Cold as Ice (6 page)

Devin plunks himself down on his bed. Ten days on the road makes him appreciate his own place. Even though there's nobody to come home to, he relaxes, having three days off to refresh before playing five home games. The play-offs start next month and there's a good chance his team will make it. What he would give to actually win the Stanley Cup, to wear the winning title on his finger. Some women dreamed of weddings; hockey players dreamed of winning the cup. It was that simple.

Devin picks up his phone on the second ring, always a thrust in his voice when he says hello.

“Hi, Devin,” the female voice purrs. “It's Brittany. Remember me?”

“Sure.” How could he forget? He met her through another player's wife. Brittany had long red hair and a pierced nose. She was anything but ordinary. One night at Buckley's they'd shared nachos, and she'd invited him back to her place. He'd accepted. Ever since their brief encounter, she's been calling, wanting more. He hadn't been with someone so fierce and fast under the covers for a long time; it left him wondering if she was even enjoying herself enough to call again. But she had.

“Are you up for company?” she asks. “We could meet somewhere, or I could come over if you're not up to going out.”

He never invited girls over to his place. He liked to keep that much of a distance between him and women. He liked his privacy.

“I just got home from being on the road,” Devin says.

“I know. That's why I'm calling.” Her voice was sweet and innocent. “You don't play for a few days.”

There was no hiding in this city.

“I can meet you at The Landing at nine-thirty,” he suggests and hangs up the phone.

Devin can't remember the last time he asked a girl out. Maybe in ninth grade, when he asked Mary, a girl he'd had a crush on all year and finally had the courage to ask her to the dance. She'd turned him down.

He winces at the memory.

Devin turns on the TV while reading his text messages and comes across one he doesn't recognize. Usually he hits DELETE, but he notices in the subject line the words
sweeter
and
good luck
, so he reads it thoroughly. Before looking up the mysterious number, he thinks it sounds like it's from Carla, but Devin didn't remember giving her his number. He didn't give out his number to just anyone; he'd learned that when he played junior and girls would be calling him at all hours. At first it was flattering, having disposable phone numbers, but then it became annoying, distracting him from his game. He'd desperately wanted and needed to prove himself to get noticed by agents; hooking up with girls had become secondary.

Devin watches Carla talk about what's coming up on sports before going to commercial. Her fair skin brings out her sharp blue eyes. They suck him in every time. He can't take his eyes off the screen. When she wore a blouse or a low-cut shirt on air, Devin took in her whole physique and could only imagine how perky her breasts were and how his hands would fit on her hips. She looks better in person, he muses, watching the screen change over to a Windex commercial.

Maybe he should call her, but then what would he say? He squeezes his phone in his hands, staring at it as though it would decide for him. Should he ask her if she's going to interview him? He promised she could interview him when he got back from his road trip. She followed the team, so there was no hiding from her, and no excuses that would warrant him an extension.

Should he call? Shouldn't he?

If only she wanted him, then maybe he would pick up the phone. He doubted she did. A woman like Carla had to be taken. Not that it mattered; he wouldn't get involved with her anyway. She's a reporter and probably talks a lot. The last thing he needs is to talk about his privacy.

Besides, the interview would only serve the purpose of enlightening Carla. What would be in it for him? She could interview him at a game if she wanted to. What questions would she have for him anyway? He clutches his jaw at the question a reporter in Florida had asked. What was it like growing up playing hockey with your mom at every game? He answered, remembering how she made him feel. “That question is for my mom. I don't answer personal questions. I play hockey.” His answer made the newspaper and Devin was considered rude. Devin thinks of his dad. How does a guy leave his family? Alcohol problem or not, no one deserves to be deserted; he left without a return date or contact information to keep in touch. It's like dying and being left with a ghost. Where is his dad these days?

Devin throws his phone aside and makes a sandwich for dinner. He sits at his island counter, taking a bite and thumbing through his mail. Utility bill, a real-estate flyer, junk ads and another letter. He picks up the white envelope and places it in a kitchen drawer, along with all the others. It was addressed to his mom and forwarded to him. He has no desire to read it. Maybe one day but not today. He was better off without his dad. He's come this far without him, why would he need him at thirty years old? Devin rubs his eye, forgetting that he has a cut on his cheekbone. His hand feels the raised scar. He'd taken a good hit, but it was worth it. It was the best he'd played in weeks. Maybe opportunity or the luck of the draw. Whatever it is, he plans to play hard in the hope of staying on as a fan favorite, including Carla's.

Devin puts his plate in the dishwasher and settles in his living room, picking through the boxes left by the moving company that he hadn't opened yet. There isn't much to them; after all, he hasn't had a permanent home in which to hang pictures and buy accent furniture.

Now that he knows he's here for six years, he decides that opening every box is a good way to make this new city feel like home. He opens the box labeled
OLD STUFF.
Devin peels the packing tape off the top and puts his hand inside to fish for the first object. It's wrapped in tissue paper. Must be breakable. He rips the paper off to find a glass lantern and holds it up to the light. A little dusty, and the tea light is melted inside. Probably hasn't been used since he played in Ottawa. He had a small condo there with a deck. Some nights he would light the candle and relax in a chair, taking in the city.

Devin puts the lantern down and pulls out a blue box. His heart picks up pace as he opens the lid. He had forgotten about this box. It used to sit on a bookshelf in his room when he was a boy. It holds memories only a parent would treasure. A mold of his footprint when he was a month old, a clipping of fine hair and a silver rattle. Stuff he doesn't need. He holds the rattle in his hand, imagining tiny fingers shaking it. A baby. How great would that experience be if he ever had the opportunity to be a dad? To see what his child would look like and grow up in a home that had two parents. Secure. Loved. Happy.

Devin closes the box and carries it into the spare room. It's more of a storage space, a place he wasn't sure what to do with. When he bought the house, he thought the five-bedroom bungalow was the right size, considering it had a game room with a bar and a Jacuzzi. Maybe the house was too big for a single guy who is constantly on the road. Thankfully, he has a housecleaner who comes every week, and a gardener to keep up his maple trees and wild flowers. It's the perfect house for a family.

He shuts off the TV and decides to take a shower and get ready to meet Brittany at The Landing. He takes out a pair of jeans and a shirt. He could call her and cancel, say he's just too tired from being on the road, that he needs to catch up on his sleep. Is there a future with Brittany? He likes her, but not enough to want to see her every weekend.

His phone rings as he takes off his shirt. The shower is running hot, steaming up the bathroom. He picks up his phone to see the number. It's a local one, but he can't place it. Whoever is calling can wait. He undoes his belt buckle and loosens his jeans so they drop to the floor. His phone beeps, indicating a message. He wonders if it's one of his teammates, but then, he doesn't talk to any of them on the phone that much.

He listens to the message. It's Carla. His chest tightens as he hears her voice. Sweet yet to the point. “If you're available for an interview, I'll be in the office tomorrow afternoon,” she says, leaving her number.

“Damn!” Devin says, putting down his phone. “I have practice tomorrow afternoon.” One of these days they'll talk. He wants to talk. It's as close as he's going to get to her. He's sure of it. So sure that he tries to forget about her as he gets ready for his date, but the petite blonde keeps entering his mind. The only way to forget is to think about Brittany and what was in store for tonight.

His phone rings again and Devin jumps to answer it. “Hello?”

“Uh, hi, Devin?”

“Yeah!”

“It's Carla. Sorry to bother you. I just called and realized that tomorrow afternoon won't work for me. . . . I was seeing if you were available for an interview.... I know it's last minute.... Is there a day that works best for you?”

“Next week is fine. The afternoon is usually good, except tomorrow, I have a game.”

“Right! I knew that. Okay, we can look at the day after—” She stops in midsentence and the line goes quiet.

“Carla?”

“Yes?”

“I thought I lost the call.”

“I'm looking at my day planner.”

“You can call me back with a time,” he says.

“Sure. Sorry. I probably caught you at a bad time. You're probably out, it being Friday.”

“It's fine. Really. Um, we could do it Monday. You work Monday?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you working right now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you always work late on Friday nights?”

“It's not too late,” she says.

“It's nine o'clock,” he says. “Can't imagine much goes on in sports at this time, unless it's a hockey game.”

“It's nine o'clock!” She gasps. “Sorry, I didn't realize the time. I wouldn't have called you so late.”

Devin laughs.

“I had a bunch of stuff to do and lost track of time. We can finish this up on Monday, then.”

“We could do this now,” he says.

“Now? No way! Not over the phone. I need a cameraman and I don't have one. Look, I shouldn't have called so late. My apologies. Can I meet you at the rink on Monday before practice?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, great. That's perfect.”

“Carla?”

“Yes?”

“How late were you planning on working? Is there anything going on in sports right now?”

“Well, not really. I had other things to do.”

“Like what?”

“It's not just about reporting.... I had research to do and other stuff. . . .”

“Research?”

“There's stuff to look up and stories to find.”

“Right.”

“You don't believe me.”

“I do! I just think you choose to work instead of getting out.”

“I like my job.”

“I don't doubt that.” He laughs. “Do you want to grab a drink?”

She is slow to respond. “When?”

“Now.”

“I don't know.” She sighs.

“I can meet you close to where you are.”

“Do you even know where the TV station is?”

“I have GPS.”

“I better not. I'll see you at practice on Monday, then.”

“I thought if we met up for a quick drink, then you could get to know me better.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

The line is quiet.

“Sorry, I didn't mean it the way it sounded,” she says.

“You know who I am, but you don't know me,” he tells her.

“I have a good idea,” she says.

“That's the thing,” Devin says, running his hand over his head. “You say things on the air like you know me.”

“I do?”

“You tell people how much I make like it's a bad thing.”

“It's public knowledge,” she says and pauses. “It's a bad thing if a player doesn't perform well.”

“Are you saying I'm not performing well?”

“Let's agree that you're doing better here than I thought you would.”

“Are you always this critical?”

“I'm doing my job.”

“You're still critical.”

“I call it the way I see it.”

“Next time, can you say something positive?”

“Like what?”

“Look, I'm trying to win fans, not lose them.”

“If you want my advice, show up to every corporate event and talk to me. I'll interview you. It's the only way people will get to know you.”

“Do you want to get to know me?”

The line is quiet for a few seconds. Carla hums before she answers. “I do. I want to know what kind of player the Warriors acquired.”

“Set something up,” he says.

“I will.”

“Okay! Call me.”

Devin hangs up, wondering if he'll hear from Carla or not.

C
arla settles into her desk and turns on her computer as Timothy saunters over.

They make eye contact and he stops to talk. “Good weekend?”

She takes out her cell phone and places it on her desk, along with a pack of mints. “It was okay. How about you?” She looks up to meet his golden brown eyes. They used to draw her in and make her feel full, completed, loved, and now those eyes are full of memories. A flashback of Timothy agreeing they should separate. It was after the second miscarriage. Carla had been devastated. Timothy hadn't comforted her the way she expected him to. After all, it was both their loss, yet he seemed to hold it together just fine, whereas Carla had to muster every ounce of energy to report the sports. She focused on work to get through the drama.

They put baby making aside so that Carla could have some time to heal. A month turned into two, two turned into four and four turned into six. During that time, in their second year of marriage, they drifted farther apart, unable to see each other's need to have a baby. The desire burned inside of Carla, fueling anger toward Timothy for not wanting it as much as she did. At seven months she was willing to try again, but their marriage wasn't the same. The closeness they once shared had shifted from loving to resentful. Carla tried to love him, but he too had become distant, probably because she always had baby on her mind. She tried putting the idea of motherhood aside to concentrate on her marriage. Timothy took her on a two-week Hawaiian vacation, sparking a quick cure, but once they were home, back on track with their lives, baby was again on Carla's mind. She didn't vocalize it as much as she had, holding in her excitement with every purchase of a pregnancy test.

Going into their third year of marriage and no baby, Carla wondered if it was ever going to happen. They began to argue more, and despite the bitterness she was feeling, she couldn't talk to Timothy the way she used to. They barely spoke and were like strangers living under the same roof. One night, Carla came home from work hungry for dinner. Timothy had grabbed a bite to eat when he was out and hadn't brought anything home for her. Out of frustration, she yelled at him, accusing him of being inconsiderate and a lousy husband, which led to her telling him she wanted out of their marriage. Timothy agreed and Carla told him she would be gone in the morning. It felt like the right thing to say and do, considering their third year of marriage was a complete lack of communication. Carla called her sister in tears, and Sadie welcomed her to stay with her until she found a place.

It wasn't a surprise to Sadie. She knew about the ups and downs of her marriage, and it didn't come as a surprise, although to her mom and dad it had. They were torn. Timothy was a part of her family, and to them it was a shock. A year of separation became the norm, and Carla asked Timothy for a divorce. He didn't hesitate, telling her it was for the best. He didn't fight for her the way she'd expected, making her more bitter and therefore satisfied about ending their relationship.

Tears had filled his eyes and hers as well, knowing at that moment that they would never be the same. He tried calculating time apart.
If we give it six months, maybe we'll be back to how it was.
“We need time,” he had said. But time had made things worse. The more time spent apart, the more of a realization that they didn't need each other the way they'd hoped. Acquaintances were all they were.

“Good. Good. Um, you know our bedroom furniture?”

She blinks, looks at him sharply. “You mean
your
bedroom furniture?” she asks, folding her arms at her desk as she looks up at her ex-husband. “I got the couch and table, remember?”

“Yeah.” He shoves his hands in his front jeans pockets. “Do you want the night tables and dresser? I want to ask you before I get rid of it.”

“I hated that set!” she snarls. “It's ugly.”

“You agreed to buy it,” he says. He's always so calm and composed. It's a wonder he didn't explode when she asked to keep the apartment. She ended up moving into a town house anyway. “Couldn't have been that bad. You slept with it for three years.”

“I had no choice; you kept telling me it was a great deal and we needed a set because nothing matched.”

He nods his head and smirks. “It's not that bad. Still looks like new.”

“It's bad.” She rolls her eyes. “Trust me. The dresser looks like it belonged to my grandmother.” She opens her notebook. “Actually, her stuff is nicer.”

“I guess that's a no, then. All right.”

Carla takes out a mint from the metal tin on her desk and pops it into her mouth. “Why are you getting rid of it?”

He throws his hands up. “I don't know. No reason.”

“No reason?” She stares at him.

“I'm getting a new set.” He walks off.

“See? It is bad.” She laughs to herself and opens her notebook, making notes of upcoming stories to follow and reminders of what interviews to do.

“Boss!”

Carla looks up at Ryan, sporting dress pants and a button-down shirt. “The Warriors are practicing this morning. I'll interview Devin Miller, if you want.”

“No, that's okay. I'll be there,” Carla tells him. “I'm leaving in a few minutes.”

“You're going to practice? I thought you only hit the games.”

“I go to their practices. Just not regularly.”

“Oh, okay. I have another interview to do not far from there; are you sure?”

Carla nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Just thought you had other things to do and that it would free up your day.”

“I'm fine,” Carla snaps. Her phone rings. Ryan walks away shaking his head.

She takes a call from someone wanting her to come out to a highschool lacrosse game, and after carefully explaining that they only cover amateurs if an individual is picked up to go pro, Carla spots Pamela staring at her own painted pink nails, brushing them with her fingers, as if deciding whether they need cutting.

Carla hangs up the phone. “Pamela! Hi!”

“A bunch of us are going for lunch, if you care to join us. It would be great if you could.... We'll be across the street, so you can meet us there after the news. . . .” Pamela's hair is pinned back with strands of blond hair circling her face. Her long-sleeved blouse and full-length skirt make her look tall and much older than her midthirties.

“Sure,” Carla answers. Maybe getting to know Pamela is a good idea. She seems to want to be friends, although she's not sure why. “I'll try to make it. I'm running out to a Warriors practice right now.”

“That's wonderful,” Pamela says. “I'll save you a seat.”

Carla nods. “Okay.” She watches Pamela pivot and walk off with a bounce in her step and gets up from her desk, grabs her light jacket and heads outdoors to meet Randy, already sitting in the station van, waiting for her.

They drive to the Dome for the Warriors practice.

“Is it just Devin Miller you're interviewing?” Gary asks.

“Yeah, and maybe Lawrence Grattan, if he's willing. He's supposed to fly back to Pittsburgh to his family for a few days.”

“His daughter is sick.”

“Apparently doing better.”

“It's the worst when you're a parent, seeing your kid sick,” he says.

“I wouldn't know, but I can imagine.”

Gary changes lanes and returns his hand to his forehead, looking ahead. “My son had pneumonia and was in the hospital. That was scary enough.”

“I bet.”

“He was our child who always got hurt. His mother worried sick about him.” He pauses. “He once fell off a playground structure and broke his arm. He got stitches once, playing street hockey.” Gary shakes his head. “Kids.”

Carla flips open her notebook, scanning her questions for Devin.

“Are you interviewing before or after practice?”

“After. It gives me the opportunity to note who's playing and what happened at practice.”

Gary stares ahead.

“I'm interested in speaking to Devin.”

“Is there something between the two of you?” He looks over.

“No.” She wisps her bangs from her face. “I'm curious about why the Warriors signed him when what they really need is a scoring line.”

“What do you expect to hear from Devin?”

She glances down at her questions and taps her finger on the page. “I want to know how he's fitting in—”

“He seems to be doing just fine. The Warriors have been on a winning streak since Devin joined the team. Don't you think?”

“I want him to talk.”

“And there's nothing between the two of you?” Gary looks over, his eyes narrow on hers in a quick glance before he returns his eyes to the road.

“Nothing ever has happened. Nothing will,” she says confidently. “I'm not interested, if that's what you're asking.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, raising a hand. “I'm looking out for you. It just seems like the two of you have something going. You talk about him a lot on the air.”

“What's wrong with that? He's a hot topic.”

“For you, maybe.”

Carla's mouth is agape. “Doesn't anyone want to know about him and how he's doing on the team he wasn't planning on playing for?”

“That's what I'm saying. All hockey players make a lot of money.”

“Yeah, but Devin has the top salary for all defensemen in the NHL. He should be scoring goals too.”

“He does. His job is defending, and since he's been here, he's been doing his job.”

Carla brings her lips together. Maybe she's making a big deal of nothing, but why should she let Devin get away with not being accountable for his paycheck?

“I know what you're trying to do,” Gary says.

“You do?”

“You like him—”

“I do not!” she gasps.

“You're making a big deal about him for nothing. I'm wondering why you're not interviewing Mark Buckley, who's recovering from an injury.”

“I think it's important that our audience has the facts about Devin, that's all,” she says. “I'll interview others.” She looks out her window.

“Like who?”

“I'm interviewing players at the Warriors Heroes Campaign this week.”

“All I'm saying is you have to have fresh information. By now everyone in the city knows who Devin is and how much he makes. You need another angle.”

Carla's face falls. She looks at her notes. Who else can she interview? And is it that obvious she wants to talk exclusively to Devin?

“Sorry. I shouldn't tell you how to do your job. You do a great job. I'm worried about you.”

“Why?”

“There's talk about job shuffling.”

“They wouldn't get rid of me.”

“I don't think so. I want you to do your best. Wouldn't want you to lose your job.”

“What have you heard?”

“Nothing, really. Not about anyone in particular.”

Carla lets out a breath. “I hope not.”

“You're safe.”

“I'm not safe,” she mumbles.

“No one is.”

Carla looks away. If only she could ask Devin about his personal life without offending him.

Practice is close to finishing when they arrive at the Dome. Gary captures the players listening to Coach Steve Morrow's instructions and a breakout in play. Carla spots Devin's number-nineteen jersey on the opposite end of the ice. She's standing at the plexiglass watching, observing who's at practice and if there's anything that's changed. She focuses on Mark Buckley, skating in good response to his injury, and notes Lawrence Grattan fully immersed in making a play as he skates up to the boards.

Carla spots Devin skating down the ice, turning backward to defend his goalie. She stares at Devin as he cuts sharply to the boards. He looks up to make eye contact as he skates past.

Carla drops her hands to her sides, her notebook hanging by her fingers, hoping he'll skate back toward her to say hi, to acknowledge that she's there.
Why does he care?
she thinks. And why should she care if he knows her? Does he really want to get to know her, or is it all part of his scheme to build fan appreciation?

Practice is over. The players skate off.

“Let's go!” she tells Gary. “I'll grab Devin.”

As they walk over to the bench, Carla searches for Devin but doesn't see him. Her eyes narrow, checking each player as they come off the ice.

“Where is he?” Gary asks.

“I . . . I don't know,” she says, staring. “I didn't see him leave.”

“Hey, Carla!” the assistant coach says. “Who are you here for?”

“Miller,” she says directly. “Can you please tell him I want to speak to him? Devin is expecting me.”

“He probably forgot.”

“I don't think so,” she says, looking over her shoulder at Gary. “In the meantime, let's see if we can have a word with Buckley.”

“Lead the way,” Gary calls out.

“Mark!” Carla says, rushing toward him. “A couple of questions for you.”

He takes off his helmet and wipes his face with his hand.

“Your injury set you back six games. How do you feel today?” Carla asks, raising the microphone to his face.

“Good. I'm ready for tomorrow night's game.”

“The Warriors lost against the Flames last time the teams met. Any strategies for tomorrow?”

“We have to get the puck to the net. Simple. Make smarter plays. . . .”