Thin Ice
1271 Words
I barely slept.
Not because of the hotel.
The room was perfect—soft lighting, expensive sheets, and a view overlooking the arena glowing against the snowy skyline.
No.
Sleep avoided me because Ethan Cole had looked at me like five years had never happened.
And worse—
Because some reckless part of me had looked back.
Morning arrived cold and unforgiving.
Exactly how I needed it.
I stood in front of the mirror adjusting my blazer.
Professional.
Neutral.
Safe.
No one looking at me would guess my pulse still carried echoes from yesterday.
My phone rang.
“Mia,” I answered.
“Report.”
I poured coffee from the room service tray.
“I’m alive.”
“That sounds suspiciously disappointing.”
I sighed.
“I saw him.”
Her voice softened.
“And?”
How did I answer that?
That he looked unfairly good?
That hearing my name from him again had stirred memories I spent years burying?
That I hated how easily my body recognized him?
Instead I said—
“He’s still irritating.”
Mia laughed.
“That bad?”
“Worse.”
I told her about the lobby encounter.
The note.
The conversation.
When I repeated his final comment, she whistled.
“He remembered that?”
Apparently.
I hated how much that detail bothered me.
“People remember strange things,” I muttered.
“No,” she corrected gently. “People remember important things.”
I changed the subject immediately.
Media orientation started in an hour.
And I intended to survive it with my dignity intact.
—
The Wolves arena looked intimidating even during daylight.
Fans already crowded the entrances despite the early hour.
Championship fever.
Banners hung from the exterior walls while security and media personnel moved in controlled chaos.
I collected my credentials and followed signs toward the press entrance.
Cold air carried the unmistakable scent of ice and metal.
The arena woke something old inside me.
A strange ache.
Years ago, hockey arenas had felt like home.
I used to sit wrapped in Ethan’s oversized hoodie while he practiced, pretending to read while secretly watching him skate.
Back then life had seemed painfully simple.
I pushed the memory aside.
Not today.
Inside, the media room buzzed with conversation.
Reporters arranged equipment while team representatives distributed schedules and access passes.
I spotted Bryce near the front.
He waved.
“You made it.”
“Against my better judgment.”
He handed me a packet.
“You’ve got excellent access.”
I scanned the schedule.
Locker room availability.
Player interviews.
Practice sessions.
Then my eyes stopped.
Exclusive Captain Feature — Lena Hart / Ethan Cole
I looked up sharply.
Bryce grinned.
“Congratulations.”
“No.”
“Lena—”
“No.”
“It’s front-page material.”
“It’s sabotage.”
He laughed.
“You’ll thank me later.”
Highly unlikely.
Before I could argue further, movement near the entrance drew attention.
The room quieted.
Players entered.
Conversations shifted.
Cameras lifted.
And instinctively—
My eyes found him.
Ethan walked beside coaching staff wearing a fitted black training jacket with the Wolves emblem over his chest.
Confidence followed him.
Not arrogance.
Something quieter.
The certainty of someone accustomed to pressure.
He spoke briefly with team management before scanning the room.
And once again—
His gaze landed on me.
Directly.
Like gravity.
My stomach tightened.
He gave a short nod.
Professional.
Measured.
Then continued walking.
I exhaled slowly.
Get it together.
This was work.
Nothing more.
The orientation began shortly after.
Team policies.
Interview rules.
Media boundaries.
I took notes automatically while trying not to notice Ethan seated several rows ahead.
Which would have been easier if half the room wasn’t discussing him.
“Cole’s numbers are insane this season.”
“Think they’ll win?”
“Depends if their captain survives the pressure.”
I kept writing.
Detached.
Professional.
Until the moderator announced open practice access.
Chairs scraped.
Reporters moved toward the arena entrance.
And suddenly—
The ice appeared.
Bright.
Pristine.
Beautiful.
My chest tightened unexpectedly.
God.
I had forgotten this feeling.
The sound of skates.
The chill rolling upward from the rink.
The electric anticipation humming through empty stands.
Players stepped onto the ice one by one.
Then Ethan.
And the arena changed.
It was impossible not to notice.
He moved with effortless control, skating hard across the rink while teammates called plays around him.
Fast.
Sharp.
Focused.
The years disappeared in dangerous flashes.
I remembered sitting alone after his college games.
Remembered his grin when he won.
Remembered how proud I used to feel.
I gripped my notebook tighter.
No.
That belonged to another version of me.
Whistles echoed.
Practice intensified.
I forced myself to take notes.
Line rotations.
Player chemistry.
Coaching strategy.
Work.
Stay focused.
But hockey had always betrayed me.
Because watching Ethan skate never felt entirely logical.
He played like emotion translated into motion.
Controlled chaos.
And I hated remembering that.
A photographer beside me nudged my arm.
“You covering Cole?”
I glanced over.
“Partially.”
He smirked.
“Good luck.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Guy barely opens up.”
I looked back toward the ice.
Ethan cut sharply around defenders before scoring during a drill.
The crowd of reporters reacted instantly.
The photographer continued.
“Does interviews because he has to. Never because he wants to.”
Funny.
He used to talk too much.
Especially late at night.
Especially with me.
The thought stung.
Practice ended forty minutes later.
Players headed toward the tunnel.
Media prepared for interview sessions.
I checked my schedule.
Captain availability—locker room corridor.
Wonderful.
The hallway outside the locker room buzzed with reporters waiting for players to emerge.
I positioned myself near the back.
Distance felt safer.
One by one interviews began.
Short answers.
Team-focused responses.
Predictable.
Then Ethan stepped out.
The corridor shifted.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Attention followed him naturally.
Questions fired immediately.
“How’s the pressure heading into finals?”
“Thoughts on rival defense?”
“Any injury concerns?”
He answered calmly.
Measured.
Experienced.
Then his gaze moved.
And found me standing near the wall.
For a second—
Everything else faded.
His expression changed slightly.
Not enough for cameras to notice.
But enough for me.
A PR representative approached.
“Captain Cole,” she said, “exclusive feature interview in ten minutes.”
I frowned.
Exclusive?
She checked her tablet.
“With Ms. Hart.”
Around us, several reporters looked annoyed.
Of course they did.
I looked annoyed too.
Ethan remained unreadable.
“Understood,” he said.
The PR woman smiled at me.
“Interview room three.”
Then she left.
Fantastic.
Absolutely fantastic.
The crowd slowly dispersed.
And before I could escape—
Ethan walked over.
Too close.
Again.
“You look nervous,” he said quietly.
I crossed my arms.
“I’m reconsidering homicide.”
His mouth almost curved.
Almost.
“That’s familiar.”
I ignored the warmth trying to betray me.
“This interview stays professional.”
“Wasn’t planning otherwise.”
I hated how calm he sounded.
Like we weren’t standing on years of unresolved history.
“Good.”
His gaze lingered briefly.
“You still don’t trust me.”
The directness caught me off guard.
I looked away first.
“Interview room three,” I said.
Then walked before he could answer.
But his words followed me anyway.
And for the first time since arriving—
I wondered something dangerous.
Not whether seeing Ethan hurt.
I already knew it did.
The real question was worse.
Why did it still matter?
- Writer
