My Hockey Hearthrob

Ice Cold

The press room was colder than the rink.

They sat me at a tiny table in front of a backdrop that said FROST WOLVES over and over, like if I forgot where I was. My recorder was on. My notebook was open. My leggings were finally dry.

And Jax Carter was fifteen minutes late.

When he finally walked in, he hadn't showered. He was still in his base layer, hair damp, a towel around his neck. He smelled like ice and sweat and fury.

He didn't look at me. He sat down across from me like I was any reporter from any outlet.

"Let's make this fast," he said to his PR girl. "I have weights."

She nodded and left us alone. Clicked the door.

I pressed record.

"Captain Carter, thanks for —"

"Carter."

"What?"

"You said 'Captain Carter' earlier. Just Carter is fine. We're being professional, right?" His eyes were dead. Flat blue. Nothing like this morning.

Professional. Right. The word he threw at me yesterday.

"Right. Carter. How does it feel to be heading into the semifinals after last year's injury?"

"Good."

"Just good?"

"Great." He leaned back, arms crossed. That C on his chest stretched. "Next question."

I gripped my pen. "There are rumors the team is divided after the trade deadline. How are you keeping morale up?"

"We're not divided."

"Two players requested transfers last week."

"They weren't a good fit."

"Is it true you punched a teammate in the locker room?"

His eyes finally flicked to mine. "Who told you that?"

"It's my job to ask."

"It's my job to not answer bullshit." He stood up. "Are we done? This is a waste of time."

I stood up too. My chair scraped. "You asked for me. Your GM said you requested my publication. Why would you do that if you're going to act like this?"

"I didn't request you," he snapped. "I told them to get anyone BUT you. They didn't listen."

The words hit like a slap. Louder than they should have in that tiny room.

My recorder was still going. I could see the little red light.

"Then why are you here?" My voice shook. "You could have said no."

"Because if I said no, they'd assign someone else and you'd still be here, in those f*****g leggings, distracting my entire team —"

"I'm distracting them? You're the one who stared at me the whole tryout!"

"I was making sure you didn't die!"

"Oh, how chivalrous!"

We were both breathing hard, inches apart across the table. Five years of unsaid things in that tiny room.

"Why are you really mad?" I whispered. "Is it because I left? Or because I didn't come back?"

His jaw clenched so hard I thought it would snap. "You left me on read for three years, Ella. You posted your whole life in New York, your internships, your new boyfriend, and you never once —"

"I texted you! You left ME on read!"

"I left you on read because you sent me a f*****g Christmas card that said 'Hope you're well!' after you broke up with me over text!"

We stared at each other. The red light blinked.

Oh god. The recorder.

I lunged for it. So did he. Our hands collided. His hand was huge over mine, warm, calloused.

He didn't let go.

Slowly, his thumb brushed over my knuckles. The same way he used to when we were seventeen and he was nervous.

"Turn it off," he said quietly.

"Jax —"

"Please. Turn it off."

I clicked stop. The light died.

Silence.

He was still holding my hand. His eyes were no longer dead. They were burning. That stare from the cover — the one that says I never stopped craving you.

"You shouldn't have worn that perfume," he said, his voice rough now, nothing professional left.

"It's the same one."

"I know."

His other hand came up, before he could stop himself, and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered. Traced the edge of my jaw.

My breath hitched.

"You have no idea," he whispered, "what it's like to see you here. On my ice. In my jersey. After I spent five years trying to forget how you sound when you —"

The door burst open.

PR girl: "Everything okay? We have Cole Maddox waiting for his cross-team interview —"

Jax dropped my hand like it burned him. Stepped back. Ice wall back up in half a second.

"We're done," he said coldly, not looking at me. "She got what she needed."

He walked out, leaving me alone with my dead recorder and my shaking hands and the ghost of his touch on my jaw.

I pressed play to check what I'd got. His voice, low and raw, right before the door opened:

"...what it's like to see you here. On my ice. In my jersey."

And then — cut off — my name, said like a prayer.

Ella.

I had my story. I had more than a story.

I had proof that the cold captain wasn't cold at all.

Outside, Cole was waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with that tattooed grin.

"Heard you made him walk out. Kinky. So — do we have a deal, Goldilocks?"

I looked down the hall where Jax had disappeared. My cheek still burned where he touched me.

"Yeah," I told Cole. "We have a deal."