Page 48 of Icy Pucking Play

"Sophie." Her voice softens. "Tell me about him. Not the Ice Man. Not the story. Just...him."

I poke at my ice cream, thinking.

"He cuts Natalia's peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into tiny bites for her," I say finally. "Even when he's running late for practice. Says it's tradition."

"What else?"

"And?"

"And he has this laugh—this real laugh, not the polite one he uses for media—that makes his whole face light up. I've only heard it a few times, but..." I trail off, remembering the kitchen, the way he'd laughed when I got chocolate sauce on his shirt. "It makes him look younger. Lighter."

"Sounds like he started to let you in."

"I thought he did." I set aside the ice cream, suddenly not craving it anymore. "But today, after the Clark thing and he was so angry...it was like looking at a stranger."

"Or maybe," Cynthia says gently, "it was like looking at someone who's been hurt before. Someone who's afraid of being hurt again."

I think about that day in the archives, researching for my feature. About the headlines I'd found:

BLADES STAR GOALIE DIVORCE SCANDAL

ICE MAN'S MARRIAGE MELTS DOWN

DANIELS DRAMA: INSIDE THE SPLIT

"He's been through a lot," I admit. "The divorce was...very public. Very messy."

"And now he's letting someone in again. Someone who writes for a living."

"Oh." The realization hits like a slap shot to the chest. "Oh shit."

"There it is."

"But I would never…" I start to protest, then remember how I'd pushed today. How I'd let my reporter instincts override my personal ones. "Fuck."

"Language!" Cynthia throws a pillow at me. "But also, yes. Fuck indeed."

"What do I do?"

"Well, first, you're going to help me finish this ice cream because I have work in an hour and I refuse to leave you alone with the rest of this pint."

"Hey!"

"Then," she continues, ignoring my protest, "you're going to put on one of those terrible horror movies you love…"

"They're not terrible! They're classics!"

"…and think about what you really want here. The story? Or him?"

I open my mouth to answer, but she cuts me off. "And before you say 'both’, really think about whether that's possible. And if it is, how you're going to prove it to him."

She's right. Of course she's right.

But before I can respond, my phone buzzes.

Evan:I still have your pen. I’d like to give it back to you.

My heart clenches. That pen—a graduation gift from my dad, engraved with "For Stories That Matter"—never leaves my side during important assignments.

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