On The Record

SLOANE

The assignment landed like a puck on fresh ice—clean, unexpected, impossible to ignore.

I’d been running *Cold Read* for two years. Started it at sixteen in the summer after Mom died—mostly a place to dump the game breakdowns that had nowhere else to go. Dad’s old Flyers connections had gotten me guest access to a couple minor-league press boxes. I’d scraped together three thousand followers who actually cared about zone entries and forecheck systems and why analytics still got ignored in favor of “gut feel.”

It wasn’t huge.

But it was mine.

Tuesday morning my editor—if you could call a twenty-four-year-old analytics-site runner who paid in exposure and the occasional twenty-dollar Starbucks card an “editor”—emailed.

**FROM:** Derek Paulson

**TO:** Sloane Winters

**SUBJECT:** Feature idea — college prospects

*Sloane — putting together a summer series on college guys with legit NHL draft buzz. Need real access, not just post-game soundbites. You’re already covering the Titans’ summer games. Any shot at a proper sit-down with one of the Dalton kids? 1200 words min. Depth, not platitudes. I know you can get past the “hard work and trust the process” script. — D*

I read it twice.

Looked at the wall separating my room from Chase’s.

Looked back at the screen.

*Any shot at a proper sit-down with one of the Dalton kids.*

I closed the laptop.

Opened it again.

*This is purely professional,* I told myself. *He’s a college hockey player with top-ten draft projections. You cover this beat. He’s accessible. It makes complete journalistic sense.*

The fact that we’d stood in a dark kitchen at midnight two nights ago and traded pieces of ourselves we’d never given anyone else—that was irrelevant.

Completely irrelevant.

I opened a new email.

**TO:** Chase Hartley

**SUBJECT:** Interview request

*Chase — I have an assignment. Feature piece on college prospects with draft potential for a hockey analytics site. Proper sit-down, on the record, your schedule/location. 20–30 minutes.*

*Let me know.*

*— Sloane*

Sent.

His reply came four minutes later.

**FROM:** Chase Hartley

**TO:** Sloane Winters

**RE:** Interview request

*Sure. Tomorrow. Ice Line Quad Rinks. 8AM before the sheet’s booked.*

*Bring coffee.*

---

The Ice Line Quad Rinks were silent at eight in the morning—just the low hum of the refrigeration system and that particular cold that seeps into your lungs and makes everything feel sharper, cleaner, more real than you’re ready for.

Chase was already on the ice when I arrived.

Alone.

No teammates.

No coach.

Just him—running edge drills in slow, deliberate loops. Crossovers. Backward transitions. Long, reaching strides that ate ice faster than it looked like they should. Helmet off, dark hair damp, breath fogging in small white clouds.

I stood at the glass longer than necessary.

*Journalistic observation,* I told myself. *Noting how a subject moves in his natural environment.*

I had two coffees—vanilla oat milk extra shot for me, black no sugar for him—and my recorder, notebook, and the questions I’d spent last night refining until they were sharp enough to cut through bullshit.

I was ready.

Completely prepared.

Chase caught my reflection in the boards, pulled up sharp, turned. Skated to the gate, pushed it open, stepped off the ice with that subtle adjustment athletes make when blades meet solid ground.

He took the black coffee without asking which was which.

“You’re on time,” he said.

“I’m always on time.”

“Didn’t know that about you.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

The corner of his mouth moved—not quite a smile. Acknowledgment.

We settled in the first row of bleachers. Cold aluminum bit through my jeans immediately. Chase stretched his legs out, coffee cradled in both hands, utterly at ease in his element.

I set the recorder on the bench between us.

“I’m turning this on now,” I said. “Everything from here is on the record unless you specifically say off-record and I agree.”

“You’ve done this before.”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nodded at the device. “Go.”

I clicked record.

Opened my notebook.

And became—entirely, without apology—a journalist.

“Chase Hartley,” I began, voice level. “Sophomore forward, Dalton University. Projected top-ten pick in next year’s NHL draft. Walk me through your power-play setup this season. The Titans have struggled on the man advantage—low shot volume, predictable entries. What’s missing?”

He leaned back slightly—surprised, I think, that I’d come loaded.

“We’re forcing it too much,” he said. “Trying to cycle instead of moving it quick. Defenses read us now. We need more motion—fake shots, quick one-timers, make the D chase shadows instead of the puck.”

I jotted it down.

“You’re top-line forward. Why not push harder for that change?”

“I have. Coach listens. Doesn’t always agree.”

“Does that frustrate you?”

He looked at me—longer this time.

“Yeah. But frustration doesn’t win games. Execution does.”

I held his gaze.

“You’re projected top-ten. Does that number ever feel like a cage?”

His jaw ticked.

“Every day.”

I didn’t let up.

“You’ve had a reputation since high school—cocky, flashy, coasting on talent. Scouts love your hands, but some say you lack discipline. How do you answer that?”

He laughed—short, sharp.

“I answer it by showing up at five a.m. every day. Being first on, last off. Doing the shit nobody sees so when the lights come on, I’m ready.”

I leaned forward.

“And off the ice?”

His eyes narrowed.

“What about it?”

“Partying. Girls. The ‘player’ label. Does that help or hurt your draft stock?”

He stared at me—long, hard.

“It’s bullshit,” he said quietly. “Most of it’s rumor. People see a guy who’s good-looking, good at hockey, and fill in the blanks. I’m not a monk. Never claimed to be. But I’m not the guy the blogs make me out to be either.”

I didn’t flinch.

“So you’re denying the player label?”

“Yes.”

I looked down at my notebook. Drew a slow line under the question.

When I looked back up, something had shifted in his face. Wary. Waiting.

“Okay,” I said.

The word hung between us—between the blinking red light of the recorder and the two untouched coffees and the two feet of cold aluminum that suddenly felt like nothing at all.

His eyes didn’t leave mine.

I clicked the pen once. Twice.

*Professional,* I reminded myself. *Keep it professional.*

But the corner of my mouth was already moving—pulling into something I hadn’t authorized. Something that felt dangerously close to a smile that had nothing to do with journalism.

I caught it. Pressed my lips together.

Too late.

He’d seen it.

“Something funny?” he asked—voice careful, low.

“No.” I looked back at my notes, pen hovering over a question I’d written last night that suddenly felt too dangerous to ask. “Just—nothing.”

“Sloane.”

I didn’t look up.

“Sloane.”

I did.

His head was tilted slightly—reading me the way I’d been reading him for the last ten minutes. And there was something in his expression that made my chest feel tight.

“Are we doing this?” he asked quietly. “The interview?”

“Yes.”

“Just the interview?”

The recorder was still running. Red light blinking steady.

I reached over and clicked it off.

“I don’t know,” I said.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full—of everything we hadn’t said yet.

Of the kitchen at midnight.

Of the bonfire.

Of the way he’d looked at me when I told him he was still worth something.

Of the way I’d meant it.

Chase leaned forward—elbows on his knees, coffee forgotten beside him.

“Then what are we doing?” he asked.

I looked at him—really looked.

And for once I didn’t have a clever answer.

“I don’t know that either,” I said.

He exhaled—slow, almost relieved.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” His mouth curved—just barely. “Okay.”

We sat there—recorder off, coffees cooling, rink lights humming overhead.

No questions.

No notes.

No armor.

Just us.

And the things we still weren’t saying.

But for the first time—neither of us was running from them.