Frozen Between us

The newsroom never slept. Phones rang. Keyboards clattered. Televisions mounted along the walls flashed sports highlights and breaking headlines while exhausted reporters chased stories that refused to wait. And somewhere between the noise and fluorescent lights, I was losing my patience. “Lena.” I didn’t look up from my laptop. “Not now, Bryce.” My editor leaned against my desk anyway, coffee in hand and trouble written all over his face. “That bad?” I deleted the paragraph I’d rewritten three times. “The coach dodged every question,” I muttered. “The team PR manager interrupted twice, and your photographer somehow missed the winning goal.” Bryce grinned. “So… a normal Tuesday.” I shot him a look. He remained annoyingly cheerful. At forty-two, Bryce Lawson had perfected the art of surviving chaos. He thrived in it, actually. Rumpled shirts, permanent coffee addiction, and a talent for dropping disasters into my lap with suspicious enthusiasm. Which meant I instantly distrusted the expression on his face. “What?” He slid a folder onto my desk. I stared at it. Then at him. “No.” “You don’t even know what it is.” “I know your face.” His grin widened. “That hurts.” “Bryce.” He crossed his arms. “National championship coverage.” I blinked. That got my attention. The hockey championship was the biggest sports story of the season. Exclusive access. National attention. Career-making coverage. Most journalists would fight for it. So why did my stomach tighten? I slowly opened the folder. The team logo hit me first. Then the headline. North Ridge Wolves – Championship Media Assignment And beneath it— Captain: Ethan Cole Everything inside me stopped. The newsroom noise faded. The air left my lungs. No. No, no, no. I stared at the name as if enough denial might erase it from existence. Five years. Five years since I had last seen him. And somehow his name still knew how to ruin my breathing. Bryce’s voice softened. “Lena—” “No.” I shut the folder. “You’re assigning someone else.” His expression lost its humor. “You’re the best sports feature writer I have.” “I don’t care.” “You’re qualified.” “I said no.” Around us, reporters moved between desks, oblivious to the fact that my world had just tilted sideways. Bryce lowered his voice. “The Wolves approved you personally.” My head snapped up. “What?” “They requested your coverage.” The words hit harder than they should have. Requested. I almost laughed. “That’s impossible.” “It came through their media office.” I looked away. Requested me. The idea made no sense. Ethan hated interviews. Always had. Especially personal ones. Especially mine. Heat crept up my neck. No. This had to be coincidence. A clerical mistake. Anything else. Bryce pulled a chair beside me. “You’ve never told me what happened between you two.” I stiffened. “Nothing happened.” He gave me a look that clearly called me a liar. The entire office knew Ethan Cole was the only subject I refused to cover. They just didn’t know why. Five years ago, before the headlines and endorsement deals and championship contracts, Ethan and I had been inseparable. And then we weren’t. Simple as that. Or at least that was the version I told people. The real one hurt too much to explain. Bryce sighed. “You know this assignment matters.” I knew. That made it worse. A championship feature meant front-page placement. National readership. Recognition. The kind of opportunity journalists spent years chasing. And I hated myself for still wanting it. “You can’t seriously expect me to—” “I do.” I looked back at the folder. Ethan Cole. Captain. Superstar. The man whose face filled billboards and sports magazines. The man I had once loved enough to plan a future with. The man who had shattered that future without looking back. The memory came fast and sharp— Rain. An airport terminal. My fingers gripping his jacket. His silence. Then cameras. Flashes. And the headline the next morning that changed everything. I pushed the thought away. No. That part of my life was finished. Buried. Bryce rested his elbows on my desk. “Lena.” I stayed quiet. “You’re good at your job because you tell the truth people avoid.” He nodded toward the folder. “So tell me honestly.” I already knew the question. “Are you refusing because you can’t do it…” His voice gentled. “…or because you’re afraid to?” I hated when he did that. Turned challenges into mirrors. My jaw tightened. Fear had nothing to do with it. I wasn’t afraid of Ethan Cole. I was afraid of remembering who I had been with him. And those were two very different things. I stood. “I need coffee.” Bryce called after me. “Deadline’s tomorrow.” I ignored him. The café downstairs smelled like espresso and burnt sugar. Exactly what I needed. I ordered black coffee and found a corner table, trying—and failing—to steady my thoughts. Outside, evening traffic moved beneath gray skies. Normal. Ordinary. Unlike the storm in my chest. Five years. I had spent five years building distance. New city. New career. New routines. Anything to make sure the past stayed where it belonged. And somehow one name had undone all of it. I wrapped my hands around the cup. Ethan. The name still carried warmth and damage in equal measure. I hated that. My phone buzzed. Mia I answered. “You sound stressed already,” my best friend said. “I’m considering murder.” “Work?” “Bryce.” “Same thing.” I smiled despite myself. Mia had been my emergency contact for emotional disasters since college. Which meant she recognized danger immediately. “What happened?” I hesitated. Then— “I got assigned championship coverage.” “That’s amazing.” “For Ethan’s team.” Silence. Then— “Oh.” Exactly. “Oh.” She exhaled slowly. “You said no?” “Obviously.” “And?” “And Bryce thinks I’m afraid.” “You are.” I glared at the coffee. “Traitor.” “Realist.” I hated when she agreed with my editor. “You haven’t seen him in years,” she continued. “Maybe this is good.” “There is nothing good about interviewing your ex while millions of people analyze his playoff statistics.” “You loved hockey once.” That hit harder than expected. Because she was right. Before heartbreak turned arenas into haunted places, I had loved the sport. Loved watching Ethan skate. Loved the electricity of games and victory chants and freezing arenas that somehow felt warm beside him. My throat tightened. “That was a long time ago.” “People change.” I stared through the café window. Yes. They did. That frightened me too. Because somewhere deep down, I didn’t know which possibility scared me more— That Ethan had changed completely. Or that he hadn’t. “You should take it,” Mia said softly. I laughed. “You’re unbelievable.” “You’re running.” “No.” “You are.” I closed my eyes. Maybe I was. But wasn’t I allowed to? Some heartbreaks left scars. Others rewrote entire versions of who you were. Ethan had done the second. “I have to go,” I muttered. “Lena—” I ended the call. Cowardly. But necessary. By the time I returned upstairs, the newsroom had grown louder. Bryce spotted me immediately. His expression said he already knew. I dropped into my chair. The folder still sat there. Waiting. Mocking. I opened it again. Media schedule. Travel dates. Player access. Interview windows. Then a photograph. And my pulse betrayed me. Ethan stared back from the page wearing the Wolves jersey. Older. Sharper. His dark hair shorter than I remembered. His jaw harder. And his eyes— God. Those eyes. Still the same impossible blue. Still dangerous. The caption read: Captain Ethan Cole leads Wolves toward historic championship run. I swallowed. Five years ago, those eyes had looked at me like I was home. Now they belonged to a stranger. Or maybe I was the stranger. My fingers tightened on the paper. Then something slipped from the folder. A media credential form. And attached to it— A handwritten note. I froze. Only four words. See you soon. No signature. None needed. Cold slid through me. The handwriting was unmistakable. Ethan. My heart stumbled. Bryce noticed my expression. “What?” I folded the note instantly. “Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. Not even close. Because Ethan Cole had known. Known I was coming. And somehow— He had been waiting.