Iced Out

NOVA The cold hit me first. Not the weather outside. Chicago in October was brisk, but it was nothing I couldn’t handle. It was the ambient, biting chill of the Glaciers’ practice facility. It seeped through the soles of my sensible black pumps, traveling up my legs to settle directly into my bones. I adjusted the lapels of my blazer, pulling it a fraction of an inch tighter across my chest. Professional. Detached. Armor on. “They’re like a pack of wolves, Dr. Calloway,” Diane, the team’s razor-sharp PR Director, said as her heels clicked rapidly against the polished concrete. She didn’t bother looking back to see if I was keeping up. “A pack of highly superstitious, overpaid wolves with too much adrenaline and a pathological hatred of talking about their feelings.” “Good thing I’m not here to ask them how they feel, then,” I replied, my voice perfectly level. Diane paused at a set of double doors, finally turning to look at me. Her gaze swept over my dark auburn hair pulled back into a severe, no-nonsense knot, and my crisp, tailored suit. “You’re young. Twenty-seven?” “I have a PhD in Sports Psychology from Stanford and a year of post-doctoral clinical experience with extreme-sports athletes.” I held her gaze, keeping my expression perfectly neutral. “My age is irrelevant. My results are not.” A tiny, approving smirk tugged at the corner of Diane’s crimson mouth. “Good. You’re going to need that spine.” She pushed open the doors, and the smell of the facility hit me like a physical blow: ozone, fresh ice, expensive tape, and pure, unfiltered testosterone. We stepped out into the corridor adjacent to the locker rooms just as a handful of players spilled out, already in their lower gear. They stopped. I could practically hear the collective mental gears turning. “Well, well,” a massive man with a heavy Russian accent drawled, leaning heavily against his stick. He flashed a grin that was charming but entirely predatory. “Diane. You didn’t tell us we were getting an upgrade in the front office.” I didn’t need a roster to know who he was. Dmitri Volkov. Winger. The team’s lethal right hand and resident clown. I took a step forward, meeting his eyes. “Dr. Nova Calloway. I’m the new team psychologist.” I let my eyes drop to the way he was favoring his right skate, transferring his weight to lean on the stick. “And you’re deflecting with humor because you tweaked your right knee in warmups and you’re hoping I won’t notice your posture.” The grin slid right off Volkov’s face. Two of the rookies behind him suddenly looked terrified. “I look forward to our first session, Volkov,” I said smoothly. Diane looked like she wanted to applaud. “Right this way, Doctor.” She led me past the stunned players, up a short flight of grated metal stairs, and into a glass-walled viewing box that overlooked the main ice. The sheer scale of the arena made my breath catch, but it was the folder Diane suddenly pressed into my hands that made my blood run cold. “General evaluations for the roster start tomorrow,” Diane said, her tone dropping to something entirely strictly business. “But Management wants you to focus on a primary target. He’s the reason the board pushed for a full-time psych hire.” I looked down at the manila folder. There was a single name typed on the tab. HARRINGTON. My stomach bottomed out. The roar of the blood in my ears almost drowned out the sound of the skates carving up the ice below us. *Marcus.* The memory flashed behind my eyes: a dark room, a glowing laptop screen, data that shouldn’t have been there, the frantic, terrified keystrokes as I submitted the anonymous tip. Five years. Five years since I pressed ‘send’. Five years since Marcus Harrington died in a crumpled car on a lonely highway, leaving me with a secret that had dictated every choice I’d made since. Including taking this job. I forced air into my lungs. My pulse slowed, caged by years of practiced control. I flipped open the file. “Cole Harrington,” Diane said, stepping up to the glass. “Captain. Two-time MVP. Franchise legend.” “And reluctant to engage?” I guessed, staring at the intimidating medical and disciplinary sheet in front of me. “Hostile is a better word. He doesn’t trust the front office. He won’t trust you. He’s a fortress, Dr. Calloway. But something is wrong with him. He’s reckless on the ice, isolated off it, and the press is starting to circle.” She tapped the glass. “Fix him.” I stepped up beside her and looked down at the ice. It wasn’t hard to spot him. Even among a team of elite athletes, Cole Harrington commanded the space like a king surveying a battlefield. He was 6’3”, moving with a liquid, violent grace that defied his size. He took a pass, pivoted on a dime, and sent a slapshot into the top corner of the net with a crack that echoed off the high ceiling like a gunshot. He drifted to a stop near the boards directly below our viewing box. He pushed his helmet back, revealing dark hair that was damp and wildly disheveled. Even from here, his jawline looked like it had been carved from the very ice he stood on. Hard, unforgiving, and brutally beautiful. As if he could feel the weight of a new presence in the arena, he slowly tipped his head back. His eyes found mine through the glass. Silver-grey. Piercing. Absolute. The hostility Diane mentioned wasn’t an exaggeration. It radiated from him in waves. He didn’t know who I was. He didn’t know the secrets I was carrying, or the phantom of his dead brother standing between us. All he saw was a woman in a suit invading his sanctuary. He stared at me, his chest heaving with exertion, issuing a silent, arrogant challenge. *Walk away.* A strange, electric jolt sparked at the base of my spine. I didn’t step back. I didn’t look away. I planted my feet, crossed my arms over my chest, and held that devastating, glacial stare. He was the captain. He was a wall. But I was here for the truth, and I knew exactly how to break the ice.