Fire & Ice

by Rachel Spangler

  Max scoffed and shook her head, but she kept her lips pressed in a tight line as she swung open the door and shouldered her duffel bag. Then with one last searing look from icy eyes, she heeded Callie’s final request and walked silently away.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Another bone-crushing hit sent three players crashing into the sideline with a spray of combined sweat. A tackle like that might’ve killed average humans, but the gladiators on the gridiron before her hardly fit the bill. All three men immediately hopped up and sprinted away.

  Fast. Everything happened so fast here. Max shook her head, wondering if life had always felt this way, or if three months of watching curling had dulled her senses. A flash of guilt tightened her gut. What would Callie think if she knew she’d just thought that their time together might have made her duller and dumber?

  The next emotion was one she’d grown reacquainted with in the last few days. Anger hadn’t been around as much in the last few months, but apparently it was like one of those relationships that always sparked right back to familiarity even after months apart. She hated that. She hated feeling like she was back to square one emotionally, even if professionally she had vaulted several rungs up the career ladder.

  A series of whistles and buzzers sounded, signaling the two-minute warning. Players hustled around her, calling out commands over the roar of the crowd. Behind her, cameras worth more than she made in weeks flashed and whirred, while overhead a jumbotron burst with high-resolution video of people she stood mere feet from. Why was she thinking about Callie right now? She was back in the big leagues, the very seat of power, pomp, and luxury. This was her real life.

  “Excuse me, Ms. Laurens.” One of the interns brushed up against her. Jimmy? Johnny? Jeremy? Too many lackeys around to learn all their names in three days, but they were all driven and connected and hungry, so she had to respect that. On the other hand, they all wanted something from her, which brought her right back to Callie.

  She shook her head, and the young man’s eyes widened. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can come back.”

  “No, it’s fine. What?”

  “The Giants are up two touchdowns with two minutes left to play.”

  “I can read a scoreboard.”

  “Right, sorry. I didn’t mean to imply . . . anything. I only meant, do you want me to take you to the pressroom?”

  She shook her head again, this time at him rather than her own memories. “I’m going to get a sideline interview with someone from the offensive line.”

  “But they usually go to the locker room, then the pressroom, and it’s very hard for someone of your stature to get noticed in—”

  She stopped him with a stare.

  “A sideline interview sounds good.” He changed course. “I’ll get you a second camera and a live mic.”

  She didn’t have to respond as he ran off through the crowd. She probably should’ve felt bad about intimidating the kid, but she sort of enjoyed being able to do so. Besides she’d felt bad enough lately, and about too many things. This job was supposed to be the one thing she was sure about. Lord knows she didn’t have the same certainty about any other area of her life. She couldn’t count the number of times she’d replayed her last conversation with Callie, and she still couldn’t make sense of it all. Everything had happened so fast that morning.

  Another player careened toward her sideline as if to prove “fast” was just a way of life for her now, and she barely managed to get out of the way. Another apt metaphor for her personal life.

  She shook her head, disgusted once more that she couldn’t seem to break free from that cycle of thoughts. Why should Callie have that kind of control over her when Max clearly didn’t have the same effect on her? Callie had said herself she was willing to let her walk away. She would’ve been content to never see her again. She might miss her, sure, but not bad enough to want to see her again—if it conflicted with curling season, anyway. She hadn’t even gotten mad until Max had made the connection between her and Sylvia.

  Her stomach roiled again as she remembered the look on Callie’s face when she’d made the comment. It had hurt her, and Max hadn’t wanted them to end on that note. She hadn’t really wanted them to end at all, but she hadn’t had the chance to think. She hadn’t had the chance to consider all her options. She’d had to make a choice in a moment, and she did, but she hadn’t ever meant—

  The final buzzer sounded, shocking her back into the moment.

  She had missed the last two minutes of the game. She’d missed so many things. She had to stop running in circles around a memory. She had a job to do, one she’d fought and clawed her whole life for.

  Grabbing the microphone from the intern without a word, she dove headfirst into the tide of players leaving the field. Most of them towered over her and could easily flatten her without actually seeing her, but she threaded nimbly between them. She hadn’t gotten where she had without taking a few risks. Craning her neck upward, trying to recognize faces under helmets, she finally spotted an offensive lineman talking to another player. She practically hurled herself at him and prayed someone was behind her with a camera.

  “Great game today.” She shouted to be heard over the million other sounds around them. “Quick interview for Network Sports.”

  He blinked down at her as if trying to process her presence more than her request, which hadn’t actually been a question. She didn’t wait for his answer before arranging her shot. “Great. Just stand right over here with your back to the field.”

  She cast her first glance at the cameraman, who nodded his readiness.

  “Your team held the opposing offense to only six points today, largely by controlling the receivers. Was that your game plan going in?”

  He shifted uncomfortably and pulled off his helmet, revealing a sweat-soaked face, pink either from exertion or embarrassment. “Um, yes.”

  She raised an eyebrow, waiting for more explanation, but when one didn’t come, she did her best to battle the dead airtime filling her report.

  “Was your emphasis on containing the quarterback or on cutting off the receivers?”

  “Yeah,” he said, then seemed to realize he needed more, so he added, “Totally.”

  She pulled on every ounce of professionalism she’d cultivated not to roll her eyes. “And seeing how well that strategy worked, how do you think you’ll have to tweak it for next week’s matchup with the Rams?”

  “Yes!” he said emphatically. “We will tweak it.”

  She stared at him for several more seconds, unable to believe someone had just given a “yes” answer to a question that started with “how,” but she wasn’t going to stand here any longer trying to squeeze thoughtful commentary out of a brain that had obviously taken too many blows.

  “Well, thank you for your time, and good luck next week.”

  The guy grinned slightly. “Thank you.”

  As he jogged off, she turned back to the cameraman and intern. “That’s totally unusable.”

  They both nodded.

  “Get me someone else.”

  Jeremy, or Joshie, or whoever spun around, frantically scanning jerseys until he spotted one that meant something to him. He lunged to catch the player around the arm, or rather halfway around the arm, because his hand was tiny compared to the bulky biceps. Still, she had to give the kid credit for gusto.

  “Interview with Network Sports?” he called.

  The offensive lineman swatted him like a gnat. “Piss off, kid. I need a shower.”

  While Max couldn’t disagree on the basis of hygiene—she could smell his stench from several feet away—her face did burn at the quick dismissal of a network reporter. Before she had a chance to reach her boiling point, her aggressive intern tried again with someone else.

  This time he didn’t even get a verbal response so much as a grunt and dismissive wave.

  “Come on.” Max caught the kid by the back of the shirt. “Let ’em go. We’ll get to
the pressroom.”

  He didn’t argue, and they fell in silently with the sea of players leaving the field.

  “Did you see that little prick from CBS trying to talk to me after that shit report he wrote?” one player grumbled. “I had to sit two weeks because of that asshole.”

  She checked the number on his back to confirm her suspicions that he had served a two-game suspension not for being rude to a reporter, but for beating his young fiancée senseless.

  “Fuck ’em, we won,” someone else said. “I’m getting laid tonight.”

  “I can get laid any night, but I don’t get my bonus unless we make it to the league championships.”

  “Like you need more money,” Max mumbled. The thought made her remember Callie having to work multiple odd jobs just to be able to afford the low-end hotel rooms that she split with Layla. What would she have given to have reporters pressing in on her after a big win? She certainly wouldn’t have told them to piss off. And she wouldn’t have given one-word answers. Would anyone care enough to ask her probing questions next week? Or would another win go largely unnoticed, like all the others?

  The thought made her sad. She hadn’t let herself feel sad very much, partly because all the other emotions were so much closer to the surface and partly because she worried that if she did, the sadness might end up consuming all the others. She couldn’t let that happen. She couldn’t pine over someone who probably wasn’t even giving her a second thought.

  “I’m going to be working.” That’s what Callie had said, and Max didn’t doubt her. All this time, she’d thought they were both on the same track. The fast track, right to the top—that’s what they’d both said from the very first moment. Clearly nothing had changed, no matter how different she’d felt around Callie. She supposed that should be a good thing. She hadn’t really wanted to change. Despite Callie’s accusation about broken promises, they had both been up-front about their goals. Neither of them had anything to feel bad about.

  And yet, she did.

  She missed her. She hated that she’d hurt her. She hated herself for caring more about their relationship than Callie did, again. Again. Again. The same thing over and over, and it didn’t matter how many times she replayed Callie’s little tirade about Max writing fiction. She still couldn’t forget the fact that Callie hadn’t had any problem letting her leave until she’d brought up the curling coverage and that stupid bet. She hadn’t been able to summon any genuine excitement for Max’s accomplishment or opportunities. Max had cheered for her, and studied and learned and celebrated with Callie for months, and yet when it came her time for a big break, all Callie could say was, “we have a tournament next week.”

  She couldn’t ignore those facts. Not again. Not after last time. When was she going to learn that no one was ever going to care about her life and her dreams but her?

  She spun and kicked the wall. “Fuck.”

  She turned to see not only her intern and cameraman, but also several other people staring at her. Her cheeks flamed all the way up to her ears as the horror of what she’d done slammed through her. She’d completely forgotten where she was, who she was with, and what she was supposed to be doing, all because of Callie.

  It had to stop.

  “Sorry,” she said sincerely.

  “It’s okay,” Jessie said.

  The kid’s name was Jessie, and she was damn well going to remember it from now on.

  “We’ll get a good interview inside.”

  She nodded. She would. It was her job, and she was good at her job.

  “Welcome back to North Battleford, Saskatchewan,” a sportscaster she didn’t know said from behind Callie as she approached the hack. “Team Mulligan is two points down here in the final end of pool play, and their skip, Callie Mulligan, is looking for a little redemption after an uncharacteristically erratic tournament so far.”

  “Erratic is a good way to put it,” Tim said, sounding almost embarrassed. “We’ve seen flashes of her usual brilliance even as recently as last end, but then she’ll follow up fantastic shots with absolute clunkers.”

  She tried not to shake her head, but she might have rolled her eyes. Not at Tim, but at herself, because he wasn’t wrong. She’d played terribly this whole tournament, and no matter what she did here, her team wouldn’t make it into the playoff portion of the event. They’d already lost three matches in pool play so they were mathematically eliminated, but she still had her pride, and she didn’t know why it hadn’t rebounded by now. She should be totally focused on the end of Ella’s broom, pointing her way toward at least one victory instead of listening to broadcasters state facts she already knew.

  Focus. That’s what she needed, and what she’d lacked all weekend. She tried to drum up some now as her eyes locked on the target and she pushed into her slide. Her back leg straightened, and the breeze brushed her hair back from her face. Externally everything went to plan, but internally nothing changed. She could still see clearly everything at her periphery, still hear even the voices of random people at the sidelines, and still feel the cold seeping through her skin. The world did not disappear. It didn’t even fade. Trying frantically for some sense of control, she did a last-second calculation, noting her speed and trajectory. Then she released the rock, not at all certain where it would end up.

  Her stomach dropped at the unknown, and instead of staying in the crouch she hopped up to chase after her rock helplessly.

  “Sweep!” she and Brooke called at the same time.

  Ella and Layla had already sprung into action, both clearly sensing disaster, but the more they swept, the more another problem revealed itself. The stone wasn’t curling enough, and with each rapid scrub of the broom, its path stayed straighter. If they kept sweeping, it wouldn’t curl enough to hit the button, and if they didn’t sweep, it wouldn’t have the distance. Classic curling damned-if-you-do-and-damned-if-you-don’t, and she had only herself to blame.

  Well, herself and Max Laurens.

  “Off,” she said.

  The sweepers didn’t hear or listen.

  “Off,” she called more loudly. “It’s no good.”

  Both Ella and Layla glanced at Brooke, and Callie’s face burned with shame. They didn’t even trust her to forfeit correctly today. She should’ve been angry. This was still her team, but she hadn’t exactly earned the right to make that argument over the last few days, so she too turned toward her vice.

  Brooke lowered her head and shrugged in sad confirmation. “It’s not going to get there.”

  Clenching her jaw, she strode over and shook the hand of the opposing American skipper. “Good curling.”

  “You too,” Danielle replied automatically. “That shot in the seventh, mind blowing.”

  She appreciated the courtesy, but she knew she didn’t deserve it, and she no longer had the energy to play the part of good sport or gracious looser. She merely gave a curt nod before moving on to shake three more hands as quickly as possible.

  “Hey, Skip,” Layla whispered as they began to pack their bags. “Tell me what you need right now.”

  “Get me out of here,” she mumbled.

  “You got it,” Brooke said, kicking her shoes off and practically jumping into her sneakers. “Ella, you take the interviews. I’ll go talk to the officials. Layla, get her to the car.”

  Everyone accepted their assignment without question, but before Ella walked away, she dropped a hand on Callie’s shoulder and squeezed. “Everyone has bad tournaments. Don’t be harder on yourself than you would be on one of us.”

  A lump formed in Callie’s throat, but thankfully she didn’t have to respond as Ella jogged off to intercept Tim and his new reporting partner.

  Mercifully, Brooke only gave her a quick pat on the back before turning to go handle their official duties.

  Layla merely picked up her bag and Callie’s as well. Puffing herself up to her full but still unimpressive height, she acted as a human barrier between Callie and every single perso
n they passed on their way out.

  Callie climbed into the passenger seat of their rental, slammed the door, and immediately folded in on herself. She struggled to breathe evenly as a million thoughts screamed through her brain. They’d just been knocked out in the first round of a tournament by teams they expected to crush, and every one of their losses had landed squarely on her shoulders. She didn’t know the exact stats, but she’d certainly been the weakest player on her team.

  “This is going to hurt our rankings,” she finally said.

  “Yep,” Layla agreed.

  “And our wallets.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We didn’t even make enough money to cover our hotels.”

  “We did not.”

  “I played like shit for four games in a row.”

  Layla didn’t argue. “I do believe that’s the worst event you’ve had since high school.”

  She drew her knees to her chest and rested her head against them. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know,” Layla said calmly. “So, does everyone else, and I don’t say this often, but Ella was absolutely right. You can’t be harder on yourself than you are on any one of us when we have bad games.”

  “It was more than a bad game,” she whispered.

  “Okay, a bad tournament.”

  “It’s more than these two days. It’s been a bad ten days.”

  Layla didn’t respond, and Callie tilted her head to look at her. Layla’s big brown eyes were wide and sympathetic.

  “Oh, are we ready to talk about this now, because you’ve damn near bitten my head off every time I’ve brought up ‘She Who Must Not Be Named’,” Layla said.

  “I didn’t want her to affect the team.”

  “And we can see how well that went.” Layla laughed.

  “It’s not funny.”

  “It’s a little bit funny,” Layla said. “I mean, not that you got your heart broken. That sucks. But after years of ignoring anything and everyone who didn’t relate to curling, you finally found the one person who can take your mind off the ice, and now you’re trying to ignore that, too. That’s some top-tier denial, my friend.”