NOVA
At 11:58 AM, I adjusted the angle of my silver pen so it sat perfectly parallel to my legal pad.
At exactly 12:00 PM, the door to my office clicked open.
Cole Harrington stepped inside. He had traded his workout gear for a pair of dark, tailored jeans and a charcoal henley that fit entirely too well across his broad chest. The exhausted, cornered edge from the gym was gone, replaced by the impenetrable, glacial mask of the Chicago Glaciers’ captain.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click and walked over to the leather guest chair. This time, he didn’t slouch or drape his arm over the back to assert dominance. He sat down, planted his boots firmly on the carpet, and rested his forearms on his knees, leaning into my space.
“I’m on time, Doctor,” he said, his silver-grey ey
