SHADES OF ICE AND ASHES

LILA’S POV

The Chicago wind clawed at my skin, slicing through my thin coat as I sprinted across the slick concrete toward the Blizzard’s practice arena. My boots skidded, nearly sending me sprawling, but I caught myself, heart hammering like a puck slammed into the boards.

I was late. Again. Five minutes late.

Of course Meredith had set me up for this—my first real assignment at Windy City Sports wasn’t a puff piece on game stats or fan reactions. No. My cutthroat boss had thrown me straight into the lion’s den: an exclusive one-on-one interview with ‘The Zane Callahan,” Chicago’s golden boy on the ice and the media’s nightmare off it.

The man who snapped at reporters, walked out of press conferences, and hadn’t granted a personal interview in two years. And Meredith had given me the job. The 23-year old intern. The nobody in the newsroom that only smelled blood instead of talents. I told myself it was an opportunity, but deep down I knew the truth—she expected me to crash and burn.

I shoved through the arena’s heavy steel doors, the blast of cold air carrying the sharp tang of ice and sweat. Inside, the rink buzzed with chaos—skates carved the ice, sticks cracked against pucks, and coaches bellowed orders that ricocheted off the rafters. My breath hitched, nerves twisting tighter.

I scanned the rink, my pulse a frantic drumbeat. Players in navy-and-silver jerseys darted like wolves but one figure commanded the ice. Zane Callahan.

Even from the press box, his presence was a magnet—jet-black hair slick with sweat, broad shoulders cutting through drills with predatory grace. His reputation as a hockey prodigy was only half the story; the other half was whispered in tabloids—secrets, scandals, a past he guarded like a fortress.

My hazel eyes locked on him, and a chill unrelated to the rink’s frost crawled up my spine.

Those eyes. Green. Piercing.

Like the ones burned into my memory from the night my mother died.

I shook my head, shoving the thought down. Not now, Lila. Focus.

My fingers tightened around my notebook as I descended to the rinkside, the cold seeping into my bones. Zane skated off, tugging at his jersey’s collar, his stride purposeful as he headed for the tunnel. Teammates parted for him, their chatter fading, and I felt the weight of every stare in the arena. Reporters, players, coaches—all waiting for the intern to fumble.

“You’re the reporter they sent?” His voice hit me like gravel scraped over steel, low and rough, as he emerged from the tunnel.

He stood six-foot-three, a wall of muscle and menace, his green eyes slicing through me with cold assessment. Sweat glistened on his jaw, and his damp hair clung to his forehead, making him look more beast than man.

I swallowed, my throat dry as sand. “Intern,” I corrected, clutching my notebook like a lifeline. “Lila Harper.”

His mouth twitched, not a smile but something darker, sharper. “Figures.”

He leaned against the rink’s barrier, arms crossed, his gaze stripping me bare. The air thickened, heavy with his disdain.

The last players vanished into the locker room, leaving us alone in the cavernous arena. Only the hum of the Zamboni in the distance broke the silence.

My stomach churned, but I flipped open my notebook, forcing my voice steady. “Can we begin, please?”

Zane’s eyes narrowed, a predator sizing up prey. “Ask your questions, Harper.”

I glanced at my notes, expecting my carefully crafted questions about the Blizzard’s season, their playoff hopes, and the upcoming charity gala. But the words staring back weren’t mine. My heart plummeted—Meredith had sabotaged me. These questions were daggers, each one sharper than the last.

Are your recent performance issues tied to substance abuse based on the rumors?

Is it true you were adopted at age eight?

Are you gay?

Did you really break a teammate’s jaw in practice last season?

My pulse roared, drowning out the arena’s hum. “This… this isn’t what I wrote—” I stammered, my pen trembling against the page.

“Read it,” Zane snapped, his voice a crack of ice, his body tensing like a coiled spring.

I swallowed hard, my fingers slick with sweat. I couldn’t back down—not with Meredith waiting to pounce, not with my job on the line.

“Are your…” My voice faltered, barely a whisper. “Are your recent performance issues tied to substance abuse based on the rumors?

The silence was suffocating, a weight that crushed the air from my lungs. Zane’s jaw flexed, his green eyes darkening to a storm.

“Who the hell fed you that?” His voice dropped, soft and lethal, a blade poised to strike.

“I didn’t—these aren’t my questions—” I stepped back, my heels catching on the rubber mat.

In two strides, he closed the distance, his heat swallowing the rink’s chill. My back hit the cold cinderblock wall, and he looked over me, one hand braced beside my head, caving me in.

His breath, laced with whiskey and winter, brushed my cheek. “Listen here, little intern,” he murmured, each word a slow burn. “You don’t get to make silly assumptions about my life. I’ll let you go because it’s your first time, but I promise you, the next time you try this, I won’t play nice.”

My heart jackhammered, but it wasn’t just fear. His eyes—those damned green eyes—held me captive, stirring a memory I’d buried deep. A dark street, a screeching car, my mother’s scream, and those same green eyes glinting in the shadows before the world shattered. My notebook slipped from my fingers, pages fluttering to the floor like wounded birds.

Zane’s gaze flicked to my lips, a flicker of something raw flashing across his face. For a heartbeat, I thought he’d close the gap, but he stepped back, his cold mask slamming into place.

“This interview’s over,” he growled, turning on his heel.

I stood frozen, my breath ragged, as his footsteps echoed down the tunnel. The rink’s chill seeped back in, but it couldn’t cool the fire in my chest—fear, anger, and something I refused to name.

I bent to gather my scattered notes, my hands shaking, but one thought clawed at me, relentless and terrifying: Zane Callahan’s green eyes were the same ones I’d seen the night my mother died.