Cold Reads

CHASE

She clicked the recorder off and I felt the shift immediately—like the temperature dropped another five degrees even though nothing had actually changed except the small red light between us going dark.

“You don’t know,” I repeated.

Sloane looked at her notebook like it might provide an escape route.

It didn’t.

“We should finish the interview,” she said.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer I have right now.”

I leaned back against the cold bleacher behind me, coffee forgotten in my hands.

“Turn it back on then,” I said. “Ask your questions.”

She hesitated. Then reached for the recorder.

Clicked it on.

The red light blinked to life.

“Let’s talk about your defensive-zone coverage,” she said, voice shifting back into that crisp, professional register. “Your plus-minus dropped significantly in the second half of the season. What happened?”

And just like that, we were back in safe territory.

Except nothing about this felt safe.

“Injuries,” I said. “We lost our top defenseman in January. System fell apart. I was picking up too much slack trying to cover gaps.”

“Or,” she said, flipping a page in her notebook, “your own defensive reads deteriorated when the pressure increased. Your turnovers in the defensive zone doubled after the winter break. That’s not about your teammates—that’s about you making bad decisions under stress.”

My jaw tightened.

“That’s one interpretation.”

“It’s what the numbers say.”

“Numbers don’t tell the whole story.”

“They tell enough of it.” She looked up, eyes sharp. “You play scared when it matters most. Third periods when you’re protecting a lead. Playoff elimination games. Moments when the spotlight is brightest—that’s when you make your worst mistakes.”

Heat crept up the back of my neck.

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s accurate.”

“You’re cherry-picking stats to fit a narrative.”

“I’m identifying a pattern that impacts your draft stock.” Her voice stayed level, clinical. “NHL teams are going to ask you about this. They’re going to want to know if you can handle pressure or if you fold when it matters. How do you answer that?”

I looked at her for a long moment.

She wasn’t flinching.

“I answer it,” I said slowly, “by pointing out that I had forty-three points in thirty games. That I led my team in scoring. That despite the ‘mistakes’ you’re highlighting, I was still one of the most productive forwards in the conference.”

“Productivity in the regular season doesn’t predict success in the NHL.”

“And neither does a blogger’s analysis of my plus-minus.”

Something shifted in her face—fast and controlled, but I caught it.

“Blogger,” she said.

“Journalist. Blogger. Whatever you want to call it.” I leaned forward slightly. “You’re asking me to defend myself against a narrative you’ve already decided is true. That’s not an interview—that’s a hit piece.”

“It’s only a hit piece if you can’t answer the questions.”

“I’m answering them.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Sloane—”

“The scouts. What’s the actual conversation when they come to games? Not the PR version.”

I held her gaze for another beat. Then let it go.

“There isn’t much of a conversation. They watch. They write things down. Sometimes you get a post-game handshake and a look that tells you nothing.” I paused. “The ones who talk to you after are usually the ones who’ve already decided. The ones who are still evaluating don’t waste the breath.”

“Which teams are still evaluating?”

“Off the record?”

She looked at me. “Agreed.”

I named three teams. She didn’t write them down.

“Back on the record,” she said. “What do you think they’re actually evaluating? Beyond the obvious physical metrics.”

“Character under pressure,” I said without hesitation. “Anyone at this level can skate and shoot. What separates the guys who make it long-term from the ones who wash out in three years is what happens when everything is on the line and you’re down a goal in the third and your body is running on empty. Do you make the right decision? Do you trust your teammates? Do you take the intelligent play or do you force something because your ego needs the stat?”

“Which one do you do?”

I met her eyes. “I’m working on it.”

“Tell me about Dalton’s system,” she said. “Specifically the way Coach Reynolds deploys you in the defensive zone. It’s unusual—you’re a first-line forward but you’re taking defensive-zone draws at a rate more consistent with a shutdown center.”

My eyebrows lifted fractionally. “You watched film.”

“I watch film.”

“Of Dalton University hockey.”

“Of players I’m covering, yes.”

I looked at her for a moment—this girl with her notebook and her recorder and her eyes that didn’t miss anything.

“Reynolds trusts me in the d-zone because my reads are good,” I said. “I understand positioning. I don’t just watch the puck—I watch where the puck is going to be.” I paused. “He’d rather have my hockey sense back there than a guy with better defensive stats who can’t anticipate.”

“Is that something you developed or something you had?”

“Developed. Deliberately. Two years ago a scout told me my offensive instincts were elite but my defensive awareness was average for the position. I spent an entire off-season doing nothing but defensive-zone work.” I turned my coffee cup slowly in my hands. “Nobody sees that. Everyone sees the goals.”

“That’s the part of the story that doesn’t get told.”

“Which part?”

“The part where elite players identify their weaknesses and actually address them instead of just doubling down on their strengths.” She looked at her notes. “That’s more interesting than the highlight reel.”

I was quiet for a moment.

“Most interviewers don’t agree with you.”

“I know.”

“Best player you’ve ever been on the ice with.”

“Marcus Callahan. No hesitation.”

“Best player you’ve ever faced.”

I thought for a second. “Tommy Reeves. Michigan. He made me feel slow twice in one game and that doesn’t happen.”

“Biggest mistake you’ve made on the ice that you’ve actually learned from.”

“Forcing a shot in overtime of the conference semifinals last year because I wanted to be the hero. Turned it over. We lost.” My jaw set slightly. “I think about it probably once a week.”

“What did you learn?”

“That the right play is the right play regardless of who gets the credit.” I paused. “I knew that already. That game burned it in.”

She paused the recorder.

“Drink your coffee.”

I picked it up. Took a sip. It had gone cold.

I set it back down.

She closed her notebook. Slid the recorder into her bag. There was a beat—just a breath of silence—before she stood.

“That’s the end of it,” she said. “Thanks for agreeing to it.”

I stood too—slow—stretched my legs.

“See you later, Winters.”

She paused at the bleacher steps, looked back over her shoulder.

“See you later, Hartley.”

She walked toward the exit—notebook tucked under her arm, coffee in hand, steps measured.

I watched her go.

The rink lights buzzed overhead.

The cold settled back in.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I had to perform for anyone.

Not even myself.

I picked up my forgotten coffee—cold now—and headed toward the locker room.

The interview was over.

But something else had just started.

And neither of us had said its name.

Yet.