Page 22 of Fractured Ice

He doesn't say anything.

"Doesn't it seem a little strange," I continue, "to keep tabs on one person while also maintaining approximately a roster?"

"It's not—" He stops. Starts again. "That's not exactly accurate."

"Isn't it?"

He opens his mouth and then closes it, and he looks at me with something in his face that I can't quite read, something frustrated and careful at the same time, like he's working out how to say a thing and can't find the door.

"It's complicated," he says, finally.

"Most things are." I close my notebook and stand up. "You should probably tell the trainer about that hit before your next practice."

I reach down to pick up my camera bag and head for the door. But no more than a step later I catch my foot on the edge of a pile of gear on the floor, the specific bad luck of hockey equipment scattered exactly where it shouldn't be. I lurch forward with nothing to grab, and Ethan moves fast enough that he catches me before I go down completely. My hands hit the floor on the other side of the bench and I end up there, palms flat on the ground, ass in the air, skirt bunched up in a way I can feel. A way that’s mortifying.

The problem is the geometry of it.

He's standing behind me, hands gripping my hips to keep me from going all the way down. And he's right there, pressed against me, and I can feel exactly how much he's enjoying our new position… I should move.

I don't move.

Neither does he.

There's a beat where neither of us says anything. The only sound in the locker room is the low hum of the ventilation system and I'm very aware of every point of contact between us. His hands, his hips, the warmth of him against me, and something in my body makes a very compelling argument that I'm choosing to ignore.

"Ethan, Coach wants to know—" Mason stops.

Takes in the scene.

I'm on my feet before he finishes the sentence, dress yanked down, one hand grabbing my camera bag off the floor while the other smooths my hair back into something that resembles a person who was not just bent over a locker room bench.

"Oh," Mason says, and the grin that splits his face is the most annoying thing I've ever seen in my life. "My bad. I'll just⁠—"

"This isn't…" Ethan starts.

“We weren’t…” I begin lamely, face burning, unsure what else to say.

"Bro." Mason is already laughing. "In the locker room? Couldn't even wait until⁠—"

"Get out," Ethan says, true anger in his voice.

I find my notebook under the bench, shove it into my bag, and don't look at either of them.

"I'm just saying, respect, I didn't know you had it in you to move that fast⁠—"

"Mason, I will end your life right this⁠—"

"I get it. I’d be mad too if I was just about to get ass⁠—"

My bag is zipped. My coat is on. I walk past Mason and out the door without making eye contact with anyone, which is the only dignified option available to me.

“Sienna!” Ethan calls after me.

“Don’t follow me!” I shout back, then take another breath.

Professional. That's the word. That's the assignment. I have photos, I have notes, I have enough material from practice for two pages of observations, and absolutely nothing that happened in the last hour is going in the final profile.

Not the watching him on the ice, and not because of the assignment.