most of my time, though,

By Friday, Easton’s campus had transformed into something I barely recognized. Banners stretched between the buildings, the bookstore had surrendered its entire front window to championship merchandise, and students who had shown no interest in hockey all semester were suddenly walking around in jerseys as if they had been lifelong fans. Outside the media office, two freshmen were arguing passionately about line combinations, and I paused long enough to listen. “This is insane,” I said. Priya didn’t look up from her laptop. “Wait until Sunday. It gets worse.” She was right. The semifinal arena was already packed an hour before puck drop. The home crowd’s noise had swallowed the traveling section, and I found my seat beside Ava with my camera resting in my lap instead of hanging from my neck. I still wasn’t used to that. Without it, I felt strangely exposed, as though I had left some essential part of myself behind. “You look twitchy,” Ava said, following my gaze toward the ice.