Page 57 of Icy Pucking Play

"Perfect. Polish it up and have it on my desk Monday?" She's already moving on to other articles. "Oh, and Sophie?"

"Yes?"

"Really excellent work. Keep this up, and we might be talking about a permanent position."

I flee her office before she can see me cry.

Back at my desk, I stare at my computer screen, at all the words I've written about a man I’ve fallen for. About his family that's somehow become mine too.

About moments that felt sacred until I turned them into content.

"Rough meeting?" Brad asks softly.

"She loves it."

"Ah." He wheels his chair over. "And that's...bad?"

"She loves it because it's personal. Because it shows the real them." I start gathering papers almost frantically. "Because I took their trust and turned it into…"

"Into a story that shows them as human? As a loving family? As people worth knowing? You know," Brad says, rolling his chair over for the fourth time in an hour, "most people would be thrilled to have their boss love their work this much."

"Most people aren't writing about..." I wave my hands vaguely.

"About the guy they're dating?"

"We're not dating!"

"Right." He picks up one of my draft pages. "'His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, a rare sight that transforms his whole face into something softer, something real...' Totally professional observation there."

I snatch the page back. "That's not going in the final draft."

"No?" He grabs another sheet. "'The way he teaches both Ryland and Natalia speaks to a patience few would expect from the infamous Ice Man. Each correction comes with encouragement, each victory shared as if it were his own...'"

"That's different! That's about his coaching style!"

“Of course it is.” Another page. "'In quiet moments between drills…'"

"Okay!" I crumple up a sticky note and throw it at him. "I get it. I'm too close to the story."

"You're not too close to the story," he says more gently. "You're too afraid to admit there are two stories here."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning maybe the story you're writing for the paper isn't the only story that matters."

"To whom?"

"To all of them." He gives me a knowing look. "To a certain grumpy goalie who maybe isn't so grumpy anymore." He grabs another page. “In case you haven’t noticed, my dear amiga…this isn't some tabloid exposé. This is a love letter."

My throat tightens, the hair on the back of my neck standing on edge as the words ‘love letter” wash over me.

But before I can respond, my phone buzzes. Speaking of grumpy goalies...

Evan:Still at the office?

Me:Yeah. Late night editing.

Evan:Can I stop by? Need to talk about something.

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