All Chapters of Collision on Ice: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Jace's POV ‎ ‎The puck came at me low and fast. Instead of blocking it the right way, I dropped my guard. I let a guy half my speed slam right into me. My shoulder hit the boards hard. The glass rattled. Somebody on the bench swore out loud. ‎ ‎“Whitfield! What the hell was that?” ‎ ‎Coach yelled from somewhere behind me. His voice sounded far away through the ringing in my ears. I pushed off the boards and rolled my shoulder. I grinned at nothing. The hit did exactly what I needed it to do. For one clean second, my head was completely empty. There was only pain. It was simple, sharp, and mine. ‎ ‎Then the second passed. My head filled right back up. ‎ ‎I heard my mother’s voice from twenty years ago coming through the thin wall of our old apartment. Mrs. Callahan from next door stood in our doorway. She held a dish of food we didn’t need. She asked my mother whose eyes I had. It was the sweet, fake way nosy neighbors ask questions they already know the answer to. ‎ ‎My mot

Roselle's POV The email came in at 8:52 that Thursday morning, and I read it standing in the dining hall line with a tray in one hand and my whole day already collapsing in the other.The corrected documentation submitted Tuesday had apparently gone to the wrong department entirely, some digital filing error nobody could explain, and now I needed a physical copy signed in person by close of business, today, because tomorrow the financial aid office would be closed for a staff meeting and Monday my file would automatically roll into the review queue Pam had warned me about. Two to six weeks. My scholarship sitting in limbo for two to six weeks while my mother picked up a fourth week of double shifts to cover a gap that shouldn’t have existed in the first place.I called my father immediately, walking fast, tray abandoned somewhere behind me that I don’t even remember setting down.“Dad, I need you to fax the original disability determination letter again, the whole thing, not just

Roselle's POV“Ma’am, you need to come with me.”The security guard’s hand hovered near my elbow without quite touching it, which I appreciated in some distant, disconnected part of my brain even as the rest of me was still trying to catch up to what had just happened. My knee throbbed where I’d gone down on the ice. My bag had slid somewhere across the rink floor during the fall, and someone I didn’t know was holding it out to me now like it was evidence in a trial I hadn’t agreed to be part of.“I didn’t mean to, the door was open, I was trying to find the financial aid office, they relocated here for the day and I—”“You’ll want to explain that to the front office.” The guard’s voice wasn’t unkind, exactly, just tired, the voice of a man who had clearly dealt with far stranger campus emergencies than one panicked freshman crashing a hockey drill. “Come on.”I didn’t look back at him. I couldn’t. I’d caught one glimpse of his face right before the guard reached me, jaw tight,

Roselle's POV Dean Whitmore’s office smelled like old coffee and expensive furniture polish, and she did not ask me to sit down until she had finished reading something on her computer screen for a full, deliberate thirty seconds, which felt less like an accident and more like a technique she’d perfected over many years of making nervous freshmen wait exactly long enough to properly sweat.“Ms. Adair.” She finally looked up, glasses pushed down her nose, expression unreadable in the specific way that administrators seem to train for. “Please, sit.”I sat.“I’ve watched the footage,” she said, no preamble, sliding a folder across her desk that I did not touch. “Multiple angles, in fact, since apparently half the athletics complex had their phones out yesterday afternoon. I understand you were attempting to reach a relocated financial aid office.”“Yes, ma’am. There was a note on the door redirecting appointments to the athletics building because of the showcase, and I couldn’t fi

Roselle's POV The athletics office was smaller than I expected, tucked behind the equipment room with a window looking out onto a hallway instead of anything resembling daylight, and I stood in the doorway of it at 9:02 the next morning feeling like I was walking into a meeting I’d already lost before it started.Jace Whitfield was sitting behind a desk that clearly wasn’t his, arms crossed, a folder in front of him he hadn’t opened, and he looked up when I knocked on the open door with an expression that made it very clear exactly how this conversation was going to go.“You’re late,” he said.“It’s 9:02.”“I said nine.”I stayed in the doorway a second longer than I needed to, deciding whether this was a fight worth having on day one, and decided it wasn’t, not yet. “Fine. I’m sorry I’m two minutes late.”“I don’t want an apology for that.” He said it flat, not even looking at me now, flipping the unopened folder open like it required his full c