Page 8 of Fractured Ice

Professor Bennett's wrapping up now, talking through the logistics of the first deliverable. I write it all down. I'm very good at this part, the structure of it, the framework, the thing that makes a vague assignment feel manageable.

At the bottom of my notes, without fully deciding to, I write Ethan Walker, two weeks and then interview.

Underneath that I write he volunteered for this and draw a box around it.

Because he did. That's the part I can't quite put down. The athletes weren't assigned. They signed up. Ethan Walker, who could have spent the rest of his semester not being followed around with a recorder and a notebook, looked at that list and put his name on it.

I don't know what to do with that yet, so I leave it in the box and close my notebook.

By the time Professor Bennett lets us go I have a full page of notes, a clear plan, and the feeling of someone who's just been handed exactly the opportunity she wanted wrapped in exactly the complication she didn't ask for.

Emma falls into step beside me in the hallway. "So you're texting him tonight?"

"I'll reach out through the appropriate channels."

"So yes."

"I'll be professional about it."

Emma bumps my shoulder with hers. "Sienna Park. Handling her business."

"That's the goal."

"Good luck," she says, and heads toward her next class before I can tell her I’ll need it.

Outside, the January air hits me in the face and I stand there for a second letting it.

Ethan signed up for a semester of being covered. Followed around, interviewed, picked apart by someone with a notebook and no particular reason to be gentle about it. He could've said no. Plenty of athletes said no. He said yes. He signed up.

I don't know what he thought he was getting into, but I know this much. He's going to be the most professionally complicated assignment I've ever had, and I've covered a wide receiver with a vendetta against the media, and a swimmer who cried during every single interview.

I can handle Ethan Walker.

I just need to focus on the work and not let him pull me into his world.

That's the plan.

3

Ethan

Practice was bad.

Not bad like a rough day or an off-skate. Bad like I spent two hours getting absolutely torched by guys I should've been skating circles around and couldn't find my edge to save my life. Coach didn't say anything directly, which is somehow worse than getting called out, because it means he's letting me sit with it and punish myself.

Which is exactly what I’m doing.

Even the triplets, Knox, Noah, and Blake, wouldn’t look in my direction. It was like they knew I didn’t want an audience for my humiliation.

The locker room's mostly cleared out by the time I finish in the shower. A few guys are still around, but everyone's in their own head after a practice like that, packing up and heading out without a lot of conversation. Which is fine. I'm not in a talking mood either.

I drop onto the bench in front of my locker and stare at my hands.

"That was rough, man." Knox says as he drops down beside me, which I should've expected because Knox has never in his life let something go without poking it first. He's got his gear bag slung over one shoulder, and the expression he wears when he's decided something is funny, and he wants to say something about it.

"I'm aware," I say.

"Like, genuinely rough. You got eaten alive out there."