Page 17 of Fractured Ice

"I wanted to cover sports because sports are the only place where the stakes are completely transparent," I say. "There's a score. Everyone knows what's happening and why it matters. But the actual story is always the people, and people in high-stakes environments are the most interesting version of themselves." I pick my pen back up. "Your turn. What's the part of hockey that has nothing to do with winning?"

He looks at me for a second like he didn't expect that pivot, and then something in his face opens up a little. "The early morning skates," he says. "Before anyone else is there, just me on the ice. Nothing's been decided yet. Nobody's watching. It's the only time in my day that's entirely mine."

I write that down.

"That's actually a good answer," I say.

"I have a few."

We're moving into follow-up territory, the part of an interview where the practiced answers start giving way to something more real, and I'm just starting to find the thread of something worth pulling when a shadow falls across the table and I look up.

Dylan Reed is standing beside us.

He's exactly as I remember him from the feature I covered last fall. Tall, clean-cut, with the kind of easy confidence that photographs well and reads even better in person. He's got the quarterback thing down, the way he stands like he knows what a room looks like from the front.

"Sienna Park," he says, and his face does the warm, genuine thing that makes him good in front of a camera. "I didn't know you came here."

"It’s my first time here. How’s it going?”

"Better now that I see you here." He glances at my notebook on the table, then at Ethan, and the glance at Ethan is a little sharper. "Working?"

"Interview for Practicum."

"That's a great program." He shifts his attention back to me fully, and I mean fully, the way some people can redirect a room just by choosing where to look. "I heard Bennett's running it this year. She's good."

"She is."

"How're your classes going otherwise? Settling in alright?"

"Really well, yeah. The journalism building finally started feeling like mine around week three."

Beside me, Ethan's coffee cup makes a sound against the table.

"That's good," Dylan says, and he smiles, and it's an easy smile, the kind that doesn't require anything from you. "Hey, I'd love to catch up properly sometime. Could I get your number?"

"Sure," I say, and I give it to him. He puts it in his phone and points at me with one finger in that way that means I'll use this, then he's gone, back through the café and out the door.

I pick up my pen.

"Okay," I say. "Back to future plans. You mentioned Sports Management⁠—"

"He's a player," Ethan says.

I look up. "What?"

"Dylan Reed." Ethan's jaw is set in a way it wasn't ten minutes ago. "He's a player. You should know that."

"He's the starting quarterback."

"Not that kind of player."

I look at him for a second. He looks back, completely serious, and there's something around his eyes that's tighter than it was before Dylan walked over.

"He's charming," Ethan says. "He does the whole thing. Makes you feel like you're the only person he's talking to, gets the number, and that's about where his follow-through ends."

"Okay," I say.

"I'm serious."