The Drive

SLOANE

The first rule of covering Dalton was simple.

Do not look like you’re going there for him.

That rule started in my bedroom at four-thirty on a Friday afternoon with my closet open, three outfits on the bed, and Riley sitting cross-legged on my rug like a chaotic personal stylist with no license and too many opinions.

“Not the black sweater,” she said, pointing with a mascara wand. “Too date-night. Also not the white blouse because if you spill coffee on yourself, you’ll look like a cautionary tale.”

“It’s a hockey game, not a coronation.”

“Exactly. So dress like a serious journalist who just happens to be devastatingly hot.”

I stared at her.

She grinned. “You know I’m right.”

I went with dark jeans, ankle boots, a fitted charcoal turtleneck, and my camel coat over it all. Professional. Sharp. Neutral. Nothing Chase could look at and mistake for an invitation.

Or so I told myself.

Riley watched me pull my hair into a low knot and said, “You’re overthinking this.”

“I’m not.”

“You spent twelve minutes choosing earrings.”

“That was not about him.”

“No?” She leaned back on her hands. “Then why do you look like you’re about to walk into a deposition?”

I clipped on the smallest gold hoops I owned and ignored her.

My phone buzzed on the desk.

**Chase:** *You on the road yet?*

I didn’t answer.

Riley saw the screen light up anyway and groaned. “God. The hold this man has on your nervous system should be studied.”

“He does not have a hold on anything.”

“You’re literally standing straighter because he texted.”

I grabbed my credential, notebook, recorder, and charger and shoved them into my satchel harder than necessary.

Downstairs, the house smelled like roasted garlic and Victoria’s vanilla candle and the kind of domestic calm that made me feel like I was the only person in the world carrying a live grenade under my ribs.

Dad was at the island in a quarter-zip and slacks, reading glasses low on his nose, scanning an email on his iPad like national security depended on it. Victoria was packing a paper bag with the kind of over-prepared tenderness that had become her love language.

“Turkey wrap, almonds, and two granola bars,” she announced when she saw me. “You’re not living on arena nachos for six hours.”

“I’m only gone tonight, not crossing Antarctica.”

“Humor me.”

Dad looked up, took me in, and smiled slowly. “You look sharp, kid.”

“Thanks.”

“You nervous?”

“A little.”

He set the iPad down. “Good. Means you care.”

Victoria slid the paper bag across the counter, then paused, studying my face. “Do you want me to come with you the first time? I could make it a road trip. Coffee, bookstore, dinner after.”

My stomach dropped.

“No,” I said too fast.

Both of them looked at me.

I softened my voice. “I mean, thank you, but I want to do this on my own. It’ll be easier if I get used to the rhythm now.”

Dad nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

Victoria didn’t look convinced. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

The doorbell rang.

My pulse jumped.

Ethan.

Victoria crossed to answer it, and I had exactly two seconds to compose my face before she reappeared with Ethan Reeves framed in the doorway, camera bag slung over one shoulder, dark coat open over a navy henley, hair slightly damp like he’d showered in a hurry.

He looked good.

Annoyingly good.

And for one stupid, disloyal second all I could think was Tommy never looked nervous before anything. Ethan does.

“Hi,” Ethan said.

“Hi.”

Victoria beamed at him like she’d been waiting her whole life to meet a polite young man with a camera. “Ethan, right? Sloane’s photographer.”

His mouth twitched. “That makes me sound much more glamorous than I am.”

Dad came around the island and shook his hand. “Richard Winters. Thanks for making the drive with her.”

“Of course, sir.”

Sir.

Dad liked him immediately. I could tell by the second handshake.

Victoria was already in motion again. “Do you eat turkey? I packed extra wraps.”

“I’m good, thank you.”

“She packed enough food to survive a siege,” I said.

Victoria gave me a look. “And you’ll thank me around ten-thirty when everyone else is eating stale pretzels.”

Dad leaned against the counter and fixed me with that particular expression he got when he was slipping into mentor mode. “Remember what we talked about. You’re not there as a fan. You’re there to observe. That means eyes open, mouth careful, and no cheering in the press box even if the whole place loses its mind.”

“I know.”

“And if Chase sees you, keep it professional.”

The word *professional* landed like a shot to the ribs.

Ethan glanced at me. Quick. Curious.

I kept my face neutral. “I know.”

Victoria smiled. “He’ll be so happy you’re there. It’s sweet, really. Family showing up for family.”

I grabbed my keys before my expression could betray me.

“Right,” I said. “Well. We should go.”

Outside, the evening air had that November bite that made every breath feel cleaner than the last. Ethan walked with me to the driveway, quiet until we were out of earshot.

Then he said, “Your parents are intense.”

I barked out a laugh. “That’s one word for it.”

He looked over at me as we reached the car. “You okay?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you keep answering questions like they’re ambushes.”

I unlocked the car. “I’m fine.”

“Sure.”

He didn’t push. Just loaded his camera bag in the back and slid into the passenger seat like this was the most ordinary thing in the world.

It wasn’t.

Not even close.

As I started the engine, movement at the edge of the driveway caught my eye.

Ava.

She was standing on the sidewalk in a wool coat the color of wet sand, messenger bag over one shoulder, phone in hand like she’d just happened to be walking by at exactly the moment Ethan and I were leaving.

What a coincidence.

She smiled when she saw us. Warm. Polished. Not even a little convincing.

I rolled the window down.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.” Her gaze moved from me to Ethan and back again. “I was dropping off the updated student budget chart at Castillo’s mailbox. I figured you’d be heading out around now.”

Of course she did.

Ethan leaned toward the open window. “You walked all the way over here for a chart?”

“It’s ten minutes from my house.” Ava smiled at him. “I also wanted to give you this.”

She held out a lens cloth. Black microfiber, folded into a perfect square.

“You left it on the layout table,” she said.

Ethan blinked. “Oh. Thanks.”

Their fingers brushed when he took it.

Small thing. Tiny thing.

But I saw it.

So did Ava.

And whatever hope or calculation she’d arrived with sharpened in her eyes when Ethan tucked the cloth into his coat pocket without really looking at her. Because he was already half-turned toward me again, asking, “You want me to navigate?”

Ava’s smile stayed intact.

It just lost heat.

“I’ll let you two get on the road,” she said. “Text me if you need Sunday edits swapped, Sloane.”

“I will.”

She stepped back from the car. “Good luck tonight.”

I thanked her, rolled the window up, and pulled away.

In the rearview mirror, Ava stood on the sidewalk a second too long before turning back toward school.

Beside me, Ethan was quiet.

Then: “She’s been weird with me all week.”

I kept my eyes on the road. “Ava?”

“Yeah.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t tell if she likes me or likes assigning me.”

I almost smiled. “Knowing Ava, probably both.”

He laughed softly.

We hit the highway ten minutes later. South Philly thinned into suburbs, suburbs into longer stretches of dark trees and gas stations glowing under sodium lights. The road opened. The traffic settled. The city peeled off my skin one mile at a time.

For the first twenty minutes we talked logistics.

Warm-ups start when?

How long does post-game availability usually run?

Do I want him focused on action shots or environmental detail?

Should he prioritize bench reactions over crowd shots?

It was good. Easy. Professional. Exactly what I needed.

Then my phone buzzed in the cupholder.

**Chase:** *Answer me, stalker.*

I turned the screen face down without opening it.

Ethan noticed.

“Boyfriend?” he asked lightly.

The word hit something strange and sharp inside me.

“No.”

He didn’t say anything for a beat.

“Good,” he said finally, then immediately looked out the window like maybe he wished he could stuff the word back into his mouth.

The silence that followed was not professional.

I tightened my grip on the wheel.

Ethan cleared his throat. “I just meant… you seem very career-focused. It would be weird if someone was making tonight complicated for you.”

You have no idea, I thought.

Out loud, I said, “Tonight is already complicated enough.”

He glanced over. “Because of Chase?”

I looked at him then. Really looked.

He wasn’t asking with gossip in his eyes. Or accusation. Just careful curiosity. The kind that could become dangerous if fed even a little.

“He’s one of the subjects,” I said evenly. “That’s all.”

Ethan nodded like he believed me.

He didn’t.

I could tell.

The road signs started counting down to Dalton. 112 miles. 96. 84.

My phone buzzed again.

**Chase:** *You really ignoring me on game day? That’s cold, Winters.*

Then:

**Chase:** *What are you wearing?*

Heat crawled straight up my throat.

I threw the phone into my satchel like it had burned me.

Ethan looked amused now. “Definitely not a boyfriend.”

“Definitely not.”

“You blush every time he texts.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

I stared ahead at the highway. “Eyes on the road, Reeves.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He let the teasing sit there for a minute, then softened.

“You don’t have to tell me anything,” he said. “About Dalton. Or Tommy. Or whatever this is.” He gestured loosely toward the satchel where my phone was still hidden away like contraband. “But if tonight gets weird, I’m not going to make it harder.”

The mention of Tommy landed heavier than Chase’s texts ever could.

I swallowed. “You know?”

“I know you knew him.” Ethan’s voice stayed calm, careful. “I know he hurt you. I don’t know the details, and I’m not asking for them.” He looked at the windshield, not me. “I just know enough to know I’m not him.”

Something in my chest tightened.

“I know,” I said quietly.

He nodded once.

The rest of the drive settled into something quieter. Not awkward. Just watchful.

We stopped once for gas and coffee at a service plaza where everything smelled like burnt espresso and windshield wiper fluid. I bought a black coffee I didn’t want because I needed something bitter in my hands. Ethan bought gummy bears and pretended not to notice when I pulled the turkey wrap Victoria packed from the paper bag and ate it in four efficient bites.

Back on the road, darkness thickened outside the windows. Headlights streamed past in white ribbons. A hockey podcast played low through the speakers until Ethan fell asleep for twenty minutes with his head tipped against the seat and his camera bag hugged against his chest like a shield.

I let him sleep.

And I thought.

About public professionalism.

About the press box and how I’d have to watch Chase skate out in front of thousands of people and not let my face betray the fact that I knew exactly what his mouth felt like against the inside of my thigh.

About post-game interviews and the absolute necessity of looking him in the eye and asking clean questions with a steady voice.

About Dad’s casual advice at the island: *You’re not there as a fan.*

I wasn’t there as a fan.

I was there as a journalist.

And if I repeated that enough times, maybe my body would stop acting like it was being led to a reunion instead of a rink.

Ethan stirred awake just as the green highway sign rose out of the dark ahead of us.

**DALTON — 18 MILES**

He rubbed a hand over his face. “How far?”

“Eighteen.”

He sat up straighter. Looked out at the sign. Then over at me.

“You just got really tense.”

“I’m driving.”

“No.” His gaze stayed on my hands where they gripped the wheel. “This is different.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose.

“Maybe I’m trying to remember the rules.”

He was quiet.

Then: “You’re good with rules?”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. Short. Humorless. Too honest.

“Not lately.”

The sign disappeared behind us.

Ahead, the road curved north into black trees and stadium lights still too far away to see.

And somewhere beyond that dark, Chase Hartley was waiting in a rink I had to walk into wearing a press credential and a straight face.

I tightened my hands on the wheel and kept driving.