Off the Ice

When Ice Meets Sunshine

When Evelyn Vance-Vaughn promised me a "skeleton crew," I assumed she meant a tight, highly efficient team of elite broadcast professionals.

I did not expect Toby, an eighteen-year-old intern whose primary qualification seems to be owning a learner's permit, and Mark, a cynical cameraman who smells faintly of stale gas station coffee and looks like he would rather be literally anywhere else on planet Earth. Our entire production kit consists of two basic digital cameras, a slightly dented ring light, and a microphone setup that I’m pretty sure was manufactured during the late Clinton administration.

"Is this the place?" Toby asks, his voice cracking slightly as he looks up at the towering, ultra-exclusive luxury high-rise in Chicago’s Gold Coast. "It looks like the kind of building where they shoot you just for making eye contact with the doorman."

"This is it," I say, adjusting the strap of my heavy equipment bag while balancing a bakery box from Luxe Crumbs on my forearm. "And nobody is shooting anyone, Toby. We are professionals. We are bringing good vibes and journalistic integrity."

Mark lets out a low, pessimistic grunt. "We’re bringing a lamb to a slaughterhouse, kid. Don't get attached to the yellow blazer, Toby. The Ice King eats vibrant colors for breakfast."

"I am right here, Mark," I remind him, flashing them both my most resilient, morning-approved smile as the elevator swallows us and shoots up to the penthouse suite.

When the doors slide open directly into the private foyer of Jaxson Vance’s apartment, the immediate visual aesthetic can only be described as billionaire fortress. It is a sprawling, terrifyingly beautiful minimalist dream. Floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlook a completely frozen, gray Lake Michigan. The floors are a stark, polished black marble, and the furniture consists of sharp, geometric leather pieces that look deeply uncomfortable. There isn't a single throw pillow, a stray coffee mug, or a speck of dust in sight. It doesn't look like a home; it looks like a high-end morgue for emotional expression.

I step forward and press the sleek, silver doorbell.

Exactly four seconds later, the massive steel-reinforced door swings open.

My brain, which usually operates at that brisk, matcha-fueled pace, completely misfires.

I knew Jaxson Vance was large. I have watched his stats. I have seen the broadcast footage. But seeing him on a screen does absolutely nothing to prepare your biological flight-or-fight response for the sheer, physical reality of him standing three inches away from you. He is massive. A solid, six-foot-four wall of broad shoulders, thick chest, and pure, athletic mass. He’s wearing a simple black henley with the sleeves pushed up to his forearms, revealing thick, corded muscles and a glimpse of the deep eggplant-purple bruising across his knuckles.

His face looks like it was sculpted by a classical artist who specialized exclusively in intimidating deities. A sharp, rigid jawline, a straight nose, and dark, heavy brows drawn together over a pair of icy, pale blue eyes that are currently staring down at me with absolute, unadulterated disdain.

"You’re late," he grinds out. His voice is a low, gravelly baritone that vibrates right through the soles of my sensible nude flats.

I check my watch. It is exactly 9:01 AM.

"By sixty seconds," I say, forcing my brightest, most disarming smile onto my face. I hold out my hand, determined to establish a warm, professional connection. "Hi, Jaxson! I’m Rowan Miller. We spoke with your publicist yesterday. It is so incredibly wonderful to meet you, and I am so excited to work together on this project!"

Jaxson doesn't look at my hand. Instead, his icy gaze moves slowly down to my face, lingers on my smile for a fraction of a second, and then drops to the bakery box in my arms.

"What is that?" he asks, making no move to let us inside.

"Oh! These are premium gourmet pastries from Luxe Crumbs down the street," I say, my voice lifting into its characteristic nervous-ramble register as his silence presses against me. "I read in an old team profile from your rookie year that you have a bit of a weakness for almond croissants, though honestly, looking at your current physical composition, it seems like you haven't consumed a refined carbohydrate since 2022, which is totally fair because training metrics are incredibly strict these days, but I thought it would be a nice icebreaker! Pun entirely intended, by the way."

Jaxson stares at me. The silence stretches for five, six, seven agonizing seconds. Toby shifts uncomfortably behind me, his sneakers squeaking on the marble.

"I don't eat sugar," Jaxson says flatly. He finally steps back, swinging the door wider, though his body language makes it entirely clear he’d rather be setting himself on fire. "And that smile is fake. Turn it off. It’s annoying."

My smile twitches, but I refuse to let it drop. Kill him with kindness, Rowan. Remember the unemployment line.

"Right. No sugar. Got it," I mumble, stepping past him into the freezing, beautiful expanse of his living room.

Twenty minutes later, the "disaster" phase of the morning officially begins.

Mark has set up our single ring light in front of a massive black leather armchair. Jaxson sits in it, slouched slightly, his long legs extended, looking like a captured warlord waiting for a tribunal. Toby is sweating through his SBC intern polo shirt while trying to stabilize a microphone stand.

I sit across from Jaxson on a matching leather stool, my tablet open, my posture pristine.

"Okay, Jaxson, this is just a quick pre-interview test shoot to get a feel for the lighting and the audio levels," I say, offering a gentle, reassuring nod. "We’ll start with something easy. You’ve been with the Chicago Blizzard for four seasons now. Can you tell me what the city of Chicago and the fans mean to you personally?"

Jaxson stares directly into the camera lens. His jaw muscles clench. "They pay my salary."

I wait. He doesn't continue.

"Right," I say, clearing my throat. "A very practical economic outlook. Let’s pivot slightly. Hockey is an incredibly demanding sport, both physically and mentally. When you’re out on the ice, facing that level of high-intensity pressure, what is the core motivation that drives you to keep pushing?"

Jaxson doesn't even blink. "Winning."

"Okay... winning. Short, sweet, to the point," I say, my voice getting a little tighter as I feel Mark’s cynical glare burning into the back of my head. I take a deep breath, tapping my screen. "Let’s talk about last night. The incident in the parking lot. The media has been spinning a very specific narrative about what happened. This is your opportunity, in your own words, to tell the public the truth. What was going through your mind when that altercation took place?"

Jaxson’s eyes snap from the camera lens directly to me. The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. His gaze is so heavy, so intensely dark, that my breath catches in my throat.

"Nothing," he spits out, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "The guy crossed a line. I dealt with it. Next question."

"Jaxson, we need more than three words if we’re going to build a redemption narrative—"

"I don't need a narrative," he growls, leaning forward, his massive frame dominating the space. "And I don't need to explain myself to a camera. Are we done here?"

Behind me, Toby lets out a terrified whimpering sound. Mark simply sighs and lowers his camera. It is a complete, unmitigated train wreck. If Evelyn sees this footage, I’ll be packing my desk into a cardboard box by lunchtime.

Frustration—hot, sharp, and entirely uncharacteristic—flashes through my veins. I drop my tablet onto the stool.

"Mark, Toby," I say, my voice surprisingly steady. "Take fifteen. Go down to the lobby, grab a coffee, or eat those almond croissants. I need to speak with Mr. Vance privately."

Toby practically sprints toward the foyer. Mark gives me a look that says nice knowing you, gathers his jacket, and follows. The heavy steel door clicks shut behind them, leaving the penthouse entirely silent except for the distant, muted whistle of the wind against the glass.

I stand up. My buttercup-yellow blazer feels incredibly bright against the dark marble, but I refuse to let him intimidate me. I march right over to his chair, stopping a mere two feet away from his extended legs, stepping firmly into his personal space.

"What is your problem?" I demand, my hands coming to rest on my hips.

Jaxson slowly rises from the chair. He just keeps going up and up until he is towering over me, forcing me to tilt my chin back just to maintain eye contact. The sheer physical proximity of him is overwhelming; I can smell his cologne—something dark, woody, and intensely masculine, like cedar and cold winter air.

"My problem," Jaxson says, stepping even closer until the tips of his expensive sneakers are practically touching my flats, "is that you are a media parasite in a colorful jacket. You come into my home, flashing a corporate-approved smile, pretending you care about my 'motivation' when all you really want is a piece of juicy, prime-time gossip to hand over to your bosses."

"That is completely untrue!" I snap, my chest rising and falling with a sudden spike of adrenaline. I look up at him, my heart hammering against my ribs, but I refuse to back down a single inch. "I am trying to save your career, you stubborn, ungrateful giant! Do you have any idea what the stakes are here? If this documentary fails, if you keep acting like a mindless, monosyllabic brute on camera, you are going to be suspended indefinitely. Your career will be over. And guess what? My career will be over too! I’ll be fired! So believe me when I tell you, Jaxson Vance, I am not your enemy. I need this to work."

Jaxson freezes.

The anger in his pale blue eyes suddenly shifts, morphing into something entirely different. He stares down at me, his gaze dropping to my lips, which are parted as I breathe heavily, before snapping back up to my eyes.

The silence between us instantly transforms. It’s no longer cold. It is thick, heavy, and suddenly, terrifyingly hot. A sudden, electric charge of pure, raw physical tension snaps through the air between us, so intense it makes the hairs on my arms stand up. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. He is looking at me not like an annoying journalist, but like a man who has suddenly realized the woman standing in front of him is entirely too close, entirely too vibrant, and entirely too dangerous.

Jaxson takes a slow, deliberate breath, his broad chest expanding. His eyes darken, a dangerous, predatory glint flickering in the ice-blue depths.

"You need this?" he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, quiet register that sends a frantic shiver straight down my spine.

"Yes," I whisper, my voice suddenly losing all of its angry momentum, completely trapped by the sudden, magnetic pull between us.

He steps a fraction closer, his shadow completely engulfing me, his gaze locking onto mine with a heavy, suffocating weight. In this quiet, empty fortress, with the world completely locked outside, the boundary between professional and unprofessional doesn't just feel crossed—it feels entirely obliterated.

Jaxson swallows, his jaw clenching as he stares down at me, a low, frustrated tension tightening his features.

"Then you better tell your crew to stay downstairs a little longer, Rowan," he grinds out, his voice thick with a sudden, unwanted awareness. "Because right now, we have a problem."

I blink, the sudden shift in his tone catching me off guard. But as his words sink into my brain, the lingering warmth of the moment evaporates, replaced by a sharp, icy prickle of sheer disbelief.

"A problem?" I repeat, my voice dropping its bubbly, polite cadence. I take a deliberate step backward, creating space between us, my arms crossing over my yellow blazer. "What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Vance?"

Jaxson runs a thick, scarred hand over his face, looking thoroughly annoyed that he spoke out loud. "The problem is that you are a distraction. I don't do distractions. Especially not when my entire career is on life support."

My jaw tightens. Any trace of my nervous, matcha-fueled rambling is completely gone, replaced by the cold, hard pride of a woman who spent four years pulling all-nighters to earn her journalism credentials.

"A distraction?" I ask, my voice dangerously quiet. "Is that what you think I am? A pretty girl in a bright jacket sent here to amuse you?"

Jaxson narrows his eyes, towering over me. "I didn't say—"

"You don't have to say it, it's written all over your face," I interrupt, stepping right back into his space, my finger pointing directly at his chest. I am officially furious. "I am a professional investigative journalist. I am here to do my job, which happens to be rescuing your tanking reputation because you couldn't control your fists in a parking lot. I have spent the last twenty-four hours memorizing your career stats, analyzing your team's defensive metrics, and building a structural framework to save your multi-million dollar contract."

I tilt my chin up, refusing to let his massive size intimidate me.

"So do not minimize my education, my career, and my hard work by calling me a 'distraction' just because you're uncomfortable looking at a camera lens. I am your director, not your fan club. If you can't keep your focus on the work, that is a you problem, not a me problem."

For a second, Jaxson looks completely stunned. No one talks to the Ice King like this. The sheer audacity of my pushback hangs in the air, thick and heavy.

Then, a slow, almost imperceptible shift happens in his expression. The dismissive scowl fades, replaced by a genuine, hard-won look of respect. His pale blue eyes lock onto mine, no longer looking at an annoying media parasite, but looking at an equal. An opponent who can actually hold her own.

"Understood, Miller," he says quietly, his jaw tight. "Let's bring the crew back up."