Iced Out

Chapter 9: The Announcement

NOVA

The coffee run had been a masterclass in choreographed deception.

At 1:00 PM, per Diane’s exact, terrifyingly specific instructions, Cole and I had exited the Glaciers’ practice facility together. We didn’t take the private players’ exit in the underground garage. We walked right out the front glass doors, into the crisp Chicago afternoon, and headed toward a high-end, heavily trafficked artisan coffee shop two blocks down.

“Walk slower,” Cole had muttered under his breath, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He was wearing a dark peacoat with the collar turned up against the wind, looking like a cologne advertisement that had gained sentience and a bad attitude. “Diane said we need to look like we’re enjoying each other’s company, not marching to an execution.”

“I walk with purpose, Cole,” I had whispered back, clutching the strap of my leather tote.

“Well, walk with purpose slightly closer to me.”

Before I could argue, his hand had settled on the small of my back.

Even through the heavy wool of my trench coat, the heat of his palm was a brand. My spine locked. My breath caught. I had stumbled, just a fraction of an inch, and his fingers had tightened, steadying me with a fluid, natural grace that looked infuriatingly authentic. He hadn’t let go until we reached the counter. He ordered my coffee, black, no sugar, because he had apparently noticed what I drank during our disastrous first session, and paid before I could reach for my wallet.

When we walked out, lattes in hand, I heard the rapid, unmistakable click-click-click of a camera shutter from across the street.

Cole hadn’t flinched. He had just leaned down, his mouth mere inches from my ear, the scent of cedar and cold air washing over me. “Showtime, Doctor,” he had murmured.

Now, it was 8:00 PM.

I was sitting cross-legged on the plush rug of my South Loop apartment, a generously poured glass of Cabernet in one hand, staring at the glowing screen of my iPad.

My phone had been buzzing like an angry hive for the last twenty minutes. I had put it on silent, but the screen kept lighting up the dim room.

Finally, I took a sip of the wine, braced myself, and clicked the link Diane had just emailed to my secure inbox with the subject line: *Phase One Complete.*

It was a major sports gossip blog. The headline took up half the screen.

ICE COLD CAPTAIN MELTS: COLE HARRINGTON REPORTEDLY DATING GLACIERS’ NEW SPORTS PSYCHOLOGIST.

Beneath the blaring font was the photo.

I stared at it in mild, clinical horror. I had expected it to look staged. I had expected it to look awkward.

It didn’t.

The photographer had caught us the exact moment Cole leaned down to speak to me outside the café. The angle was perfect. It caught the sharp, protective line of his shoulders shielding me from the wind, the heavy drape of his coat, and the way his hand was possessively, intimately curved around my lower back. I was looking up at him, my lips slightly parted in what the world would read as breathless adoration, but what was actually just me forgetting how to inhale because he was too close.

We didn’t look like a PR stunt. We looked like a secret that had just been dragged into the light. We looked entirely, irrevocably involved.

I scrolled down to the article with a heavy sense of impending doom.

*Sources close to the Chicago Glaciers confirm that the notoriously private and recently troubled captain, Cole Harrington (32), has found an anchor off the ice. Harrington was spotted looking incredibly cozy in River North this afternoon with Dr. Nova Calloway (27), the franchise’s brilliant new Director of Sports Psychology...*

“Anchor,” I muttered to my empty living room. “Diane, you absolute menace.”

I took another long swallow of wine and made the ultimate mistake. I scrolled to the comments.

In my profession, I advised athletes daily to never, ever read the comments. It was a digital slaughterhouse. Yet, here I was, a moth flying directly into the flame of public opinion.

User_GlacierFan99: Wait, the team shrink?? Is that even allowed?

PuckBunnyChi: Honestly, good for him. After the Onyx casino pics, the man clearly needs therapy. Might as well date the therapist.

HockeyEnforcer: She’s gorgeous but she looks like she could ruin his life with a single clipboard.

SilverSkates: Look at the way he’s holding her waist. I am unwell. The captain is OFF THE MARKET.

ChiTownSports_Guy: Rip to the Glaciers’ season. Bro is gonna be too distracted analyzing his childhood trauma to score on the power play.

I let my head fall back against the edge of the sofa, staring up at the ceiling. *She looks like she could ruin his life.* If they only knew. If they knew about Marcus, about the anonymous tip, about Victor Raines, they would realize I wasn’t just a distraction. I was a live grenade sitting in the middle of Cole’s meticulously guarded life.

My phone lit up again on the coffee table.

I expected it to be Sienna, my best friend and the most relentless sports beat reporter in the city. I was already dreading the interrogation she was undoubtedly preparing.

But when I leaned over and tapped the screen, the notification wasn’t from Sienna.

It was a text from an unsaved number. I had only seen the digits once, when I put them into Cole’s emergency contact file.

[Unknown Number]: Stop reading the comments, Nova.

My heart gave a stupid, entirely un-clinical stutter.

I picked up the phone, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

[Nova]: How do you know I’m reading the comments?

The typing bubble appeared immediately.

[Cole]: Because you’re hyper-logical and obsessed with data. You’re analyzing the public reaction. Put the iPad down.

I let out a shaky breath, staring at the screen. He was right. He had read me just as easily as I read him on the ice.

[Nova]: They think I’m analyzing your childhood trauma.

A full minute passed. I thought he wasn’t going to reply. Then, my phone buzzed again.

[Cole]: They think I’m in love with you. Diane is doing a victory lap around the executive floor. Get some sleep, Doctor. Tomorrow we have the charity gala. Wear green.

I stared at the last two words. *Wear green.* He had noticed the color of my eyes. He had remembered.

I set the phone face down on the table, picked up my wine, and drained the glass.

The arrangement was twenty-four hours old. One staged coffee run. One leaked photo. One text exchange at 9 PM. Nothing had happened. Nothing was blurring. The plan was working exactly as Diane designed it.

But I couldn’t stop looking at that photo on the iPad. At the woman staring up at Cole Harrington with parted lips and wide eyes, looking for all the world like someone who had forgotten how to breathe.

*That was the performance,* I told myself. *That was the angle of the camera and the cold air and the surprise of his hand on my back. That’s all it was.*

I turned off the iPad, set it on the coffee table, and went to bed.

I did not think about the fact that he remembered how I took my coffee. I did not think about the two words *wear green* and what they implied about how closely he had been paying attention.

I didn’t think about any of it.

I also didn’t sleep.