Page 36 of Hot Mic, Cold Ice

I rewind the clip, studying every detail. The way the Reaper's forward smiles at her, the casual way Ziggy laughs at something he says. It all feels too intimate, too personal. Rationally, I know this is just work for her, a routine part of being a reporter. But my emotions don't care about rationality. All I see is my girl looking way too comfortable in another man's colors.

My mind races with questions and doubts. Is Ziggy seeing this guy? Why wouldn't she? We aren't exclusive. We aren't anything really. But why the hell does it bother me so much when we agreed this is just a physical arrangement? The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Ziggy has been distant lately;her texts are brief, and her calls are even briefer. I chalked it up to our busy schedules, but now I am not so sure. Has she been spending her time with this motherfucker? The thought makes my blood boil.

I pull out my phone again, scrolling through our recent messages. Her responses were curt, almost cold. Then there was last night—no response to my texts, no answer when I called. I brushed it off, thinking she was just busy. But now, it feels like a slap in the face.

I pace the living room, my thoughts a chaotic mess. This whole situation is eating me alive. I don't want to admit how much Ziggy has gotten to me. Her undeniable allure has carved its way under my skin. She is all I think about, and seeing her in another man's jersey feels like a betrayal, even if I have no right to feel that way.

Before my brain can catch up with my body, the call is already connected. The phone rings once, twice, three times. Just as I am about to hang up, she answers.

"Elliot?" Her voice is soft, almost cautious.

"Ziggy," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "We need to talk."

There is a pause on the other end, and I can almost hear her weighing her response. "About what?"

"About your night last night," I say, my anger seeping into my words despite my efforts to stay calm. "You, wearing the Reaper's forward's jersey. What the hell is that about?"

She sighs, the sound crackling through the phone. "It's just an interview, Elliot. It's part of my job."

"Wearing his jersey?" I snap. "Since when is that part of your job?"

"It's a thing they do," she says, her voice defensive now. "Postgame interviews sometimes involve the reporters wearing the team's gear. It's nothing."

"It doesn't look like nothing," I shoot back. "It looks like you're cozying up to him."

"Elliot, you're being ridiculous," she snaps, her tone sharp. "It was a professional interview. Nothing more."

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside me. "I don't like it, Ziggy. It bothers me."

There is another pause, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer. "I'm sorry it bothers you, but can we talk about this later?"

"You bet your sweet ass, we will talk about this later," I admit, my anger only escalating. "My house after the game."

"Okay," she whispers softly.

Anger flares up inside me, hot and uncontrollable. How could she do this? Was this her way of getting back at me for something? I don’t even know what I’ve done wrong, but this is the last time I see her in another man's colors. She is right. I need to get my head right before tonight's game. I can't let myself drown in these feelings and let my team down.

I pace the room, my mind racing. Every scenario, every conversation we've had plays back in my head. The jealousy is eating at my insides, but I can't let it consume me. I need to channel this anger into something productive, something that will make me successful tonight. With a deep breath, I decide tofocus all this raw energy on the game. I'll pour my frustration into every play, every shot, every moment on the ice. If I can't control what is happening with Ziggy, I can at least control my performance. Tonight, I will turn this fire into fuel for victory.

Still seething with anger, I grab my gear and head to the rink. Each step feels heavier than the last, weighed down by the turmoil churning inside me. I can't shake the image of Ziggy in that Reaper's jersey, smiling and laughing with him. The jealousy gnaws at my restraint, but I push it down, focusing on the game ahead. I arrive at the rink, the familiar sights and sounds grounding me. This is my sanctuary, where I can channel all the chaos into something tangible. Tonight, I'll leave everything on the ice, using every ounce of rage and frustration to fuel my performance. As I suit up, I vow to let the game be my outlet and my escape, if only for a few hours.

Chapter 29

The atmosphere in the arena is wild but tense. The Red Wolves have scraped by with a narrow win, and Elliot’s performance was nothing short of stellar. However, when the game ended, there was a certain edge to his demeanor. He was murderously quiet during the postgame interviews, his answers terse and his eyes dark with something I probably should avoid. I keep my distance, sensing that any attempt to talk to him now would be a bad idea.

As I wrap up my reporting duties, I see him from the corner of my eye, his jaw set in a hard line as he speaks with the media. There is a storm brewing behind his eyes, and I am not eager to be caught in it. I finish my work quickly, hoping to slip out unnoticed.

I make my way to the parking lot, the cool night air a welcome relief from the stifling air inside the arena. Just as I reach my rental, a strong hand grabs my arm, spinning me around. Elliot. His grip is firm but not painful. The intensity in his eyes sends a volt of electricity straight to my core.

“What the hell, Ziggy?” he growls, his voice low and rough. “You think you can just avoid me all night?”

I try to pull free, but he holds me in place, his gaze drilling into mine. “Elliot, let go,” I say, though my voice lacks conviction. There is something about the way he looks at me that makes my pulse quicken.

Ignoring my protests, he pulls me closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Get in the car, Z,” he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

I swallow hard and nod, slipping into the passenger seat as he gets behind the wheel. The drive to his place is silent, the air between us thick with unspoken words and pent-up frustration. As soon as he pulls into the driveway, his mouth is on mine.

“You drive me crazy; you know that?” he mutters against my neck, his breath hot and ragged.

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