305 Ice Novels & Stories

Colors reflected on the ice like a private show. Kane faced the group. "This trip seals it. We see the full journey. From scared starts to this peace." Elias stood shoulder to shoulder. "The impact ripples out. Old friends here. Stories shared. Legacy feels alive." Sam nodded. "You earned this. Final skate feels right under these stars." Lena hugged quick. "Thank you both. For the talks, the examples, everything." Marcus shook hands. "Peace looks good on you." Rico gave them each a solid pat. "Go enjoy the lights. We will catch you soon."

The fabric was cold against my skin, grounding. “Don’t break anything,” he called after me. “No promises.” ————- The rink was empty. Just how I liked it. Cold air hit my lungs the second I stepped in, sharp and clean, cutting through everything still buzzing under my skin. The lights reflected off the ice. Perfect. I didn’t bother with much, just laced up, stepped on, and pushed off. Roughly I moved through the ice, gripping madly on my hockey stick. Him.

It's been public for less than two hours. I sit without starting the engine and open the first message, because some part of me already knows this is the first domino. It's from a name everyone in this industry recognizes. Damian Voss. My grandfather's least favorite competitor — “that cold little shark in a good suit,” he used to call him, at every board dinner for a decade. I heard about the condition in the will. We should talk. I have a proposal that solves both our problems. — D.V.

"He's right. It's off." "Wow. Thanks." "You're dropping your elbow on the follow-through. That's why it's sailing wide." I step onto the ice without really deciding to, grab a stick from the rack by the boards. "Here." I don't know what I'm doing. I have homework. I have a curfew, technically, though nobody enforces it for me. I have a girlfriend who isn't really my girlfriend and a father who measures my worth in goals and a whole life waiting for me that I'm supposed to want, and instead I'm standing on the ice at ten at night showing a scholarship kid how to fix his wrist shot because some part of me wanted an excuse to be near him and didn't want to admit it.

She half walked and half ran all the way, arriving twenty minutes later at her destination. The rink was a ruin. But ruins had their own kind of beauty. The moonlight didn't care, it painted the ice in shades of silver making it shimmer like a frozen lake. She ran her hands on the worn boards that gleamed like polished bone under the brilliant moonlight, staring up at the roof that was half-gone. The walls wept with moss, and the cold air smelt of rot and something sweet—wild roses, maybe, crawling up the chain-link fence that still surrounded the ruins.

It smells too much like her and the future I’m not supposed to want. I end up at The Ice House—the dive bar near the university where the hockey guys and pack kids hang out. It’s a Friday night crowd, and usually, people give me a ten-foot radius because I look like I’m looking for a reason to kill someone. I slide into a corner booth, hood up, back to the wall. I order a whiskey, neat, and watch the room. Until I hear the name. Aiden. Two pack guys at the next table are leaning in, their voices low, but wolf ears catch every syllable.

He’s watching me, and the hallway tightens around that fact. It occurs to me now that we've spent ten years on the ice, and we’ve never once been alone like this. There have always been buffers – crowds, team members, noise, motion. Now there’s nothing between us but heat and whatever this pressure is that's started to coil dark and strong in my gut. His eyes move over me slowly. Not scanning, not judging. Taking me apart.

After the day I have had, I feel like I need something stronger than juice. Taylor smiles at me. "Of course. What's your poison?" "Um, I am not a big wine drinker. Do you have any vodka?" "I know just the thing." Taylor dives into the fridge, pulling out a chilled bottle of Zubrowka bison grass vodka, ginger ale and some cloudy apple juice. He grabs some ice and a cocktail shaker and starts pouring the various ingredients. He pulls a funny face while shaking the cocktail, pretending to be Tom Cruise, and then with a flourish pours the drink into a tall glass in front of me. I take a small sip, unsure of what I am letting myself in for.

Then, one by one, people started backing away like the ice had suddenly become unsafe to stand on. Joe opened his mouth like he was going to say something. Then thought better of it and skated off entirely. The rest followed fast enough that it looked like panic spreading through a system. Within seconds, the rink was half empty. And I was still standing there. Confused. Because Nikolai wasn’t supposed to be here. He skated onto the ice like it meant nothing and grabbed my arms before I could fully process moving away. “Come on,” he said. “What are you doing?” I asked, pulling slightly.

He started violently shaking the railing of my bed in an attempt to force me into handing over the batteries. "Hurry up and give me the batteries! I need to turn on the AC! I'm the Holy Son of Frost! Can you bear the responsibility if I overheat and melt?" I steadied the violently shaking bed and shoved him away. I shot back coolly, "Stop making a scene. I let it slide before because I didn't want to argue with you. This dorm belongs to all of us. Why should I put up with your unreasonable demands? Holy Son of Frost? Only able to stay in temperatures below 50°F?