Breaking the Ice (Juniper Falls)

by Julie Cross

  Praise for Whatever Life Throws at You by Julie Cross

  “Loved this book! Great characters, great story, and so much swooning!”

  —Cindi Madsen, USA Today bestselling author

  “[A]llows readers an all-access pass into the lives of professional athletes and their families.” —SLJ

  “An addicting and gritty story about family, friendships, falling in love, and choosing to follow your own path. Whatever Life Throws At You is a story that combined my love of sports and YA romance in a way only one other YA author, Katie McGarry, has done.” —Mundie Moms

  “Julie Cross once again delivers with this swoon-worthy, laugh-out-loud romance between a sexy rookie baseball player and the new coach’s daughter.” —Yara Santos, Once Upon a Twilight

  “An irresistible story about family, first love, and following your heart.”

  —Jen, Jenuine Cupcakes

  Praise for Chasing Truth by Julie Cross

  “An enjoyably twisty, romantic, and thoughtful prep-school mystery.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “A fun whodunit for teens. It has more depth than most teen mysteries and could be recommended easily to fans of Harlan Coben, Ally Carter, and Jennifer Lynn Barnes.” —Charla Hollingsworth, HNGC Library

  “Fans of Veronica Mars are going to love this!”

  —Jaime Arkin, Fiction Fare

  “A whodunit-style read that had me clicking the pages all through the night.” —Erica Chilson, Wicked Reads

  “I love the witty banter Julie always incorporates in her novels, and the swoon-worthy chemistry that always occurs between the two main characters has her books making my favorites list again and again.”

  —Kirby Boehm, The Preppy Book Princess

  BREAKING THE ICE

  a Juniper Falls novel

  Julie Cross

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Julie Cross

  More from Entangled

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Julie Cross. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 105, PMB 159

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Entangled Teen is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Edited by Stacy Abrams

  Cover design by Clarissa Yeo

  Interior design by Toni Kerr

  ISBN: 978-1-63375-898-8

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-63375-899-5

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition December 2017

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the dancers and cheerleaders of the world. Know that you are a special breed—both artist and athlete combined. Keep doing what you love.

  Chapter One

  –Fletcher–

  Tap…tap…tap, tap…tap…taptaptap.

  I zoom in on the purple ballpoint pen, willing it to stop, sending it silent threats. But it won’t listen. It’s currently under the mercy of the blonde occupying the seat in front of mine.

  Tap, tap, tap…tap, tap…

  Maybe it would be easier to deal with if a sense of rhythm were involved. Maybe it would be easier to deal with if I didn’t have the hangover from hell. And if I hadn’t gotten up at five in the morning to hit the weight room before hockey practice.

  Taaap, tap, tap, tap…tap…

  My head is seriously about to explode. I shift my focus to the garbage can clear across the classroom. At least the nausea (and puking) subsided by the middle of hockey practice. I need to hydrate right now. Unfortunately, I’m trapped in this classroom for another seventy-two minutes before I get a water break.

  I’m barely paying attention to what Mrs. Markson is lecturing about, and she’s been at it—emphatic arm-waving and all—for thirty-seven minutes.

  Tap…tap, tap…tap, tap.

  I try to focus on the flowchart explaining the U.S. government chain of command, but the damn pen won’t shut up. I blow air out of my cheeks and wipe sweat from my forehead. I probably smell like a brewery. Or possibly the rancid beer spilled on the floor of said brewery. I shouldn’t have gone out last night. I shouldn’t have even been in Longmeadow last night. Longmeadow is for Saturday nights. Not Tuesday. Not when I’m enrolled in a stupid-ass summer-school course (which I only signed up for so I could have room in my schedule for a dual-credit college Calculus class this fall). Not when I’m working my ass off to earn a starting position on varsity this fall.

  For three years, I’ve been fine with JV, fine with whatever amount of game time I got. But thirty seconds on the ice in the state tournament last March changed everything. I’m hooked. It’s all I can think about. This fall is my last year playing hockey, and if the Otters make it to state again, I need more than thirty seconds of ice time.

  Tap, tap, tap…

  The sun emerges from behind a cloud and floods the room, making it hard to read the flowchart projected on the wall. Mrs. Markson heads over to adjust the window blinds. The tiny break is a sign. An opening for me to take action.

  Half standing, I lean forward and wrap my fingers around the hand gripping the misbehaving purple pen. The pen stills, and I sigh with relief.

  Haley Stevenson jumps, like she’d been in a daze and I’ve just burst her bubble. “What the—”

  “Your pen. It’s distracting.”

  “Distracting?” She looks about ready to shove me out of her personal space—the smell is probably getting to her. “How can a pen be distracting?”

  I move my hand over hers, forcing the pen to tap several times against the desk—and I make sure to create the most gratingly inconsistent rhythm possible. “That’s how.”

  “I have not been doing that,” Haley insists.

  We’re in the very back of the room, so only a few students take notice of my impulsive handlin
g of the tapping situation. Most are still scrambling to copy down notes. Mrs. Markson could have a career as an auctioneer if she wanted, the way she spits out information like we’ve all got five brains we can simultaneously use. Normally, the first day of school is a dud. Nothing gets done. But with summer school, the first day equals the first week. No time for small talk or wasting time.

  I’m leaning over Haley’s shoulder, her big brown eyes staring up at me accusingly. I have a clear view of her notebook. The flowchart, or any of the other projected notes we’ve been reviewing for more than thirty minutes, is nowhere to be seen. But she has written her name in several different styles of cursive, sometimes including her middle name—Allison—and sometimes adding an initial. She’s also doodled some hearts, a few badly drawn geometric cubes, and, crammed into the side column of the page, written with slanted print a “Hump Day To-do List.”

  I refrain from snickering at the “Hump Day” reference. I’m too old for that. But, while holding her pen still, I do read this very important life-changing to-do list consisting of seven tasks essential to one’s mid-June Wednesday survival in Juniper Falls, Minnesota:

  1. Write cheers for July 4th demo

  2. Teach Kayla B. (and maybe Kayla S.) newest 3-8 counts of competition routine

  3. Check UCF site for tryout/clinic dates

  4. Day 5 of teeth whitening

  5. Underwear drawer

  6. Download calorie counter app Jamie mentioned

  7. Tumbling at 6 then make dinner for Dad

  It isn’t really my style to engage in conversation during class. Especially to comment on this list. Where would I even start? I mean, what happens if you miss Day 5 of a teeth-whitening adventure? Or I could comment on the ambiguous underwear drawer. That one definitely has my pounding head working on overdrive. But I don’t comment on anything.

  Now that my concerns have been addressed, I let go of Haley’s hand, freeing the purple pen, and she immediately gives two quick taps against her desk.

  All right. That’s the last straw.

  I pluck the pen from her fingers, tuck it behind my ear, and sink back into my seat. “I’m gonna have to hang on to this until the end of class.”

  Haley spins halfway around to face me, the surprise in her expression telling me that the most recent taps hadn’t been F-you taps. “That’s my only pen—”

  “Miss Stevenson,” our highly caffeinated teacher says, looking right at Haley. “If the president and vice president can no longer serve, who becomes president?”

  Haley’s face flushes before she’s even fully facing forward again. “Um…the first lady?”

  The entire class laughs. Our middle-aged teacher—who takes Civics very seriously—doesn’t laugh. Her face pinches like Haley’s answer causes her physical pain. “Look at your flowchart, Haley. The answer is right in front of you.”

  Mrs. Markson’s already swiped the flowchart from the projector and replaced it with the Bill of Rights. In front of me, Haley’s entire body stiffens. I guess that’s what happens when you’re consumed with thoughts about your underwear drawer instead of copying notes.

  Jesus Christ. Now I’m consumed with thoughts of Haley Stevenson’s imaginary underwear drawer (imaginary not because it doesn’t exist—I’m confident that it does—but because I’ve never seen it before). My gaze roams from her ankles, traveling the length of her smooth, very toned, bare legs until I reach the hem of the frayed jean shorts resting high on her thighs. Shorts she’d never be allowed to wear during the regular school year. And yeah, I get this dress-code thing now. I’m completely distracted. I’ve never had a class with the Princess of Juniper Falls before. It’s a small town—one middle school, one high school—so we’ve always been in proximity to each other, but never this close, I guess.

  Two rows over from us, Jamie Isaacs shoots his hand in the air. “It should totally be the first lady. Or a vote. Women voting. A whole bunch of women all voting at once.”

  “Thank you, Jamie, for granting women the right to vote,” Mrs. Markson says drily.

  I’m about to laugh with the rest of the class, but my sluggish hungover brain is too busy catching the fuck up. What the hell is Jamie Isaacs doing in summer school? Didn’t he graduate last week?

  That’s one of the downfalls of all those dual-credit classes at the community college, and spending all but one week of junior year practicing with JV. I’m not up on all the latest gossip. Not that I’m close enough to the inner circle to get that info anyway.

  “What is currently the governing rule, not what should, may, or will be in the future?” Mrs. Markson continues, gliding down the aisles with the largest stride her knee-length pencil skirt will allow. “Civics is not about creativity. It’s about understanding the law and our rights as citizens of this country. So, who can tell me the position that is third in line to become president of the United States of America assuming the first two were deemed unavailable?” She scans the room, and her gaze finally rests on me, a hopeful expression already forming on her face. “Mr. Scott?”

  I can feel Haley’s and Jamie’s eyes on me. I lay an arm over my notebook and lean on it. After several seconds, I finally shake my head. Mrs. Markson rolls her eyes and turns around, heading back toward the front of the room. With a great amount of force, she snatches the Bill of Rights and slams the flowchart back into place. She grabs a red dry-erase marker and makes a big effort out of circling “Speaker of the House.”

  We go through eight more projector slides before we finally get a break. By that point, I’m close to passing out from dehydration. I stumble out of the room and lean over the water fountain, chugging for a good minute.

  When I fall back into my seat, already regretting the water binge, Haley Stevenson is turned around facing me.

  “I need my pen back,” she says.

  “Sorry. Can’t do that.” I flip over another page in my notebook (at this rate, I’m gonna need a new notebook for tomorrow) and rub my temples. “I’ve confiscated it for the greater good. Executive decision.”

  In a motion quicker than I ever would have expected from her, Haley reaches out and rips my glasses right off my nose. Her face blurs in front of me. She carefully folds my glasses and then drops them into the front of her backpack. The backpack is scooted over until it rests between her legs.

  Haley folds her arms across her chest. “My pen for your glasses.”

  I stowed her annoying pen in my back pocket when I got up to get a drink. I reach for it, but hesitate. “No tapping,” I warn.

  My vision isn’t clear enough to be sure, but I think she rolls her eyes. “I did not—”

  “Yes, you did.” I hold the pen out, but grip the end tight.

  Haley does the same with my glasses, not giving them up quite yet. “You owe me some notes. I couldn’t write anything down for the last like hour or something.”

  I lift an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize you needed the pen to take notes.”

  “What else would I need it for…” Her voice trails off, her neck and face turning pink. She drops the glasses onto my desk, snatches the pen, and turns around.

  After my glasses are back in place, my forehead relaxes and I watch Haley turn several pages over in her notebook, hiding the “Hump Day To-do List” she made earlier.

  If I were Jamie Isaacs—or any other guy on my team for that matter—this would be the point where I’d bug her relentlessly about the underwear-drawer mention. I might be vying for more time under the hockey spotlight, but I’m not Jamie Isaacs. I’m not the guy who cracks jokes all the time and always talks a big game. It used to bother me, I used to wish I were more like him or Leo or Hammond, but I’m over it now.

  Mrs. Markson gives us a five-minute warning. Since I’m already in my seat, I’m debating getting in a short nap when Haley turns back around to face me.

  “What now, Haley?”

  She flinches in surprise. “Do I…I mean…have we had a class together before?”

  H
aley Stevenson doesn’t know my name. And I used hers so easily it probably seems like I’m the type to silently worship the popular kids. Whatever. She can think that if she wants.

  “No,” I say, and she turns pink again. She’s embarrassed by my assumed embarrassment. “Not in high school,” I add, then wait a beat before finishing. “But in day care, you used to shove Cheerios up my nose.”

  Her mouth falls open, forehead wrinkling. “You’re kidding, right?”

  The reaction is satisfying despite my headache. I shake my head, but offer nothing more.

  She eyes me skeptically. “I would remember that.”

  I shrug. “You don’t remember my name, so maybe you forgot other things?”

  Haley sweeps her hair up into a ponytail, tying it with a band from around her wrist. “Forgetting and never being informed are two different things.”

  The textbook lying on my desk provides an opportunity for me to look busy and end this chat. Even though I’ve enjoyed messing with her, the fact that she doesn’t know my name is a bit of a conversation killer.

  Ten seconds later, Haley shouts out triumphantly, “Fletcher Scott!”

  I glance quickly around the room, taking in all the faces now turned toward us. I slide down in my seat. Clearly the conversation reins have been swiped from me. “Well done. Now turn around and take those notes you’re so worried about.”

  But Haley doesn’t move. “Coach put you on varsity right before the state finals. When Joey Petrie pulled his groin. I had to scramble to find you a locker buddy. Luckily Becca had some free time.”

  Too many people are looking at us right now. My gaze shifts to the clock above the door. Isn’t it time for another flowchart? “Tell Becca thanks for the oatmeal cookies.”

  “Aren’t they the best?” Haley sighs. “You’re lucky, you know? All the guys fight over Becca—” Instead of pink, she turns bright red this time and then shakes her head. “God, I didn’t mean fight over her like that…”

  “Like what?” I offer, playing dumb.

  “Everyone wants Becca as a locker buddy,” she clarifies unnecessarily. “Anyway…so the cookies? I helped her with that batch. They were good?”

  No idea. Considering eating them probably would have killed me. “Best oatmeal cookies I’ve ever seen.”