Press Box

SLOANE

The credential felt heavier than it should have.

It hung from a blue lanyard around my neck and bounced lightly against my sternum every time I moved, a laminated rectangle that said MEDIA in bold letters like that single word could transform me into someone untouched by nerves, history, or extremely bad decisions made in a pool house.

I kept touching it anyway.

Professional armor.

That was the plan.

Dalton University’s arena rose out of the dark like a cathedral built for violence and glory. Bright glass frontage, banners hanging in the lobby, students in navy and silver pouring through the doors in packs. The air outside smelled like cold metal, overpriced popcorn, and winter trying to happen before it was fully invited.

Ethan killed the engine and glanced at me.

“You’re doing it again.”

I kept my eyes on the arena entrance. “Doing what?”

“The breathing thing.”

“What breathing thing?”

He unbuckled his seat belt slowly, like he didn’t want to spook me. “The one where you inhale like you’re preparing for impact.”

I looked at him then.

His expression was calm. Not mocking. Just observant. Too observant.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Sure.”

He got out, grabbed his camera bag, and came around to the trunk before I could say anything else. By the time I joined him on the sidewalk, he already had his press pass clipped on and his camera hanging ready at his chest.

“Shot list?” he asked.

I latched onto the question like a lifeline. “Warmups first. Bench reactions if you can get them from the lower angle. Crowd detail. Anything that gives the place texture. Not just hockey. Atmosphere too.”

He nodded once. “Got it.”

“And Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“If I look like I’m about to throw up, don’t mention it.”

His mouth twitched. “Noted.”

Inside, the lobby was louder than I expected. Ticket scanners beeping, skates clacking somewhere deeper in the building, students arguing over whether they had time to hit concessions before warmups. A little girl in a Vancouver Titans jersey ran past clutching a foam finger bigger than her actual arm.

I should have loved it immediately.

I did love it immediately.

That was the problem.

A sports information intern met us near the media table, checked our names, handed me a game packet and a stat sheet, then pointed us toward the elevator that led to the press level.

“Post-game availability is in Room B,” she said. “Coach first, then players. If you need anything during the game, find me or one of the SID staff.”

“Thanks,” I said.

Professional. Polite. Easy.

My heart was still trying to hammer through my ribs.

The elevator doors closed. We rose in smooth silence.

Ethan leaned back against the wall. “Want me to stay next to you in the box or move around?”

“Float during play. Sit during intermissions. If I need you, I’ll text.”

He studied me for a second. “You really can do the whole detached journalist thing, huh?”

I stared at the glowing floor numbers above the door. “That’s the job.”

The elevator dinged.

The press box was colder than I expected.

Not physically. Physically it was warm enough. But emotionally it had that detached, high-above-the-action feel of people who made their living from watching without participating. Laptops already open. Coffee cups sweating onto programs. A few local beat writers talking quietly about line combinations and special teams. The glass stretched wide in front of us, framing the entire rink below like a living diagram.

I took a seat in the second row. Set down my bag. Arranged my recorder, notebook, extra pens, the stat sheet.

Routine.

Order.

Something to do with my hands.

Ethan moved off to the side with his camera, already scanning the angles.

I opened my notebook and wrote at the top of the page:

Vancouver Titans vs. Boston College Eagles

First home game covered in person

Stay objective

The arena lights dimmed slightly.

Then the tunnel doors opened for warmups.

And objectivity died instantly.

Chase skated out third in line.

No dramatic entrance. No cinematic slow motion. Just a hockey player pushing off onto the ice, stick in hand, helmet on, shoulders loose.

It still hit me like a car crash.

On the ice he was different.

Not softer. Not kinder. Just stripped down to the truest version of himself. All the swagger sharpened into purpose. Every movement precise. Every line of his body designed for speed, violence, and control. He circled once near center, easy and fluid, edges biting clean into the ice, then dropped into a shooting drill with the kind of casual excellence that made me want to throw my notebook at the glass.

I forced myself to write.

Warmup notes:

strong first stride

quick release

looks physically locked in

good pace in line rushes

He took a pass off his forehand and snapped a shot top shelf without breaking rhythm.

I wrote:

unfair shot

Then scratched out *unfair* so hard I nearly tore the page.

A writer two seats down murmured to his colleague, “Hartley looks dialed tonight for the Titans.”

No kidding.

I kept my head down. Pretended to be checking the line chart.

Below, Marcus skated up beside Chase and shoulder-bumped him hard enough to nearly throw him off stride. Chase shoved him back. Marcus laughed. Chase didn’t, not really, but the corner of his mouth moved.

Then Chase looked up.

Straight toward the press box.

My breath caught.

He couldn’t possibly see me clearly from this angle. Too much glare on the glass. Too much distance.

But he looked anyway. Held it for one beat. Two.

Then skated off toward the far circle like nothing had happened.

I stared at the rink until my pulse settled back into something survivable.

This was why I was here.

Not for him.

For the game.

For the story.

For the chance to prove to myself that I could be in the same building as Chase Hartley and still function like a journalist instead of a girl who knew what he sounded like half asleep and wrecked.

The national anthem ended. The crowd surged to life. Students pounded on the glass. The Dalton band struck up something loud and brassy and impossible to ignore.

I gripped my pen.

Puck drop.

Hockey, unlike desire, rewards discipline immediately.

For the first five minutes I found my footing by clinging to structure. Line changes. Zone entries. Forecheck pressure. The Vancouver Titans’ first line looked faster than the Boston College Eagles’ right from the opening shift, and I made myself note it cleanly, clinically.

Titans controlling neutral ice early

Hartley line driving possession

Eagles slow on retrieval

Then Chase picked off a pass at the blue line, cut inside one defender, dropped a shoulder, and created a scoring chance out of absolutely nothing.

I forgot to write for a full three seconds.

He didn’t score. The goalie got a piece of it. But the whole building reacted like a live wire had been thrown into a pool. Noise swelled. Students rose half out of their seats. Marcus smacked Chase’s helmet on the way back to the bench.

And I caught myself smiling.

Not professional.

I dropped my gaze to the notebook and forced myself to keep up.

The game settled into rhythm. The Boston College Eagles tightened. The Titans answered. The fourth line got hemmed in for a shift and Chase came out over the boards like a correction. He wasn’t just talented. That was too simple. Too blunt. He understood the game in layers. Saw the next pass before the current one arrived. Knew when to force pace and when to slow the entire rink down around him until everyone else was reacting to his timing.

My notes got messier.

reads two steps ahead

bench calms when he’s out

not just skill, command

The beat writer beside me typed steadily through it all, expression blank. I hated him for it.

How was he watching this and not feeling anything?

No, that wasn’t fair.

He hadn’t ridden in a car with Chase at two a.m. with his hand on her thigh and a week of stolen sex burning under her skin.

He hadn’t watched him half asleep, mouth open on the pillow, one arm thrown over his face like the weight of the world was too bright to deal with before coffee.

He got to be objective because he didn’t know anything about the person under the jersey.

I knew too much.

Midway through the first, the Titans went on the power play.

The building changed.

It always happens. Even casual fans feel it. The anticipation shifts texture. Every movement sharpens. Every possession matters more.

Chase stayed on the first unit, set up on the left half wall, stick tapping once against the ice before the puck dropped. My body reacted before my mind did, the way it did every time I saw that tiny pre-faceoff ritual. A private, stupid thrill.

The Titans won the draw clean.

Puck high. Back down. Quick give-and-go. The Eagles collapsed low.

And then Chase moved.

Not flashy. Not rushed. Just one subtle shift of his body, opening the lane with his shoulders before the defense even realized it existed. He took the return pass, held for half a second, dragged one penalty killer with him, then threaded a pass through traffic so clean it looked impossible.

Marcus buried it from the slot.

The arena exploded.

I was halfway out of my seat before I caught myself.

Not fully standing. Not exactly.

But enough.

Enough that the pen fell from my hand and hit the floor.

Enough that the older reporter beside me glanced over with one brow raised.

Enough that my face went hot as I bent to grab the pen and muttered, “Sorry.”

Below, Chase skated past the bench, expression controlled, teammates swarming Marcus while the goal horn still sounded.

Then he looked up again.

This time I knew.

He was looking for me.

I stared back through the glass, pulse hammering, notebook open in front of me like some pathetic shield.

The building was still shaking from the goal.

My objectivity was gone.

And the game had barely started.