The Story Under the Story

SLOANE

By the ten-minute mark of the first period, I had already lost the war with myself.

Not the obvious war. That one had ended the second Chase stepped onto the ice and made “stay objective” feel like a punchline I’d written to mock my own intelligence.

This was the quieter war.

The one between what I was supposed to be writing and what I kept actually seeing.

I came here to cover a game.

System notes. Pace. Special teams. How the Vancouver Titans looked against a real opponent instead of summer-league chaos and exhibition sloppiness.

Instead, every line in my notebook curved back toward him.

Hartley controlling half-wall pace

Hartley forcing BC D to overcommit

Hartley sees lanes before they exist

That last one sat on the page too long.

I underlined it once, then immediately regretted the underlining because it felt too admiring, too close to the truth.

The Boston College Eagles tried to settle after the power-play goal. They slowed the neutral zone. Stacked bodies high. Started challenging entries earlier, forcing the Titans to dump pucks instead of carrying them clean. It was a smart adjustment and exactly the kind of thing I should have been zeroing in on.

I did zero in on it.

For almost a full minute.

Then Chase chipped a puck past one defender, absorbed a hit along the boards without losing balance, and still managed to feather a pass backward to Marcus with one hand on his stick.

The press box murmured.

I wrote:

absorbs contact like it’s information

I stared at the sentence.

That was not objective. That was me getting poetic in the middle of a game recap because the subject had decided to become unbearable.

I scratched a line through “information” and replaced it with nothing.

Worse.

I shut my eyes for half a second, exhaled through my nose, and forced myself to look somewhere else.

Bench movement. Defensive pairing. Goalie rebound control.

Anything but him.

It worked until his line got trapped in their own zone on a bad change and he turned into something I’d never quite been able to describe even in private notes—the player version of Chase that made everything else in the building orbit him whether people wanted to or not.

He didn’t panic.

That was the thing.

Marcus lost his man low. One defenseman got tied up behind the net. Boston College cycled clean, looking for the seam, and Chase—who should have been cheating up ice, conserving energy for the breakout—collapsed lower instead. One stick lift. One shoulder angle. One perfectly timed shove that didn’t draw a penalty but destroyed the passing lane.

Then he got the puck and cleared it eighty feet.

The entire Titans bench exhaled as one organism.

So did I.

And I hated that I did.

Beside me, the older beat writer I’d already decided to resent took a sip of coffee and muttered, “That won’t show up on the scoresheet.”

His colleague grunted. “Still the most important play of the shift.”

I looked down before either of them could catch me listening.

Because yes.

Exactly.

That was it.

That was the story under the story.

Everyone would write about the points. The shot volume. The power-play assist. The game winner if he got one. The stats would hold the obvious truth.

But the real thing—the harder thing—was how everything calmed when he was out there. How the game got organized around him. How even his ugly shifts had shape, intention, some invisible logic that pulled the team back into itself.

I started a new page.

What doesn’t show up on the scoresheet

And then I stopped.

Because that sounded less like a game notebook and more like the opening frame of a profile.

No.

Too early.

Too dangerous.

The period ended with the Titans up 1–0 and the arena loud enough to vibrate through the soles of my boots. Students poured into the concourse. The press box opened in a rush of movement—reporters stretching, checking phones, chasing coffee. Ethan slid into the seat beside me with his camera hanging low and his face flushed from moving around the rink.

“You’re writing like someone offended you personally,” he said.

I snapped the notebook half-closed. “What?”

He nodded at my pen grip. “You’re pressing hard enough to carve through the paper.”

“I’m taking notes.”

“Mm.” He unscrewed a bottle of water and handed it to me. “You forgot to blink for most of that period.”

I took the water because refusing would’ve looked stupid. “You were supposed to be shooting.”

“I was.” He studied me over the rim of his own bottle. “You were also very obviously not neutral.”

I nearly choked.

“I’m sorry?”

He gave me a look that would have been smug if it weren’t so annoyingly gentle. “Sloane. You almost stood up when Marcus scored.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I shifted.”

“You shifted like a fan.”

“I’m literally in the press box.”

“And yet.”

I looked down at the rink. At the ice crew smoothing the corners. At the student section still buzzing like a disturbed hive.

Anything but Ethan’s face.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“That’s becoming your catchphrase.”

“And ‘you’re doing it again’ is apparently yours.”

That got a laugh out of him.

He looked good when he laughed. Which was irritating, because life clearly hadn’t decided I was dealing with enough already.

“I got some good shots,” he said after a beat. “Bench reactions, Chase on the half wall, Marcus celebrating.” He paused. “And one of you staring like you forgot you had a notebook.”

I turned so fast my chair squeaked. “Delete it.”

He grinned openly now. “I was joking.”

I glared.

His grin widened. “Mostly.”

The horn sounded for the second period.

Saved.

“Go shoot hockey, Reeves.”

“Yes, boss.”

He headed back toward the stairs, and I reopened the notebook with more force than necessary.

The second period was worse.

Not because the hockey got sloppier. Because Chase got better.

Boston College pushed early, probably pissed about how clean the first period power play had looked, and for a stretch the game tilted their way. Their top line was fast enough to make Dalton’s second pair look clumsy. The Eagles nearly tied it four minutes in on a backdoor look that should have been buried if not for the Titans goalie throwing himself sideways and getting a pad on it.

The arena gasped.

Then it got louder.

Because Chase answered.

He didn’t answer with a goal. Not at first.

He answered with a shift so complete it felt almost mean.

Won the draw. Drove wide. Circled high. Reset the entire offense when the lane died instead of forcing something stupid. Took a hit. Stayed on his feet. Got the puck back. Fed the weak side. Retrieved the rebound. Kept the Eagles trapped for nearly a full minute while the crowd built and built and built around him like the sound itself was part of the attack.

I wrote until my hand cramped.

Hartley dictating entire offensive zone set

Eagles chasing him, not puck

crowd responds every time he touches it

That last line I left uncrossed.

Because it was true.

And because, however much I hated admitting it, the crowd wasn’t the only one.

Halfway through the period, the local student reporter from the college paper—a girl in a Dalton puffer vest and too-perfect eyeliner—leaned across the aisle to ask the beat writer if he thought Hartley’s stock had climbed enough to threaten the top three.

Threaten the top three.

The phrase hit me like a jab to the sternum.

Not because it was wrong. Because it was possessive in a way I couldn’t justify feeling. Like I wanted to turn and say, you don’t know the half of him.

Which was insane.

Objectively insane.

I didn’t own any part of Chase Hartley. Not his draft stock. Not his body. Not his private fears whispered in the dark. Not the way he texted *can’t sleep* at 1:47 a.m. like my attention was a right and not a luxury.

I knew that.

My stomach still twisted when she said his name like he belonged to public discourse.

“Clean angle,” the beat writer answered. “Safe projection. Scouts love the toolkit.”

Toolkit.

Like he was a machine assembled for use.

I looked down at my notes and pressed the pen so hard against the margin it snapped.

Ink streaked across the page.

The college reporter glanced over at the sound.

“So sorry,” I murmured, already digging for a backup pen.

Professional. Fine. Normal.

The second half of the period blurred into one long contradiction. I was writing faster than I could think and still thinking too much. Chase took a hard hit into the boards with seven minutes left and my whole body locked before I could stop it. He stayed down for one second too long and I was halfway through a prayer I didn’t even believe in when he pushed up, shook it off, and skated to the bench like nothing had happened.

I hated him for making me care.

I hated myself for how quickly relief flooded through me.

Boston College finally scored off a broken play with three minutes left in the second—traffic in front, rebound nobody cleared, ugly little garbage goal that sucked the air out of the building. Tie game.

The Eagles bench erupted. The Titans didn’t panic.

Because Chase didn’t.

He took the next draw, won it clean, and spent the following shift playing like he’d taken the tie personally.

The period ended 1–1.

This time I didn’t wait for Ethan to come to me. I stood, gathered my papers, and walked out to the concourse just for air. The arena felt bigger outside the glass. Colder. Students packed the concession lines, shouting over each other about power play percentages and missed coverage like hockey had always been religion here and I’d just arrived late to church.

I found a quieter patch of wall near the vending machines and opened my notebook again.

The problem was clear now.

I wasn’t writing a game story anymore.

Not really.

The game was still there, yes. But underneath it, between the rushes and line changes and box score logic, another story kept rising whether I invited it or not.

Chase under pressure.

Chase under scrutiny.

Chase holding the room together by sheer force of instinct.

He was becoming the center of every page because he was the center of the game.

And because I knew enough to see when his jaw tightened between shifts. Knew enough to recognize the difference between confidence and performance. Knew enough to spot the one moment late in the second when he looked up toward the press box again, not long, not obvious, just enough to make me feel like a wire had been pulled straight through my ribs.

“Sloane.”

I looked up.

Ethan stood in front of me holding two coffees. One black. One vanilla oat milk.

I narrowed my eyes. “Did you just memorize my order from that one drive?”

“Professional observation.”

“That’s creepy.”

“That’s journalism.”

I took the coffee.

He leaned against the wall beside me, shoulder almost brushing mine. “You okay?”

The question again. Everybody’s favorite.

“I’m covering the game.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

I took a sip. Too hot. Perfect.

He let the silence stretch for a moment, then said quietly, “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on. But if I’m going to spend all winter in press boxes with you, I need to know whether I should be worried every time Hartley gets hit.”

I turned my head so fast my bun nearly came loose. “What?”

Ethan didn’t look smug this time. Or amused. Just maddeningly calm.

“You stop breathing when he takes contact,” he said simply. “That feels relevant.”

I stared at him. He stared back.

Then he added, “I’m not judging you. I’m literally just saying I noticed.”

I looked away first.

Of course he noticed. Good photographers noticed everything. It was the whole job.

“He’s one of the subjects,” I said, voice clipped. “I’m invested in the quality of the story.”

Ethan nodded like he could hear the lie and was choosing, generously, not to challenge it.

“Right,” he said.

The horn sounded for the third.

The walk back into the press box felt like stepping toward a firing squad.

Tie game. Third period. The building alive and waiting.

The Titans came out hard.

So did Chase.

This was the version of him scouts would remember. Not because he got flashy. Because he got ruthless. Cleaner. Faster. Every decision sharpened by the pressure instead of dulled by it. He forechecked like he was hunting something. Backchecked like he’d take the entire burden of the game onto his own shoulders if the rest of the team gave him half a chance.

My notes devolved again.

this is what pressure does to him

better, not smaller

plays like the moment belongs to him

And then it happened.

Nine minutes left.

Neutral zone turnover forced by Marcus. Quick transition. Chase picked up speed through center ice with that terrifying long stride that always looked effortless until you realized everyone else on the rink was falling behind him.

One defender stepped up.

Chase slipped past him.

Second defender shaded inside, trying to force the outside lane.

Chase cut anyway, dragging the puck across his body with one smooth, filthy little move that made the whole arena inhale at once.

Then he shot.

Top corner.

No rebound. No mess. No argument.

Just net.

The goal horn detonated.

The building came apart.

I stood up.

Fully this time.

Not halfway. Not by accident. Not with any plausible deniability left in the universe.

I stood with the rest of the arena and forgot myself so completely that for one insane heartbeat I was just another person losing her mind over what he’d done.

Then reality slammed back in.

Press box.

Media credential.

Notebook open.

I sat so fast my knee clipped the desk.

The beat writer beside me gave me another look. Longer this time.

I kept my eyes glued to the page, face burning, hand moving in frantic shorthand like maybe if I wrote quickly enough I could undo the damage.

Below, teammates mobbed Chase at the boards. Marcus nearly tackled him. The student section screamed his name in waves.

And when the celebration broke, Chase looked up.

Right at me.

No mistake. No maybe. No glare on the glass excuse.

He knew exactly where I was.

He held my gaze for a second that felt far too private to happen in an arena full of thousands.

Then he skated backward toward the faceoff dot, expression cooling back into control, like he hadn’t just wrecked my professionalism and possibly my central nervous system.

The rest of the game passed in adrenaline and noise. Boston College pulled the goalie late. The Titans held. Chase got sent out for the final defensive-zone draw and won it clean, because of course he did. Final horn. Win.

The press box came alive in the efficient, predatory way media spaces do the moment story becomes deadline. Laptops snapped open wider. Reporters packed up. Ethan shouldered his camera and was gone before I even looked for him, already heading for lower-level shots of the handshake line.

I sat still for one extra second.

Then another.

My notebook lay open in front of me, pages filled with evidence that objectivity had not merely failed tonight—it had combusted.

A staff member appeared at the aisle with a printed sheet and started handing them row by row down the press box.

“Post-game availability,” she said. “Room B in five.”

I took the sheet without looking up.

Then I looked.

Coach Reynolds

Marcus Callahan

Chase Hartley

My pulse did something violent and humiliating.

Of course.

Of course the universe had no intention of letting me ease into this.

The building was still roaring below. Students pounding the glass. The Titans taking their victory lap. My coffee was cold. My notes were a mess. My face still felt hot from standing up like a fan.

And in five minutes, I was going to have to sit in a room with a recorder in my hand and ask Chase Hartley a professional question while pretending I hadn’t spent the entire third period watching him like the story had narrowed down to one impossible person in navy and silver.

I closed the notebook.

Stood.

And headed for Room B.