Room Three
1264 Words
Interview room three was too small.
That was my first thought.
Too quiet.
Too private.
A narrow table sat between two chairs beneath unforgiving overhead lights. One wall was glass overlooking the arena corridor, though privacy film blurred the view.
Professional.
Neutral.
And somehow still suffocating.
I arranged my recorder, notebook, and press packet with unnecessary precision.
Control.
I needed control.
The door opened.
And Ethan walked in.
My stomach betrayed me immediately.
He had changed out of practice gear and into a dark Wolves quarter-zip that made his shoulders look broader than memory allowed.
He closed the door behind him.
The soft click sounded louder than it should have.
For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then he pulled out the chair opposite mine.
“So,” he said.
“So.”
Professional.
Stay professional.
I pressed record.
“Today is May seventeenth,” I said evenly. “Exclusive feature interview with Wolves captain Ethan Cole.”
His eyes remained on me.
“You still sound calmer than you feel.”
I looked up sharply.
“We’re starting with hockey.”
A faint expression crossed his face.
“Right.”
Good.
Boundaries.
Necessary boundaries.
I checked my notes.
“The Wolves are favorites this season. Pressure like that can affect performance. How are you handling expectations?”
His answer came smoothly.
“We focus on preparation, not headlines.”
Professional Ethan.
Measured.
Careful.
I wrote notes.
“What changed for the team this year?”
“Trust.”
I glanced up.
His gaze stayed steady.
“You don’t win championships without it.”
Something uncomfortable tightened in my chest.
I ignored it.
“Your leadership style?”
“Depends who you ask.”
“I'm asking you.”
One corner of his mouth nearly lifted.
“I hold people accountable.”
“That sounds diplomatic.”
“It’s honest.”
I scribbled another note.
The interview continued.
Game strategy.
Team chemistry.
Rival franchises.
He answered every question precisely, but something felt practiced.
Controlled.
Like he was giving the version reporters expected.
And maybe that irritated me more than it should have.
Because I remembered another Ethan.
Messier.
More real.
I lowered my pen.
“Your teammates describe you as guarded.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“That a question?”
“It can be.”
He leaned back.
“Guarded people survive longer.”
I held his gaze.
“And what exactly are they surviving?”
The silence that followed felt dangerous.
Then—
“Next question.”
There he was.
The wall.
I recognized it instantly.
My irritation sharpened.
“You requested this interview.”
“I requested you.”
The correction landed harder than expected.
I kept my face neutral.
“Why?”
His expression revealed nothing.
“You write differently.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is.”
“No,” I said quietly, “it isn’t.”
The room seemed smaller suddenly.
Too much history.
Too little air.
He looked at me for several seconds.
Then—
“You ask harder questions.”
I almost laughed.
“Is that supposed to flatter me?”
“It’s supposed to be true.”
I looked back at my notebook.
Fine.
If he wanted professional, I could be professional.
“Your career exploded after your transfer to North Ridge,” I said. “Endorsements, captaincy, national attention. Did fame change you?”
His gaze stayed on me.
“Probably.”
“Better or worse?”
“You tell me.”
I froze.
The answer wasn’t in my prepared notes.
And he knew it.
I set my pen down.
“This interview isn't about me.”
“No?”
“No.”
Something flickered behind his eyes.
For a second he looked tired.
Not physically.
Something deeper.
“You always did hide behind work when you were upset.”
Heat climbed my neck.
“This is inappropriate.”
“So is pretending we’re strangers.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
Because they were true.
And I hated truth when it sounded like him.
I switched off the recorder.
“Interview over.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“That fast?”
“You want sports coverage or therapy?”
A quiet breath escaped him.
“That’s not fair.”
My frustration broke loose before I could stop it.
“Fair?”
I stood.
“You don’t get to decide what’s fair.”
His expression tightened.
“Lena—”
“No.”
The old hurt rose too quickly.
Too unexpectedly.
Five years buried beneath professionalism and distance—and suddenly I was angry again.
Angrier than I realized.
“You don’t send notes and request interviews and act like—”
“Like what?”
“Like nothing happened.”
The room fell silent.
The words hung there.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
For several seconds neither of us moved.
Then Ethan stood too.
And the sudden closeness made breathing difficult.
His voice lowered.
“You think nothing happened?”
I crossed my arms.
“I think you left.”
His jaw tightened.
“And I think you never asked why.”
The words struck like cold water.
I stared at him.
“What?”
His eyes held mine.
“That airport wasn’t the whole story.”
My pulse stumbled.
No.
Absolutely not.
That night had destroyed everything.
There was no missing story.
No misunderstanding.
Only pain.
“You had years to explain,” I said.
“So did you.”
The answer stunned me.
Silence pressed between us.
My chest tightened.
This conversation was heading somewhere dangerous.
Too personal.
Too raw.
I grabbed my notebook.
“We’re done.”
I moved toward the door.
But his voice stopped me.
“You still believe I chose fame over you.”
I froze.
Because yes.
I had believed that.
For five years.
Slowly, I turned.
His expression looked different now.
Less polished.
Less captain.
More human.
And somehow that unsettled me most.
“You disappeared,” I said quietly.
“I didn’t.”
The certainty in his voice shook something inside me.
I swallowed.
“That’s not how I remember it.”
His gaze darkened.
“Then maybe your version isn’t complete.”
The words hit like impact.
My heartbeat grew louder.
No.
I couldn’t do this.
Not here.
Not now.
The door suddenly opened.
The PR manager stepped inside.
And the tension shattered instantly.
“Sorry,” she said, oblivious. “Cole, team meeting in five.”
Public Ethan returned so fast it almost hurt.
Controlled expression.
Professional calm.
He nodded.
“Be there.”
She looked at me.
“Everything okay?”
I forced a smile.
“Perfect.”
Lie.
The woman left again.
I gathered my things without meeting his eyes.
This time he didn’t stop me.
But just before I reached the door—
“Lena.”
I hesitated.
His voice was quieter.
“You should read the article from five years ago again.”
Cold moved through me.
I looked back.
His face revealed nothing.
And somehow that frightened me.
“What article?”
His gaze stayed steady.
“The one that made you leave.”
My chest tightened.
The airport headline.
The scandal.
The article that had shattered us.
I hadn't read it in years.
Had never wanted to.
And now—
Doubt slipped beneath my anger for the first time.
Tiny.
Unwelcome.
Dangerous.
I opened the door.
Then walked out before he could see how badly my hands were shaking.
Because one impossible thought followed me down the corridor—
What if memory had lied to me?
- Writer
