Page 2 of Icy Pucking Play

"I…" I start to say, though what exactly I planned to follow that with, I have no idea. I'm sorry? I didn't see anything? Nice package?

Mercifully, my fight-or-flight response finally kicks in, choosing flight with an enthusiasm that would impress an Olympic sprinter.

I spin around so fast that I lose my balance, my heel catching on the tile floor.

When you’re falling, sometimes there's that split second where you think you might recover, that moment of desperate optimism where you believe your flailing arms might actually save you from face-planting in front of your secret crush.

Unfortunately, this is not one of those times.

I go down hard, my phone flying across the floor as I land in a heap, completely mortified. The only saving grace is that I’m now faced away from the urinals, preserving what little dignity remains between us.

"Sophie?" Evan's voice, deep and concerned, comes from somewhere above me. "Are you okay?"

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God.

"Fine!" I squeak, pushing myself up onto my hands and knees. "Totally fine! Just...just leaving! Sorry about the...um...invasion of privacy!"

"Hold on, let me…"

"No!" I scramble to my feet, keeping my back to him. "No need to...whatever you were about to do! Please, just...pretend this never happened!"

I snatch up my phone and bolt, not stopping until I reach the women's restroom on the other side of the building, as far away from the scene of the crime as I can get. I lock myself in a stall, slump against the door, and contemplate my options:

1. Quit my job and move to Alaska to raise sled dogs.

2. Fake my own death and start a new life as a lighthouse keeper.

3. Find a way to travel back in time and prevent myself from ever being born.

"Get it together, girl,” I mutter, pressing my hands into my flaming cheeks. "It's fine. It's totally fine. He probably won't even remember this by tomorrow."

Yeah, right.

Five hours later, I sit in one of the incredibly uncomfortable plastic chairs outside Lexi's office, my career and my dignity hanging by equally frayed threads. My watch shows two fifty-five p.m.—five minutes until my professional execution.

I haven't seen Evan since “The Incident” (which is absolutely what I'm calling it in my head now), but knowing he might still be in the building makes my skin prickle with awareness.

What was he even doing here? The Blades' practice facility is across town, and it's not like hockey players regularly drop by sports news offices just to hang out.

The click of heels on tile yanks me from my spiral of doom.

Lexi Brookes strides down the hallway, her shoulder-length blonde hair swinging with each step, tablet tucked under her arm. She glances my way as she passes, the scent of her expensive perfume trailing behind her.

"Sophie," she calls over her shoulder, "come on in."

I scramble to my feet, nearly knocking over my chair in the process.

Lexi's office is intimidating in its simplicity. There is no clutter. No unnecessary decorations. No fanfare or fluff.

Just a sleek glass desk, a few strategically placed awards, and a wall of monitors streaming various sports channels.

"Have a seat," Lexi says, gesturing to the chair across from her desk as she settles into her own black leather chair.

I perch on the edge of the seat, hands clasped tightly in my lap to stop them from shaking. This is it, the moment when my dreams of becoming a sports journalist go up in flames.

I should have listened to my dad and gone into accounting.

Lexi taps at her tablet for a moment, her face unreadable. The silence stretches on, and I feel sweat starting to bead up on my forehead.

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