Page 14 of Icy Pucking Play

"You have a folder on your phone labeled 'Evan’."

I gasp. "You went through my phone?"

"You asked me to find a photo last week and I got curious." She shrugs, unrepentant. "Also, who saves that many pictures of one guy blocking pucks? I mean, they all look the same."

"They do not! Each save is unique and technically impressive and...oh God." I drop my head into my hands. "I have a crush on him."

"Finally, she admits it!" Cynthia throws her hands up. "I've been watching you pine over this guy since your Blades internship. Remember when you volunteered to stay late just to help him review game tapes?"

"That was professional interest.”

"You color-coded his hydration schedule."

"Athletes need proper fluid intake!"

"You memorized his daughter's favorite snacks and kept them in your desk drawer."

"Kids get hungry after practice.”

"You almost cried when he complimented your stats analysis."

"I did not.” I pause, remembering. "Okay, maybe I teared up a little. But he's not exactly free with the praise! Do you know how hard it is to impress someone whose default expression is mild annoyance at the universe?"

"And yet somehow you managed it." Cynthia's voice softens. "Which is why this whole golf thing matters so much. You don't just want his approval for the feature. You want him to see you as more than just another reporter."

I think about dinner at Julia's earlier.

About how Evan watched me help Natalia with her homework, his expression unreadable but somehow less icy than usual. About how, just for a moment when we were leaving, he actually smiled at something I said.

"It doesn't matter," I say finally. "He's a pro athlete. And fucking gorgeous. Way out of my league. And now I'm about to humiliate myself on a golf course in front of him."

"About that..." Cynthia stands up, heading for her bedroom. "Come with me."

I follow her, curious. She opens her closet and reaches all the way to the back, pulling out...a golf bag?

"You play golf?"

"Dated a golf pro last summer. Lost the man but kept the golf stuff." She starts pulling out clothes too—polo shirts and pleated skorts in various colors. "These should fit you."

I stare at her in amazement. "You're saving my life right now."

"I know. Try these on while I find my copy ofGolf For Dummies: Crash Course Edition."

Twenty minutes later, I'm modeling borrowed golf attire while Cynthia critiques my form with a wooden spoon as a makeshift club.

"Okay, basic rules," she says, circling me like a particularly fashionable drill sergeant. "Don't talk during someone's swing. Don't walk in their line of sight. Don't step on the line between their ball and the hole."

"What line? It's grass."

"Just...don't walk between their ball and the hole, okay? And for God's sake, don't hit anyone with your ball."

"That can happen?"

"With your natural grace? Almost certainly." She adjusts my stance. "Also, there's a dress code. No jeans. No T-shirts. No…”

My phone buzzes, making us both jump. It’s a text from an unknown number, which I belatedly realize has to be Evan’s. My heart thumps in my chest as I read.

Evan:Wear proper golf attire tomorrow. No jeans or T-shirts.

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