Game Day

SLOANE

**SATURDAY**

The Wells Fargo Center smelled like cold rubber, stale popcorn, and the electric buzz of thousands of people who’d paid good money to watch grown men chase a rubber disk across frozen water.

I loved every second of it.

The press box was already humming when I arrived—local beat writers tapping away, a couple freelancers arguing over stats, an ESPN crew setting up lights. I claimed a spot near the glass, opened my laptop, tested my phone recorder, adjusted my credentials lanyard.

Professional. Focused.

Totally not replaying the café conversation from yesterday on a loop.

Totally not thinking about my quiet “Thanks for the coffee” or the way his eyes had softened.

Totally not.

Riley’s texts lit up my phone.

**R (6:47 PM):** ARE YOU THERE YET

**S (6:48 PM):** Yes. Press box.

**R (6:48 PM):** Is he warming up???

**S (6:48 PM):** Just got here

**R (6:48 PM):** WELL LOOK

**S (6:49 PM):** I’m working

**R (6:49 PM):** You’re AVOIDING

**S (6:49 PM):** I’m not avoiding

**R (6:49 PM):** You literally threw hangers at his face and now you’re writing articles about him. That’s either hatred or sexual tension. No in-between.

**S (6:50 PM):** It’s journalism

**R (6:50 PM):** It’s DENIAL

I powered off my phone.

Below, the Zamboni finished its final sweep. The ice gleamed under the arena lights—smooth, pristine, waiting.

The announcer’s voice boomed:

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome your Vancouver Titans!”

The crowd erupted.

Tunnel doors slid open.

And they poured out—navy and silver blur, sticks raised, helmets flashing under the lights.

I scanned the line.

There.

Number 19.

Chase Hartley.

He skated out fast—powerful, fluid strides, shoulders loose, stick tapping the ice in that familiar three-beat rhythm. Visor down, but I could still see the set of his jaw—focused, locked in.

He circled center ice once, then dropped into warm-ups.

Stretch line. Edge work. Passing drills.

I watched.

For journalism purposes.

Obviously.

Marcus Callahan—number 5—skated up beside him, slapped his shin pad with his stick, said something that made Chase laugh—head thrown back, real and unguarded.

I typed a quick note:

*Hartley loose in warm-ups. Strong chemistry with Callahan. Looks confident.*

Then he saw me.

Our eyes met across the distance—through the glass, over the ice.

I didn’t smile.

Didn’t wave.

Just held the look for three seconds.

Then went back to my screen.

When I glanced up again, he was lining up for shooting drills.

First shot—wrist, top shelf.

Second—snap, blocker side.

Third—one-timer off Marcus’s pass. Clean.

He tapped his stick twice on the ice—acknowledgment—then skated back to the line.

Warm-ups ended.

Puck dropped.

Game on.

First period: fast, physical, end-to-end. Chase won the opening draw clean, snapped it back, exploded up the wing. At 4:32 Marcus fed him a cross-ice pass—Chase caught it forehand, cut inside, deked the goalie, buried it top shelf.

Goal.

The building shook.

Teammates swarmed—gloves off, helmets knocking, Marcus grabbing his jersey and shaking him like a rag doll. Chase grinned—wide, boyish, the kind of smile that made him look twenty instead of untouchable.

I typed:

*Hartley (1G, 0A) 4:32 1st. Clean finish. Celebrates with team.*

But my fingers paused.

Because that smile wasn’t for the crowd.

It was real.

First period ended 2-1 Titans. Chase had the goal and a secondary assist. Marcus had the other goal. Lines clicking. Jax stonewalling in net.

Victoria and Dad were still away—some business trip that started Monday. They’d be back next week. I hadn’t asked for details. Hadn’t cared.

Until now.

Maybe the beach house had been their last-ditch effort to force us together before they disappeared again.

Nice try, Dad.

Second period: 8:14. Chase took a heavy hit along the boards—shoulder-to-shoulder, glass rattling. He went down hard, skidded into the corner.

My breath caught.

He stayed down. One beat. Two.

Then pushed up—slow—shook his head once, skated to the bench.

I exhaled.

*He’s fine. Why do you care?*

Because I’m covering the game.

That’s all.

At 12:03 Chase threaded a perfect tape-to-tape pass through the neutral zone. Marcus took it, broke away, scored. 3-1.

At 15:47 Chase drew a penalty—hooked on a rush, went down hard, no call. He argued—sharp, controlled—got a warning, skated back to the bench looking pissed.

I typed:

*Hartley visibly frustrated by no-call 15:47. Disciplined—no retaliation.*

But my eyes kept drifting to the way his jaw clenched, the way his gloves flexed on his stick, the barely-leashed fire behind his visor.

Control. Tension. Restraint.

*Stop it, Sloane. Objective.*

Right.

Third period: 3:22. Titans up 4-2. Thunder pulled their goalie—extra attacker, desperate.

Coach sent Chase out for the defensive-zone draw.

He won it clean. Snapped it back. Bolted up ice.

Puck bounced loose in the neutral zone. Chase got there first. Looked up—empty net, eighty feet away.

No hesitation.

He shot.

Puck sailed—end over end—slid across the blue line like it was on rails.

Hit twine.

Empty-netter.

5-2.

Final.

The arena detonated.

Teammates poured off the bench—sticks raised, gloves flying, bodies colliding. Marcus tackled Chase into the boards, laughing like a maniac.

Chase untangled himself—grinning, breathless, alive.

Then he looked up.

Straight at the press box.

At me.

I was standing—laptop closed, phone down—just watching.

I smiled.

Small.

Real.

He smiled back—slow, private, the kind of smile that felt like a secret.

---

Post-game presser: cramped room off the tunnel, folding chairs, long table, mics taped down, cameras in the back.

Coach Reynolds first—fielding questions about the win, the power play, defensive lapses.

Then players.

Marcus came out grinning—easy, charming, dropping soundbites about “team buy-in” and “trusting the process.”

Then Chase.

Still in base layer and track pants—hair damp from the shower, face flushed from the game. He sat, adjusted the mic, scanned the room.

His eyes found mine immediately.

Held.

Then flicked away.

ESPN reporter first: “Chase, two goals, one assist tonight. What was working?”

Chase leaned forward. “Just playing my game. Creating space. Being available. Linemates made it easy.”

“You looked more aggressive than in recent outings. Intentional?”

“Yeah. Coach wanted us to set the tone. I tried to execute.”

Another reporter: “The empty-netter—any hesitation?”

Chase smiled—small, confident. “No. Open net, you shoot. That’s hockey.”

Laughter.

I raised my hand.

“Sloane Winters, independent blog. Chase, you’ve been under heavy scrutiny this summer—scouts, draft projections. How do you manage the mental side of that pressure?”

The room stilled.

Chase’s eyes cut to mine—sharp, surprised, then steady.

He leaned back slightly. “The mental side is… tough. The expectations are always there. The what-ifs. I try to focus on what I can control—effort, preparation, trusting my teammates, trusting myself.”

“And when you can’t control it? When the pressure gets loud?”

His jaw flexed—just once.

“You breathe,” he said quietly. “You remember why you love the game. And you keep going.”

I typed the quote.

Hands shaking.

Because that answer wasn’t for the microphones.

It was for me.

---

Presser ended. Reporters filtered out. I packed slowly—deliberate—giving the room time to empty.

Chase lingered at the table, answering a couple stragglers.

Then everyone left.

Except us.

He looked over.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Good game,” I said.

“Thanks.” He stood, walked closer—close enough I could smell clean soap and faint rink chill. “Tough question.”

“It’s my job.”

“I know.” He paused. “You could’ve asked something easier.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

His mouth curved—half-smile, half-something else. “Right. Fun.”

We stood there—too close, too quiet, the space between us humming.

“Your answer was good,” I said finally. “Honest.”

“I try.”

“You succeeded.”

Chase’s eyes softened. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Silence stretched—thick, electric.

Then: “Sloane—”

“Chase—”

We both stopped. Laughed—awkward, breathless.

“You first,” he said.

I hesitated. “I was just going to say… you played really well tonight. Not just physically. Mentally. You looked… free.”

He stared at me. “Free?”

“Yeah. Like the weight wasn’t crushing you. Like you just… played.”

Chase’s throat worked. “Maybe I did.”

“What changed?”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just looked at me—really looked.

“I don’t know,” he said finally. “Maybe I just needed someone to see me. The real me. Not the performance.”

My pulse kicked hard.

“Chase—”

“I should go,” he said quickly. “Team’s waiting. Post-game dinner.”

“Right. Yeah. Of course.”

He started past me—then stopped.

“Sloane?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. For the question. For making me think.”

“Yeah. No problem.”

He nodded once.

Then left.

I stood alone in the empty press room—heart racing, hands unsteady.

*What the hell just happened?*

I didn’t know.

But whatever it was—it felt dangerous.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted it to stop.