SLOANE
**SATURDAY**
The Wells Fargo Center smelled like cold rubber, stale popcorn, and the electric buzz of thousands of people who’d paid good money to watch grown men chase a rubber disk across frozen water.
I loved every second of it.
The press box was already humming when I arrived—local beat writers tapping away, a couple freelancers arguing over stats, an ESPN crew setting up lights. I claimed a spot near the glass, opened my laptop, tested my phone recorder, adjusted my credentials lanyard.
Professional. Focused.
Totally not replaying the café conversation from yesterday on a loop.
Totally not thinking about my quiet “Thanks for the coffee” or the way his eyes had softened.
Totally not.
Riley’s texts lit up my phone.
**R (6:47 PM):** ARE YOU THERE YET
**S (6:48 PM):*
