The King of Glassridge Academy

The roar of the Glassridge International Ice Rink was deafening — a chorus of voices echoing through the gleaming arena, all for one name.

James Astor.

Under the cold glare of the floodlights, he moved like he was born on the ice — smooth, fast, every turn a display of control and precision. The crowd didn’t just watch him; they worshipped him.

Glassridge Academy wasn’t an ordinary school. It was a sanctuary for the world’s elite — children of CEOs, diplomats, royalty, and international powerhouses. But even among them, James stood apart. His parents ran empires across continents, but he’d built one of his own before seventeen — a startup that already had investors chasing him across three time zones.

He wasn’t just another rich prodigy. He was the prodigy. Top of every class. Captain of the ice hockey team. The boy every parent envied and every student wanted — or wanted to be.

And tonight, the King of Glassridge was putting on a show.

James caught the puck at center ice, drove it forward, and flicked his wrist — the puck slammed into the net before the goalie even moved. The crowd erupted. His teammates surrounded him, helmets clashing, laughing, shouting his name.

From the stands, girls screamed, waving handmade banners. Some yelled his name; others just blushed when he looked up. James gave his usual grin — that crooked, careless smile that could melt steel. He was known for that smile. Known for the charm, the flirtation, the whispered rumors.

He was a playboy — everyone said so. But no one could ever say he went too far. He kissed, he teased, he disappeared. He never gave anyone the satisfaction of being “the one.”

Then, the lights dimmed slightly. The music cut. The jumbotron flickered.

KISS CAM.

The camera drifted across the crowd — couples, friends, laughter. Then it stopped.

On her.

The scholarship student.

The one who didn’t come from money. The one who didn’t swoon when he walked by. The one who competed with him in every class, every exam, every ranking. She wasn’t polished like the rest, but she had something sharper — a mind that could slice through his ego without even trying.

The heart frame appeared around her, glowing pink, and the camera shifted to the boy sitting beside her — a nervous mess turning bright red as the crowd began to chant.

“Do it! Kiss! Kiss!”

She laughed awkwardly, shaking her head, eyes darting away.

James stopped moving.

The grin faded. His gloves tightened around his stick. His teammates shouted something to him from the bench, but their voices blurred into noise.

He told himself it didn’t matter. That she didn’t matter. That she was just another girl from another world who somehow slipped into his.

But when the guy beside her leaned in — just slightly, close enough to make the crowd go wild — something inside him snapped.

James slammed his stick against the ice. CRACK.

The sound tore through the rink.

The referee turned. The crowd gasped. His coach yelled something from the sidelines.

James didn’t care. He wasn’t even sure what he was feeling — anger? jealousy? something worse? He just knew that when she looked up and met his eyes through the glass, his pulse went silent.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he smirked. But this wasn’t the charming one.

This one was sharp. Cold. Dangerous.

The kind of smile that meant this isn’t over.