Ice Cold Puck

He cracked my control on the ice. Now I’m going to break his off it.
I’ve been watching Alaric Hale for years.
The Ice Prince. Perfect posture. Perfect control. Born into privilege and polished until he gleams. Everyone thinks he’s untouchable—and he believes it too.
I don’t.
I know the exact second he cracks. The hitch in his breath when I lean too close. The way his body goes rigid when I say the wrong thing in the right tone. One filthy whisper was all it took to cost him the game.
That wasn’t luck.
That was practice.
Now a storm traps us overnight in the arena, and the ice between us is gone. No crowds. No cameras. No escape. Just him, pacing with that furious self-control… and me, watching him come apart piece by piece.
I don’t want a quick win.
I don’t want a moment.
I want him obsessed. I want him questioning everything he thought he knew about himself—about control, about desire, about me. I want him realizing that the reason he can’t stop thinking about my voice in his ear is because some part of him has always wanted this.
Wanted me.
They say fire melts ice.
They’re wrong.
Ice shatters first.
And when Alaric Hale finally breaks, I’ll be there to make sure he knows exactly who did it.