Chapter 11 #2
She leaned casually against the edge of her stall, still in most of her gear, her helmet sitting askew on the bench beside her. “You’re making a habit of showing up in my space.”
I frowned. “This is my job.”
“Sure it is.” Her smirk was maddening, her tone just playful enough to disarm me.
I took a breath, steadying myself. “Have time for a few questions?”
“For you? Always.”
I pulled my phone out of my workbag and started the recorder. “Dani Callahan,” I said, slipping automatically into interview mode. “Boston’s pushing for playoff positioning. How important was tonight’s win?”
“Huge,” Dani said immediately. “These are the games that matter—especially when the whole building’s behind you.”
She nodded toward the crowd of reporters around Cat. “Cat deserved a night like this.”
I softened despite my instinct to stay guarded around her.
“She played well.”
“Yeah,” Dani said fondly. “She really did.”
For a moment, the conversation felt normal.
“Walk me through that goal in the second period?” I prompted.
Dani leaned back against the locker behind her. “I anticipated the pass,” she explained. “Jumped the lane, got the puck moving the other way. I knew I didn’t have the shot myself, so I dished it off—Murphy was flying down the boards and finished it.”
She shrugged slightly. “Sometimes it’s just about being in the right position and trusting your instincts.” Her eyes flicked to mine. “Trusting the moment.”
“Instincts,” I repeated flatly.
Dani’s mouth twitched. “Like how I should have trusted my instincts the other night and kissed you.”
I twisted my head this way and that to determine if anyone was listening in on our conversation. To any casual observer, I was just a member of the media interviewing Boston’s future-hall-of fame captain.
“We talked about this,” I quietly hissed.
“About what?”
“About not doing that. You’re being unprofessional.”
Dani leaned closer, voice dropping. “What are you so afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” I snapped back.
“Then why are you fighting this so hard?”
“This?” My voice faltered.
“Whatever this is,” she said, motioning between us. “You can’t tell me you don’t feel it.”
Around us, sticks clattered into equipment bags. Someone laughed loudly across the room. The media scrum around Cat shifted again as another camera squeezed into the circle.
No one was paying attention to us.
Still, I kept my voice low.
“I’m here to work,” I said stiffly, retreating a step.
“And I’m here to win,” she fiercely countered. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t want something else, too.”
Her words hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. For a second I didn’t trust myself to respond.
Across the locker room, the crowd around Cat shifted again as one of the cameras peeled away, the operator backing out of the circle with a satisfied nod. A couple of reporters followed, already checking their phones and heading for the door.
Deadlines.
Mine included.
I cleared my throat and glanced down at my phone. The recorder was still running.
“Thanks for the time,” I said, slipping back into my professional voice.
Dani studied me like she knew exactly what I was doing—building that wall again.
“Anytime,” she said.
I stopped the recording and slid my phone back into my bag.
When I looked up again, Dani was already reaching for the tape around her shin guards, her attention shifting back to the routine of peeling gear off after a game. The conversation, apparently, was over.
I stepped away from her stall and crossed the room.
The media crowd around Cat had thinned considerably.
Only two reporters remained, one of them asking a long-winded question while Cat unlaced her skates with the patient focus of someone who’d answered the same variations of questions for fifteen years.
By the time I reached the edge of the group, the last camera light clicked off.
Finally.
Cat looked up as I stepped forward.
“Well, if it isn’t my old pal Reese,” she drawled.
I lifted my phone again. “Do you have a minute?”
Cat tugged one skate loose and set it on the rubber mat. “Sure.”
I started the recorder.
“Cat Pearson,” I said. “Big night for you. What did the tribute mean?”
Cat exhaled a small laugh and rubbed a hand over the back of her neck.
“It was a lot,” she admitted. “I’m not great with that kind of spotlight. But it meant a lot seeing the fans show up like that.”
Around us the locker room continued to empty. Most of the stalls were already half-cleared, jerseys hanging limp from their hooks. A couple of players crossed behind me on their way to the showers, towels slung over their shoulders. Someone zipped up an equipment bag with a long metallic rasp.
I asked a few more questions—about the early breakaway save, about the energy in the building, about what it meant to get a shut out on a night celebrating her career.
Cat answered thoughtfully, the way veteran players always did—honest without giving away too much, polished without sounding rehearsed.
Eventually I lowered the phone.
“That should do it,” I said.
Cat nodded and leaned back slightly on the bench.
The room was noticeably quieter now. Only a few players remained, moving slowly through their postgame routines. The equipment manager wheeled a cart down the aisle, collecting stray sticks and gloves.
Dani’s stall across the room was empty. Her gear was gone, and her locker hung open.
“So,” Cat said.
I should have known that tone.
“So,” I repeated carefully.
She tilted her head, studying me with the unnerving focus that had made her one of the best goalies in the world.
“You and Dani.”
My throat tightened. “Me and Dani what?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” she admonished. “I’m a goalie. We watch everything.”
“I didn’t realize I was being watched,” I sniffed.
“Dani doesn’t let many people close.”
I hesitated. “You sound like you’re about to tell me something important.”
Cat studied me for a moment, like she was deciding where to start.
“Okay—so here’s the thing you need to understand about Dani.”
I waited.
“She’s not reckless,” Cat said. “She’s not impulsive. And she’s definitely not the kind of person who collects phone numbers just because she can.”
I frowned slightly. “I didn’t say she was.”
“You didn’t have to,” Cat said. “You’re thinking it.”
Heat crept up my neck. “I’m not—”
“You are,” she said gently. “And that’s fair. From the outside, it probably looks like she’s swimming in women.”
I looked down at my hands. “I’m sure she is.”
Cat snorted. “Sure. Technically.”
I glanced at her. “Technically?”
“She’s been surrounded by adoring fans since college,” Cat said. “But do you know how many she’s actually let close?”
I didn’t answer.
“Basically none,” Cat revealed. “Except for the person I’m looking at right now.”
I felt something twist in my chest. “You’ve known each other a long time.”
“Practically forever,” Cat said, nodding. Her eyes lost focus for a second. “She missed you. Badly.”
My throat tightened. “She’s never said that.”
“She wouldn’t,” Cat returned. “Not unless she was sure it wouldn’t pressure you.”
I stared at her. “Why are you telling me this?”
Cat met my gaze squarely. “Because I’m worried.”
“About me?” I asked.
“About her,” she said. “But those things are connected.”
I swallowed.
“After you two broke up,” Cat went on, “she didn’t spiral out. She didn’t go on the rebound either. She just went quiet.”
I lowered my head, shame pricking at me. “I thought long distance would break us. It seemed like the smart thing to do.”
“Maybe,” Cat allowed. “But for the record, she didn’t blame you for choosing your career. She blamed timing. And herself. And the universe.”
I let out a breath.
“I’m not trying to scare you off,” Cat said finally. “I just want you to know what you’re stepping into. If you’re in,” she said, “be in. Don’t make her guess. She’s done guessing.”
“I don’t want to hurt her.”
“Then don’t disappear when things get complicated,” Cat said. “Because trust me—they will.”
Before I could respond, the locker room door opened again.
A woman stepped inside, scanning the room until her face lit up.
“There you are,” she said warmly.
Cat’s entire posture changed. She smiled in a way I hadn’t seen all night.
“Hey you,” Cat greeted.
The woman crossed the room and leaned down to kiss the top of Cat’s head, completely unconcerned with the fact that Cat was still half in her gear.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You were incredible.”
Cat laughed softly. “You’re biased.”
Only then did the woman seem to notice me standing there.
“Oh—sorry,” she said, straightening. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Cat gestured toward me. “This is Reese. She covers the team.”
She looked back at me and gestured toward the woman. “And this is Alexa, my wife.”
The sound of my door clicking shut echoed in the silence of my studio apartment. I dropped my bag near the front door, peeled off my blazer, and collapsed onto the hide-a-bed I hadn’t bothered returning to its couch form that morning.
My laptop sat open on the kitchen peninsula, the blank screen glaring at me, waiting for the story I was supposed to write. It mocked me, an unrelenting reminder of the work I needed to do. But my fingers didn’t move. My mind was elsewhere.
On Dani.
Her voice, her smile, the way she looked at me with a mixture of playfulness and something far more serious—all of it looped in my head like a highlight reel I couldn’t stop replaying.
I pressed my palms into my eyes, trying to block it out. This wasn’t what I needed to focus on. I had worked too hard to get here, to claw my way into a field that didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for women.
And yet, Dani’s words echoed in my mind: What are you so afraid of?
I scoffed out loud even though there was no one to hear me.
Afraid? I wasn’t afraid.
I was cautious. Careful. Because I knew what Dani could do to me. She had the power to upend everything. To make me feel things I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel again.
The truth was, I had spent years building walls. After graduation—after we’d ended things—I had vowed to never put myself in that position again. Loving her had been exhilarating, but losing her had gutted me. And now, here she was, back in my life, daring me to let her in again.
I’d always prided myself on my ability to compartmentalize, to keep my emotions from interfering with my work. But Dani made it impossible.
My phone buzzed on my bed, and I glanced at the screen to see a text from Dani.
Can we be friends?
I stared at the message. Friends? Was that even possible?
I typed a response and then deleted it. And then another. Finally, I settled on something simple and true.
I don’t know if I can.
Her reply came almost instantly.
Why not?
I didn’t answer.
Because friends didn’t make your heart race.
Friends didn’t make you think about what could have been.
Friends didn’t make you feel like you were on the edge of falling apart and falling in love at the same time.
I turned my phone to silent and buried it under my pillows. I didn’t have the answers she wanted. I wasn’t sure I ever would.