Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The knock came early enough to make me groan into my pillow.
My mom’s muffled voice permeated the front door: “Reese? Are you up?”
I twisted onto my side and rubbed my eyes. Why couldn’t she text like everybody else?
“Hold on,” I yelled back.
I checked my phone where it charged on the bedside table and grimaced. I needed to find a place of my own if I ever wanted to sleep in.
I threw on a sweatshirt before opening the front door. My mom stood on the stoop, smiling and twirling a set of keys on her index finger like a hula hoop.
“Morning, sunshine,” she chirped. “I’m going to the grocery store. I thought you might want to go, too.”
My bed was warm and only a few feet away, but I thought about how empty my refrigerator was getting.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Okay.”
I dressed slowly, tugging on jeans and a sweater, while my thoughts wandered to what the day held for me.
I would need to research story lines for that night’s game to prepare for my production meeting later.
The game was in Boston, not north of the city in Lowell, so I would have to get to the arena early again to orient myself to the team’s second home-ice location.
I’d probably have to interview Dani again, but I wasn’t going to worry about that yet.
When I stepped outside, my mom was already walking down the sidewalk.
I hustled to catch up with her. My mom was in her mid-sixties, but she moved faster than many of the athletes I covered.
She started filling me in on neighborhood gossip the second my stride synced with hers.
She pointed out the neighbors who left their trash cans out, the dry cleaner that now delivered, and the flower shop that had tried to rip her off.
I politely nodded along, but I wasn’t really listening.
Instead, my mind drifted to an inevitable second interview with Dani.
Even if I didn’t speak to her tonight, I couldn’t avoid her forever.
The thought of facing Dani on-air again made my stomach tighten.
I worried my lower lip while my mom droned on, oblivious to the turmoil I carried.
How would I keep my history with Dani separate from my job? Could I? Was that even possible?
The grocery store was only a few city blocks from my parents’ triple decker. The automatic sliding doors hissed open as we entered, and my mom launched herself down one the aisles, rattling off the various items she needed.
I followed behind, steering the cart absently through produce displays stacked in perfect pyramids. Apples polished to artificial shine. Strawberries out of season. The faint scent of fresh bread drifting from the bakery department.
Normal life happening everywhere.
And meanwhile, my entire professional stability currently hinged on whether I could talk to my ex-girlfriend without visibly unraveling on regional television.
It felt ridiculous.
Sometimes sports felt ridiculous. The endless debates about who was the Greatest of All Time, the contracts that could make someone a millionaire just for tossing a ball, the fans who screamed and celebrated in the stands as if they were on the team, too.
I shook my head at myself. I’d spent a decade and a half around sports, chasing stories, doing live coverage, working the sidelines, and some mornings it still felt like I’d accidentally built a career around something fundamentally unimportant.
Like none of it actually mattered outside of the arena walls.
I mindlessly turned the cart down another aisle.
Two kids, a girl and a boy, no more than eight or nine, bickered quietly over who got to push the cart while a woman whom I took to be their mother inspected a stack of avocados.
Both wore Boston women’s hockey knit caps—the green and blue logos brightly contrasted with the muted colors of their winter coats.
When I was their age, that hadn’t existed.
There’d been no women’s games to attend or broadcasts to watch. No jerseys in department stores. No proof that women’s sports existed outside of the two weeks during the Olympics.
Maybe it mattered more than I gave it credit for.
My mom jabbed the cart forward. “Reese? Earth to Reese. You okay?”
I blinked, realizing I’d stopped walking.
“Yeah.”
The whistle blew for offsides and six thousand people collectively groaned.
Boston had nearly broken through—one long pass threading past Montreal’s defense, the kind of scoring opportunity the game had been starving for all night—but the lineswoman’s arm shot up when a Boston forward crossed the blue line early.
The play died instantly, momentum evaporating as players coasted to a stop and drifted toward the faceoff circle.
Around me, frustration lingered. It had been that kind of game from the start.
Boston and Montreal had spent forty minutes canceling each other out.
The shots on goal were nearly even. Each power play had been efficiently killed.
The scoreboard sat stubbornly at 1–1 midway through the third period with each shift carrying the recognition that the next scoring opportunity might decide the game.
Montreal won the next faceoff, but they dumped the puck deep into Boston’s zone, choosing patience over risk.
Boston retrieved the puck and reset, their defense lingering behind the net while the forwards skated toward the bench to rotate fresh legs onto the ice.
I kept one eye on the play and the other on my notes, already thinking ahead to which storyline production would want if the score held and we ended up with a shoot out.
Defensive battle. Goaltending duel. Playoff-style hockey in February.
A battle for the puck formed in front of the visiting team’s bench.
Players trapped the puck between the boards and their skates while the lineswoman yelled to keep the puck moving.
It reminded me of a heavyweight fight—two exhausted boxers locking up, just bleeding out the clock until the bell rang.
The puck trickled loose and redirected toward Dani Callahan as she cut through the neutral zone. She stretched her stick in front of her, reaching for the puck, already accelerating, reading the play a step ahead.
She touched the puck—
—and took a clean, hard check.
It was a textbook hit. Shoulder through the body, clean separation from the puck. It was the kind of contact that happened dozens of times a game without consequence.
Still, she went down hard.
The sound carried sharply against the glass near where I stood, close enough that my attention followed her instead of the puck, now moving in the other direction. Dani stayed on the ice for a moment, one gloved hand planted as she gathered herself while play continued around her.
I realized I’d stopped writing.
She pushed up to her knees, stood, and skated it off without signaling to the bench, already rejoining the play like nothing had happened.
I looked back at my notes, irritated by the tightness in my chest. Players got hit every shift, I told myself. And I’d seen Dani take hits like that before—hundreds of them, probably. There was no reason this one should stick with me.
Still, I caught myself watching Dani’s next shift when she hopped back over the boards, checking for hesitation or a gingerness in her stride that never came.
Boston scored not long after, the goal horn drowning out whatever lingering tension had lodged itself under my ribs. Fans surged to their feet and the bench exploded in celebration while I scribbled updates I’d barely processed, already shifting mentally toward postgame responsibilities.
Montreal pushed hard after that.
They threw everything they had at Boston’s net for the final few minutes of the game.
Skaters crowded the crease to obscure the goalie’s sightline while the defense pinched in.
Montreal’s goalie eventually raced to the bench for the extra attacker while the clock bled down under a minute.
The building buzzed with that restless energy that only shows up late in a one-goal game, every clearance drawing cheers, every Montreal touch pulling the crowd tight again.
But Boston held. They cleared the puck out of the zone again and again while the seconds slipped away.
The final horn was still echoing when Mara’s voice cut into my earpiece.
“Reese—winner. Dani Callahan. We’re live after the break. Thirty seconds.”
My stomach dropped in that familiar, irrational way. I tucked my notebook under my arm and started moving before I’d fully processed the directive. Sam was already there, camera up on his shoulder, backing toward the glass like he had eyes in the back of his head.
“Half step left,” he murmured.
I took the direction without looking.
The bench door swung open and Dani stepped onto the rubber mat, her helmet tucked under her arm. Her hair was dark with sweat, plastered to her forehead, cheeks flushed, eyes still sharp with adrenaline. She scanned the area and then her eyes landed on me.
There was nothing there.
No flicker. No recognition. Just the same flat look she’d give any reporter with a microphone in their hand.
It caught me off guard. I’d anticipated discomfort. I’d braced for awkwardness. But I wasn’t prepared for this—this cool, professional distance that felt like being erased.
“Stand by,” Mara said in my ear. “We’re coming to you in five.”
Sam lifted a hand. Three fingers. Two.
I raised the mic.
The red light blinked on, and so did I.
“Dani, congrats on the win.”
“Thanks.” Her voice was hoarse, her breath still uneven from the game’s final minutes.
“You logged heavy minutes tonight, especially in the third period,” I observed. “What was the mindset down the stretch when they were pressing so hard?”
“Just staying disciplined,” she said. “We trusted our coaches’ game plan and trusted each other. Our goalie stood on her head tonight.”
I nodded, listening—not just to Dani, but to the quiet countdown in my ear.
“Ten seconds,” Mara said.
“Your line really seemed to settle things after that late faceoff win,” I said, pivoting smoothly. “How important was that moment for you guys?”
“Huge,” Dani said without hesitation. “That’s the stuff we talk about all the time—paying attention to details, doing the little things right when it matters.”
“Wrap it up,” Mara said.
“Thanks for the time, Dani,” I said. “Congrats again.”
The light went out, and just like that, it was over.
Sam dropped the camera slightly. “Clean,” he announced.
For half a second, I waited. I didn’t know for what—a look, a crack, some acknowledgement that we weren’t strangers—but Dani had already turned away, helmet in her hands, her focus redirected toward Boston’s locker room.
On the ice behind us, the home crowd was still cheering.
I left the arena through the service tunnel, the thrum of the crowd fading behind me until it was just the hum of fluorescent lights and the scuff of my boots on concrete. Sam peeled off toward the production truck, camera slung low, headset dangling loose around his neck.
“Good work tonight,” he said.
“You, too,” I returned.
The cold hit me the moment I stepped outside.
The parking lot was mostly empty at that hour, snow drifting down in thin, quiet sheets that softened the edges of everything.
My breath fogged in front of me as I walked, shoulders tight and legs heavy in that way that came from standing still for too long.
I divided my attention between my short, stuttered steps, not trusting myself to not slip on the snow-dusted pavement, and the bottom of my workbag where my car keys were stealthily hiding.
I looked up when I heard the sound of someone clearing their throat.
And then I saw her.
Dani leaned against the side of a black SUV a few spaces over, one boot propped against the tire, hands shoved into the pockets of a jacket that looked too thin for the weather. Her hair was dry now, tucked under a knit beanie, her face stripped of game intensity.
She straightened when she saw me, pushing off the car like she’d been waiting longer than she wanted to admit.
“Hey,” she said.
I slowed and stopped a few feet away. It was close enough to talk, but far enough to keep things defined.
“Hey,” I said back.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Snow collected quietly on the hood of the cars, the lot nearly silent except for the distant echo of doors slamming somewhere behind us.
Dani shifted her weight. Her eyes dropped to the asphalt and then lifted again.
“I just—” She exhaled and rubbed a hand over the back of her neck. “I wanted to make sure …” she trailed off. “Was that okay?”
My brow creased. “The interview?”
“Yeah.” She nodded quickly. Her mouth tilted, not quite a smile. “I realized afterward that I might have crossed a line before.”
You did, I thought.
But I didn’t say it.
“I handled it,” I said instead.
“I know,” she said immediately. “You were great. I mean—that didn’t come out right.” She huffed a small, embarrassed breath. “You’re a professional. I shouldn’t have assumed anything.”
She was drowning in insecurity and awkwardness. It was so unexpected, I threw her a life preserver.
“I get it,” I allowed. “It’s your first time doing this, too. Having someone you know on the other side of the mic can throw you off.”
“Yeah.” She nodded slowly. “I’ve been thinking about the coffee shop, too,” she said. “The other day. I worried after that maybe I was too familiar. Or too—” She gestured vaguely between us. “Whatever that was.”
I considered her for a beat.
“You can’t do that when we’re on camera. Ever.”
“I know,” she said. “I know that.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes weren’t. They darted around the parking lot, never landing on any one thing for very long. “That’s why I wanted to check in with you. I don’t want to be the reason you’re uncomfortable at work.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen,” I said.
Her eyes finally settled on my face. She studied me, like she was searching for the lie, but after finding nothing there, she nodded once.
“Okay,” she said. “Good.”
The snow caught in her long eyelashes and melted.
She cleared her throat. “There’s a community skate on Saturday. Teaching kids the basics, that kind of thing. They asked if I’d come help. I thought maybe—if you wanted—you could stop by. Totally off the clock.”
Off the clock.
The phrase sat between us, loaded.
“I’ll see how my schedule looks,” I said honestly.
Her smile didn’t fade. “Of course.”
She pushed off the SUV again, giving me space this time.
“Okay. Well … good luck this season,” she said. Her tone was both professional and sincere.
“You, too,” I reflexively replied.
I watched Dani walk away, boots crunching lightly over the fresh snow. She didn’t look back.
When I finally slid into the driver’s seat of my car and shut the door, the quiet pressed in around me. I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. My breath fogged up the windshield.
Two games down.