Page 15 of Fractured Ice

"I brought a notebook and everything⁠—"

But he's already heading for the front door, pulling it open, and I sit there for one second weighing my options, which are limited. I need this interview. I follow him outside.

The January cold hits immediately and I pull my coat tighter as I fall into step beside him because what else am I going to do?

"Sorry about that," Ethan says after half a block. "The—" He gestures vaguely.

"It's fine," I say, which is a lie, but it's the professional response.

"Honestly I figured you'd close the door faster."

"Ethan."

"I'm just saying. Most people⁠—"

"Can we not do this?"

He's quiet for exactly three seconds. "I'm just saying, for the record, that what you saw is⁠—"

"I don't need you to tell me what I saw."

"I have the size," he says, "and I know how to use it. In case you were curious."

I stop walking.

He keeps going for two steps, then stops and looks back at me over his shoulder, his expression a mix of horror and shock, and I point at him.

"One more word," I say, "and I'm scheduling this interview for six AM on a Monday."

He holds up both hands. "Noted."

We walk in silence for another minute and then he says, "The café by the journalism building is good." I don't argue because at this point I'm choosing my battles, and breakfast is not one I care about.

The café is small and warm, and smells like coffee and something with cinnamon. The person behind the counter knows Ethan by name, which doesn't surprise me at all. He lets me order first, which I'll acknowledge. Then he orders for himself, and before I can get my card out he's already paid for both of us and is heading toward a table in the corner by the window.

"I was going to pay for mine," I say, sitting across from him.

"I know."

"You shouldn't have⁠—"

“Don’t worry about it.”

I open my notebook and uncap my pen, deciding this is not a hill worth dying on. He gets two points for the window table. Loses them for the paying thing. We're even.

"Okay," I say. "Let's start with the basics."

"Shoot."

"How long have you been playing hockey?"

"Since I was four. My dad put me in skates before I could ride a bike, although you probably already know that." He leans back in his chair. "Knox, Noah, and Blake were already playing, and I grew up next door to the triplets, so it just made sense."

"And your position."

"First line. Center."

I write it down. "What does that position mean for your role in the team?"