The Ice Between Us

Chapter 10 -Evan

Winning should feel better than this. The buzzer sounded, the crowd went wild, my teammates swarmed me, and for a split second, I felt that old rush, the one I’ve been chasing since before the suspension. But the second I stepped off the ice, reality slammed back into me. I know what I did. I know everyone saw it. And I know the league won’t care why.

In the locker room, the guys are loud, celebrating, spraying water bottles like champagne. Mason bumps my shoulder. “Hell of a game, Hart.”

“Yeah,” I say, but my voice is flat.

Coach isn’t celebrating. He’s standing near the whiteboard with his arms crossed, jaw tight. The second he catches my eye, he jerks his head toward the hallway. Great. I follow him out, the noise fading behind us. He doesn’t speak until we’re alone.

“What was that?” he asks, voice low but sharp. “Before the game. With the fan.”

I rub the back of my neck. “I saw a drunk guy bothering a woman. Her dad and some others were telling him to stop. He didn’t.”

“And you thought slamming your stick against the glass was the best solution?”

“No,” I admit. “I should’ve handled it better.”

Coach sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know how this looks. You just got back from suspension.”

“I know.”

“You’re going to get backlash.”

“I know,” I repeat. “I’ll deal with it.”

He studies me for a long moment. “Just… keep your head in the media room. Don’t make this worse.”

I nod, even though my stomach is already twisting.

We head back inside, grab our gear, and walk to the media room. Cameras flash the second we enter. Reporters lean forward like sharks smelling blood. Mason sits beside me. Coach takes the center seat. The first few questions are easy, game highlights, playoff prep, team chemistry. I answer what I need to, keep it short, keep it clean.

Then she speaks. “Evan,” she says, smiling like she’s doing me a favor, “you seemed… energized tonight. Does this win give you confidence heading into playoffs?”

“Yeah,” I say. “The team’s ready.”

“And speaking of energy,” she continues, “there was an incident before the game involving a fan and Lena Merritt. Do you know her?”

My jaw tightens. “Yes. We grew up together.”

A ripple goes through the room.

She leans forward. “Witnesses say the fan was ‘just talking’ to her. Why did you react so strongly?”

I smirk, but there’s no humor in it. “He wasn’t talking. He was harassing her.”

Mason shifts beside me, like he’s bracing for impact.

The reporter doesn’t miss a beat. “What is your relationship with her?”

“We’re childhood friends,” I say, keeping my voice even. “That’s it.”

She tilts her head. “Is she struggling with her injury? There are rumors she’s afraid to return to the ice. Can you comment on that?”

My hands curl into fists under the table. “No,” I say. “I can’t personally say anything about that. You’d have to ask her.”

“But...”

“What I can say,” I cut in, “is that any athlete wouldn’t be human if they didn’t have some fear after an injury. It’s normal. It doesn’t make them weak.”

The room goes quiet for a beat. Coach clears his throat. “Next question.”

But I can feel it, every camera pointed at me, every reporter scribbling notes, every headline already forming. I defended her. Again. And I’d do it again tomorrow. Even if it costs me.

I’m barely through the arena doors the next morning, when I’m told the owner wants to see me. Great. Exactly what I need before coffee. His office is warm, lined with framed jerseys and photos of championship teams. He’s not an intimidating guy, mid‑50s, calm, level‑headed, but today he looks tired.

“Evan,” he says, motioning for me to sit. “We need to talk about last night.”

I drop into the chair. “I figured.”

He studies me for a moment. “Start from the beginning. What happened with the fan?”

I exhale slowly. “I saw a drunk guy bothering a woman. Her dad and some others were telling him to stop. He didn’t. I reacted.”

“Reacted,” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” I say. “I should’ve handled it better. I know that. But I wasn’t going to stand there and watch him harass her.”

The owner leans back. “You know her?”

I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. We grew up together. Lena Merritt.”

Recognition flashes in his eyes. “The skater.”

“Yeah.”

“And she’s… struggling right now?”

I swallow. “Yeah. She is. And when I saw that guy leaning over her, it felt like...” I stop, searching for the right words. “It felt like high school again. Like I had to step in. I didn’t think. I just… reacted.”

He nods slowly, absorbing that. “You two close?”

“Not anymore,” I admit. “We haven’t even talked since she got back in town.”

He studies me for a long moment, then sighs. “Look, Evan… since you didn’t hit anyone, the league can’t punish you for it. They’ll talk, the media will spin it, but there’s no rule against yelling at a fan through the glass.” Relief loosens something in my chest, but only for a second. “However,” he continues, “you need to keep a cool head. You’re already under a microscope. One wrong move and they’ll use it to bury you.”

I nodded. “I’ll be better.”

He nods, satisfied. Then his expression shifts, more serious. “There’s something else you should know,” he says. “That same reporter from last night, she ambushed Lena in the lobby before the press conference.”

My stomach drops. “What?”

“She cornered her. Asked about her injury, her return...”

My hands curl into fists. “She was already shaken up from the fan. Why would...”

“Because she’s a reporter,” he says gently. “And Lena’s a story. Especially after your little… display.”

I nod, jaw tight. The owner stands, signaling the meeting is over. “Just keep your head down, Evan. Play your game. And maybe… check on your friend.” I leave the office with a knot in my chest.