Ice Between Us

The first thing I notice isn’t the ice. It’s him. Not the roaring crowd. Not the flashing cameras. Not the announcer’s voice echoing through the arena like a storm about to break. None of it matters the second my eyes land on Ethan Volkov standing at center ice, helmet tucked under his arm like it belongs there… like this is where he’s always belonged. Five years. Five years, and he still looks like the kind of mistake you never recover from. I tighten my grip on my notebook, the edges biting into my palm as if reminding me why I’m here. You’re working. Not remembering. Not falling. Definitely not staring at the man who once kissed you like the world was ending and he was the only thing left to hold onto. “Alina?” I blink, forcing my attention away from him. My editor’s voice crackles through my earpiece, sharp and impatient. “You’re live in two minutes. Try not to look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Too late for that. “I’m fine,” I murmur, even though my pulse is doing something reckless against my ribs. “Just getting into position.” “Good. Remember, this is your shot. Exclusive coverage of his championship run. Don’t mess it up.” Don’t mess it up. If only she knew. Across the rink, Ethan laughs at something one of his teammates says, the sound low, effortless… familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten before I can stop it. He turns slightly, and for one dangerous second, I think No. He doesn’t see me. Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? I’m just another journalist now. Another microphone. Another question he’ll brush off with that cold, controlled voice the whole world has come to admire. That’s what I told myself when I accepted this assignment. That I could handle it. That five years was enough to turn something real into something… distant. Manageable. I exhale slowly, flipping open my notebook, pretending my hands aren’t trembling. Professional. Detached. Focused. That’s who I am now. Not the girl who waited outside locker rooms just to catch a glimpse of him. Not the one who memorized the way his voice softened when he said her name. Not the one who “Volkov!” The shout comes from somewhere near the press line, and like a magnet, every camera turns toward him. Including mine. Ethan steps closer to the barrier, sweat glistening along his jaw, his expression shifting instantly into something unreadable. Controlled. Distant. The version of him the world knows. The version that doesn’t belong to me anymore. I raise my microphone, stepping forward with the rest of the reporters, blending into the crowd of voices calling his name. “Ethan, how are you feeling going into the finals?” “Do you think your team has what it takes this season?” “Any comments on the trade rumors?” He answers smoothly. Calmly. Like none of it touches him. Like nothing ever does. And then His eyes find mine. It’s not gradual. It’s not hesitant. It’s immediate. Precise. Like he knew exactly where to look. Everything else fades. The noise. The lights. The questions. Gone. For a heartbeat, we’re the only two people in the arena. His expression doesn’t change, but something in his gaze sharpens… darkens… like a blade catching light. Recognition. And something far more dangerous. My breath catches. Five years ago, I thought I knew everything about Ethan Volkov. The way he played. The way he loved. The way he left. But the man looking at me now? He feels like a stranger wearing a face I’ll never forget. “Next question,” he says, his voice steady, but his eyes never leave mine. A challenge. Or a warning. I don’t know which one scares me more. My fingers tighten around the microphone. This is it. The moment I prove I’m not the same girl he walked away from. The moment I remind myself that he doesn’t matter anymore. I lift my chin, forcing my voice to stay even. “Ethan,” I say, and his name feels like stepping onto thin ice, “after everything that’s happened in your career… what would you say is the one thing you regret?” The question hangs between us. Sharp. Personal. Intentional. A ripple moves through the reporters around me, but I don’t look away. I can’t. Because the second the words leave my mouth, something shifts in his expression. Not anger. Not surprise. Something quieter. Something that burns. His gaze drops briefly to my lips, then back to my eyes, and when he finally speaks, his voice is lower now… rougher. “Walking away,” he says. The world tilts. The crowd erupts into more questions, more noise, more chaos… but I don’t hear any of it. Because I know I know he’s not talking about hockey. And the worst part? A traitorous, fragile part of me still wants to believe he never stopped meaning it.