Novel & Cerita Ice Got

While still hoping that luck shined on me, My hand hovered until I spotted it: *The Fundamentals of Ice Hockey. I pulled it out, it looked neat and I wondered if it was because of the climate here or because my father treated his books as valued possession that it looked clean. My father spent almost all his time here reading, he was a book worm.

I needed ice time. I found my place in the line drill and matched the pace of the player ahead of me, Kowalski, number 18, who had given me a single nod in the locker room that I was choosing to interpret as neutral rather than hostile. I did what I'd been doing my entire life: I worked. Crossovers first, wide and clean, the way my dad had drilled me before I was old enough to read a clock. Zone entries. One-touch passes off the boards. The cold came up through my blades in that particular way it always did, sharp and clarifying, like the ice was the only place in the world where the air made complete sense, and for the first time since I'd arrived on this campus I felt like I could take a f

(Danica) The scent of premium roast coffee and expensive wood polish replaced the sharp, metallic tang of the ice rink the moment we entered the auxiliary athletic suite. It was less than an hour after the final horn, but Principal Girlie Harlow”s team had already transformed the space into an administrative war room for the upcoming Tri-Varsity Decathlon.

Those two idiots are busy right now talking about my ass and boobs, wishing they can have sex with me. I looked at his face to see any reaction but saw none, did he listen or not? “I did,” He confirmed and I sighed. “It’s embarrassing,” I muttered and bit my lips. Is that the reason why they always greet me with smiles all over their faces? “The ice,” Kingston interrupted my thought. “Oh, okay,” I muttered and opened my palm. Small iceberg appeared and he nodded. “But, is this all you do?” He asked. “Huh? I don’t understand."

My guard, Greta, trailed behind me, her face masked with that annoying poker face which was literally the signature look for almost everyone in Dice's mansion. "Good morning, Greta!" I chirped with a wide smile. She looked taken aback for the first five seconds, her eyelids dilating as if she was trying to figure me out. "Good morning, ma'am." She responded afterward. I kept it at that, because even if I liked to be friendly, I knew when to stop pushing it. I chose my Mustang for today, and was about to hop in when the gate slid open automatically, as programmed. Hmm. If that was Dice, then he'd returned pretty quickly from work today and if it wasn't him, I wondered who it was. Dice never h

“You don’t tremble like the others.” “Should I?” she whispered. “No.” His answer came too quickly. Too firm. He looked away, like he had revealed something he didn’t intend to. Then he handed her a small velvet box. Elara blinked. “What’s this?” “Open it.” Inside was a thin silver bracelet with a tiny flame symbol carved into it. “It’s a tracking cuff,” he said. “But it will never hurt you unless you break the rules.” Elara hesitated. “Does every slave get one?”

My eyes burned, but I forced the tears down. Not here. Not now. Not in front of them. As I reached for the last thing—a puck near Jessica’s foot—I saw her pick up a hockey ball instead, raising it with a cruel grin. “Let’s see how fast she reacts,” she said. No. No. No. My heart slammed against my ribs. “Jessica, don’t—please—” She didn’t listen. She pulled her arm back— And the ball flew at me. Fast. Hard. Cold.

“You found a celebrity.” “Nat—” “That is Cole Ashford.” She pointed at the screen as though I needed the direction. “He is—that man is fine—and you just—” “He’s the new captain,” I said quietly, reading the banner again. The dread that had started as a flicker was now something much more settled and specific. “Of the Chicago Vortex.” The room went still. We turned to look at each other at the exact same moment. “Nat.” My voice came out very flat. “What team did you say you submitted my application to?”

The frozen arena was a coliseum of ice and innovation, a sprawling stage for a massive exhibition of technological mastery. Charles Whitaker had secured a pair of front-row tickets and invited me along; I had accepted without a second thought. I hadn’t ventured much into the world of mechanical advancement before, but the prospect of the "Ice-Brain" robotics display intrigued my inner wolf. The event kicked off at 2 p.m.

"Got identification?" The woman behind the glass didn't look up, her gaze fixed on the ledger through spectacles perched precariously on her nose. "Right here. Grab the sign, Camila," Isaac said, shoving the massive glitter-crusted board into his friend's hands. He dug through his clear, regulation-size bag—a lesson learned the hard way after being turned away from a San Antonio Ice Arena match years ago. He flipped his wallet open, pressing his ID against the glass. "Isaac Corres. I should be on the list."