Page 7 of Fractured Ice

She drops a stack of folders on her desk thick enough to require both hands, and the room settles without her having to ask. Five weeks in and we all know better than to make Professor Bennett wait.

"Today's the day," she says, pulling up her laptop. "The semester project. I've been building to this since week one, and I need your full attention because once I hand these out, your questions are going to multiply fast."

She pulls up a slide. "Each of you is being paired with a student athlete. You'll spend the rest of the semester producing a complete media package. Interviews, feature articles, video content, game coverage, and a final long-form profile, minimum three thousand words, presented in the last week of class."

The room shifts. Someone two seats ahead of me sits up straighter.

"What I want is not statistics," Professor Bennett says. "Any decent beat writer can do statistics. What I want is the person. The story behind the athlete. What drives them, what they're afraid of, what they need people to understand about what they do." She pauses. "The work that makes someone care about a stranger."

I'm already running the math. The rest of the semester with real access to one athlete. Not a fifteen-minute media availability, not a post-game scrum. Actual time. The kind of profile that doesn't just show you can write but shows you can find the story inside someone who doesn't know they have one.

"Previous students have used this project as portfolio anchors," Professor Bennett continues. "I've had students land internships directly from connections made here. I've had students get hired because an editor read their final profile and called me." She picks up the stack. "The first deliverable is an introductory interview, due in two weeks. Conversational, not formal. You're not shaping anything yet. You're just learning how your subject thinks." She moves to the first row. "Questions after."

She goes on to explain that all of this will be available online by the end of the day, but jokes about how Ridgehaven University likes their paper copies. Not that she needs to tell us. We all know they like doing things the way they always have.

The folders make their way down the rows. Emma gets hers, reads it, and gives me a sideways look before pressing her lips together and going back to reading, which tells me exactly nothing useful.

Dylan Reed would be ideal. Ridgehaven's starting quarterback, already comfortable in front of cameras, having the kind of season people are starting to talk about in draft conversations. A profile with a natural hook before I've even asked a question. He'd already given me one short, very good, interview and I'd make his next one better than good. The final piece would be something an editor actually stops scrolling for. It’s technically the off-season for him, but I’d have enough between interviews and practices to do an excellent job on this project.

My folder lands in front of me.

Ethan Walker.

I set the paper down very carefully on the desk.

"So," Emma says, then glances at the name on my paper, and her eyes widen. “You’re shitting me!”

"Don't."

"I'm not saying anything."

"Emma."

"Completely silent," she says, visibly restraining herself.

Around us people are comparing assignments, reacting with varying levels of enthusiasm. Someone near the back got a football player and sounds thrilled. I sit with my sheet in front of me and think it through.

Ethan Walker, hockey, junior. Second-leading scorer on the team last season. Good on camera in that loose, natural way that's harder to pull off than it looks, the kind of guy who says something quotable without trying to be quotable. There's a real story in this season if I dig for it. A genuine profile worth writing.

The problem isn't the profile.

The problem is spending the rest of the semester in close proximity to Ethan Walker, who followed me across campus this morning wearing soaking wet boxers and asking me to dinner. Maintaining a clean working relationship with someone who's been complicating my existence since we were children requires a level of focus I'd rather spend elsewhere.

"This is fine," I say.

"Obviously it's fine," Emma says. "You're good at this."

"He's a solid subject. Comfortable on camera, we’re currently in hockey season, and I’m sure he has something worth telling."

"All true."

"The fact that he's annoying is irrelevant to the work."

"Also true."

"I'm a professional."

"You're a journalism student, but sure, same energy." She's grinning. I ignore it.