The Hockey Playing Alpha and His Human Ice Princess

GEORGIA

He grabs my arm in the hallway, and for once, he isn’t joking at all.

By Monday I’ve almost convinced myself I can keep handling this alone. I tell myself that in the mirror while I braid my hair, twice, like repetition will make it true. My reflection doesn’t look convinced either - there are shadows under my eyes that weren’t there a week ago, and my hands shake faintly as I work the strands into place.

Then Liam finds me outside the dining hall.

I don’t see him coming. One second I’m walking toward the doors, half-listening to the chatter of students filing past me, and the next his hand closes around my arm - firm, insistent - and pulls me off the path into the shadow of the building. My cane scrapes against the stone, my bad knee buckling slightly from the sudden shift, a jolt of pain shooting up through my thigh.

”Liam - ” I start, breathless, my pulse already climbing.

”Not here,” he says, voice low and clipped, nothing like his usual easy drawl. He glances past me, down the path, checking who else is around. His grip doesn’t loosen.

Liam is always loose-limbed, always quick with a grin, the guy who smooths over every hard moment with a joke before it can land. There’s no joke anywhere on his face right now. His jaw is tight, a muscle ticking at the corner. His eyes keep moving, scanning the path behind me, the windows above us, like he’s checking for something, or someone, that I can’t see. I’ve never seen him like this - stripped of his usual ease, every line of his body wound tight as a bowstring.

”You’re scaring me,” I say, my voice shaking more than I want it to.

”Good,” he says, a grim edge cutting through the word. He finally looks at me directly, his eyes dark and serious in a way that makes my stomach drop. ”You should be scared. A little.”

”Liam, what is going on?” My fingers tighten around the handle of my cane, knuckles whitening.

He lets go of my arm, but he doesn’t step back. He’s close, closer than he usually stands, close enough that I catch the faint scent of cedar and something sharper underneath - sweat, maybe fear. His voice drops even lower, barely above a whisper, as though the walls themselves might be listening.

”Whatever you think you’re figuring out,” he says, each word deliberate, strained, ”be careful who you say it to. Not everyone here wants the truth found.”

My stomach tightens into a hard knot. ”What does that mean?”

”It means exactly what I said,” he says, frustration bleeding into his tone. He drags a hand through his hair, and for a second he looks almost sick, like the words cost him something to get out at all. His throat moves when he swallows, and his eyes flick briefly toward the dining hall doors, as though he expects someone to step through them at any moment. ”I shouldn’t even be telling you that much. I’m not supposed to.”

”Not supposed to by who?” I press, stepping closer despite the way my knee protests, ignoring the sharp twinge that follows.

He doesn’t answer. I glance past him down the path - just a couple of students crossing the quad in the distance, laughing, paying us no attention, utterly unaware of the tension coiled tight between us. When I turn back, Liam’s eyes are already on me, waiting, something raw and conflicted flickering behind them.

”Liam.” I keep my voice as steady as I can, though my hands aren’t cooperating, twisting the strap of my bag like it might anchor me to the ground. ”Please. You keep telling me not everything is what it looks like, and then you stop right there. I can’t do anything with half a warning.”

”I know,” he says, the words heavy, pained, like each one costs him something he can’t afford to lose. ”I know, and I hate it, and I still can’t give you more than that.”

I study his face, the tight set of his jaw, the way his hands won’t quite stay still at his sides, flexing and curling like he wants to grab something and can’t decide what. This isn’t the fear I’ve seen from other people when I’ve dropped a detail in front of them this past week. Bella’s fear looked like guilt, her shoulders curling inward, as though she wanted to disappear into herself. Bianca’s looked like fury wrapped around panic, sharp and quick to snap, a blade pointed outward to keep the fear at bay. This is different. Liam looks like someone standing between me and something, bracing for impact that isn’t aimed at him at all, his whole body angled slightly like a shield, like he’d take the blow himself if it came to that.

”You’re not scared for yourself,” I say slowly, realizing it as the words leave my mouth. ”Are you.”

He doesn’t answer that either, but something in his expression flickers, a crack in the careful composure, and I know I’m right. For just a moment, he looks young in a way I haven’t seen before - scared, and tired, and far out of his depth.

”Who’s it aimed at, then,” I ask, quieter now. ”Me?”

”Georgia.” My name comes out strained, almost pleading, his voice cracking slightly on the second syllable. ”I’m telling you this because I care about what happens to you. That’s it. That’s the only reason I’m risking this conversation at all.”

The stairwell flashes through my mind again, sharp and sudden: Darcy’s arm braced against the railing, his eyes gone flat and hard, the first time he stopped pretending to be safe. My breath catches somewhere in my chest, and for a moment the noise of the quad fades into a dull hum behind my ears.

”Is it Darcy?” I ask.

I say it directly, no hedging, no circling, watching Liam’s face the way I’ve been watching everyone’s face all week, cataloging every twitch, every shift, every tell, every small betrayal of what people are trying so hard not to show me.

He doesn’t flinch exactly. It’s quieter than that. His whole body goes very still, shoulders locking, hands stilling at his sides for the first time since he grabbed my arm. His eyes drop from mine for just a second, just long enough, before he forces them back up, jaw clenched like he’s holding something behind his teeth. He doesn’t say yes. He doesn’t say no. He doesn’t say anything at all.

His silence is answer enough.