Fire & Ice

by Rachel Spangler

  “Not true.”

  “Which part?”

  “The part about ignoring things or the part about Max being the only thing to take my mind off curling.”

  “What about the part about you getting your heart broken?”

  Her chest constricted so tightly all the air left her lungs in a rush. Why did it hurt so bad to breathe?

  Layla’s gaze softened. “That right there, that feeling? You can’t ignore it.”

  “I don’t have a choice. Max is gone. She got her chance to move on, and she didn’t even hesitate.”

  “Not even a little?” Layla asked.

  She shook her head. “I was there. It was a three-minute conversation, and by the end of it, she had plans to be covering football the next day.”

  Layla grimaced. “Did you say anything to her?”

  “I said some things.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  “I tried. I promise I did. I faked a happy face.”

  “You faked it?”

  The question sent another shot of pain through her. “Yeah, and she knew I was faking, but damn it, I’m not good at playing these games. What was I supposed to do? Jump up and down and say, ‘I’m so glad all your dreams are coming true.’”

  Layla shrugged. “I don’t know. What would she have done if all your dreams had come true?”

  This time the pain was too much, and she covered her face to hold in a sob. She couldn’t answer, not because she didn’t know the answer, but because she couldn’t bring herself to say that Max would’ve been elated for her. Every time Callie had won, Max had cheered. In fact, the last time they’d beaten the other American team, Max had seemed more excited than Callie. Max had cared what happened to Callie even though she never really cared for curling.

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Layla said.

  Callie groaned. “Don’t make it harder. I admit I have regrets. I should have reacted better. I should’ve realized how big an opportunity like the Super Bowl would be after everything she’d been through, but in that moment, I only felt a creeping fear that I would never see her again.”

  “That’s good. It’s human. Did you tell her that?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, Callie.” Layla sighed. “You made it about curling, didn’t you?”

  “What? No!” She chewed her lip for a moment, and then quieter, “How did you know?”

  “Because you make everything about curling. Your jobs, your family, your friends, anyone who challenges you. It’s like other people have emotions, and you have curling. What did you say to Max instead of, ‘I don’t want to lose you’?”

  “Maybe I implied I was worried about my tournament schedule . . . and our press coverage if she left.”

  Layla groaned.

  “I didn’t mean to!” She balled her fists as the helplessness washed over her again. “Honest to God, it all came out wrong. You said yourself, I’m not good at big emotions. I only meant to set her free because the dynamic was changing, and I didn’t know what to do, so I said we both had different jobs now, and she took it the wrong way. Everything spun out of control. She thought I was only interested in her for what she could do for the team, and I never for a second felt that way.”

  “There.” Layla pointed at her excitedly. “What you just said, it’s perfect. Call Max right now and tell her what you just told me.”

  “I can’t. Maybe I could have if the conversation had ended right there, but it didn’t. Things were said that can’t be unsaid, and not that I’m keeping score or anything, but Max leveled some way worse accusations at me. My screwups came from fear and slow processing skills. She compared me to a lying, conniving, adulterous bitch who destroyed multiple lives and careers.”

  Layla winced. “Okay, yeah, I see how those sorts of comments might complicate a conversation.”

  They’d complicated a lot more than one conversation. Those comments haunted her. They kept her awake at night and jarred her out of focus even during matches. They hurt every time she relived them, and the hurt hadn’t lessened with time. Callie might not have been perfect, and she would certainly have done things differently if she’d had the chance, but she didn’t know if she could ever get past the fact that Max held such an offensively low opinion of her. Besides, even if she could get past those assessments of her character, and even if they could find a way to make their totally different lives and priorities mesh, she had no reason to believe Max wanted to.

  And that hurt too.

  “People say things they don’t mean when they are confused or scared or sad,” Layla said.

  She nodded. “That thought has occurred to me. How couldn’t it after I admitted I didn’t handle things the best that I could, either?”

  “So, see? You’re a mature adult, and Max, despite some early indications otherwise, seems to be a pretty solid human too.”

  “She knows what she wants, and she goes for it without apology, which is why no matter how I spin it, I can’t get around the fact that she didn’t hesitate to leave. She didn’t show any remorse for the unfair things she said. She hasn’t tried to contact me since then either,” Callie continued, even as the depression pressed down on her back and the emotions tightened her throat. “If Max is someone who goes after what she wants, I have to conclude she doesn’t really want me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “So, the thing no one wants to tell you is, this whole thing is kind of bullshit.”

  Max blinked at the top tight end in the NFC and his complete non sequitur.

  “You know what I mean?” he asked, staring down at her, his green eyes dull and a little bloodshot.

  “Sorry,” Max said, without really knowing why. “I’m not sure I do. I just asked if you thought you deserved to be elected to the Pro Bowl team this year.”

  “Yeah, people keep asking me that, but no one wants to talk about the fact that I’m not getting paid enough to play in this charity game.”

  “By charity game you mean the Pro Bowl?”

  “That’s what I said.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes like she might be dumb.

  “Right, but being chosen by your coaches, other players, and fans as an all-star to represent your league?”

  “It’s not my league. I’m a one-man league. I’m here doing this dog-and-pony show, and I’m here to tell you I might only make $28,000.”

  “Oh, is that all?” Max could no longer keep the disdain from her voice. This man might be pure magic on turf, but he was a real asshole off of it, and his piss-poor attitude during this press conference didn’t even rank on the long list of reasons why.

  “Twenty-eight K is chump change. How many professionals do you know who want to fly halfway across the country and give up their first week of vacation in six months, to sit in a chair answering questions about deserving this and past offenses just to play a meaningless game?”

  Callie’s image sprang to mind just as clear and beautiful as ever, even after three weeks apart. What would she have given for the type of opportunity this man was spitting on? “I can think of a few.”

  He scoffed. “Not for twenty-eight grand, when that’s even less than they make doing their real job.”

  “Or, perhaps, even less than they owe in domestic abuse settlements and fines?” Max offered.

  A collective gasp went up from the pool of spectators and reporters around her, but he only threw back his head and laughed. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

  A league official stepped onto the stage and announced the press session had ended. Several reporters glanced at their watches or phones to confirm what she already knew. They’d had at least a couple of more minutes left, but the league didn’t want another scandal to mar their two-week Super Bowl party. She thought about calling them out on the hypocrisy of protecting the images of wife beaters when they did little to actually protect their wives, but that was a losing battle, along with so many others, in the NFL.

  She stood and stretched, shading h
er eyes against the glaring sun overhead. At least she was warm for the first time in who knew how long. If she had to be surrounded by assholes, Miami was as good a place as any.

  Another little twinge pricked at her chest as that thought was followed by the realization that she didn’t really have to be surrounded by assholes. There were good people in sports. Hell, there were even good people in football, but the culture here seemed to breed, or at least cover for, more sins than many others she’d reported on. Basketball was better. Baseball was better. Tennis was infinitely better. And curling—her heart clenched—curling was better. Dare she say it? Maybe the best.

  She didn’t see any reason to deny the obvious, even though no one had actually asked her to. Or had even asked her a question. She was merely having another useless conversation in her own head, the way she’d had for weeks anytime the damn interns left her alone long enough to hear herself think. And those internal monologues always led her back to the same place. When someone talked about conditioning, she thought of kissing Callie’s spectacular shoulders. When someone mentioned passion, she saw the glint in Callie’s eyes. When someone bitched about not making enough millions of dollars, she thought of Callie working odd jobs just to keep playing the game she loved.

  Whenever she was confronted with the culture that allowed grown men to behave like spoiled toddlers with impunity, she remembered Callie buying drinks for the team that beat her, or curlers lining up to wish a competitor well on their wedding day, or the unabashed respect with which both teammates and opponents regarded each other on the ice. Every one of them was dealing with so much more than the players parading across the stage in front of her today—families and school, day jobs and training routines, practice schedules and travel schedules, and competition at the highest levels, but they did it all without making enough money at curling to support themselves.

  They did it all for love.

  The thought caused an ache to spread through her chest. She closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sun. When was the last time she’d done something for love?

  The phone in her pocket rang, and for one stupid second her heart thudded with the hope it might be Callie. She fumbled with the lock screen as she hopped out of her chair, but she’d only made it two steps away from the press area when she noticed the caller ID bore the number of the network headquarters in New York.

  “Hello.”

  “Hey,” Flip said. “Got a minute?”

  Her stomach flopped with disappointment, and she kicked herself internally. “Sure, uh, let me get someplace quieter.”

  She lowered the phone and strode toward a small cluster of palm trees, but even when she’d stepped into their shade, she gave herself the luxury of a few extra breaths to even out her erratic heartbeat.

  When would she stop hoping every time the phone rang? Callie wasn’t going to call, and even if she did, what could either of them say? They’d both used up all the words in their last encounter. Three weeks of perspective was plenty of time to foster a great many regrets, but it didn’t change the facts of their situation. They both still had jobs to do, and they’d both chosen them over each other.

  Raising the phone back to her ear, she said, “I’m here. What’s up?”

  “I just read the story you sent in last night.”

  “Yeah?” She tried to keep her tone even until she knew where he intended to go.

  “It’s damn fine writing, Max.” He laughed. “Like, Pulitzer-grade prose.”

  Her lips twitched up at the first positive emotion she’d felt in a while. Pride. With everything else going on inside her and around her, she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to do something well. She might not have Callie’s passion for the sport or the people she happened to be covering, but she was still a damn good sportswriter, and people all over the country would hear what she had to say. “Thanks. Glad we’ll get the word out.”

  “Yeah, about that,” Flip said, then paused.

  “What?”

  “It’s a great piece.”

  “But?”

  “It’s 12,000 words long.”

  “It’s nuanced.”

  “I don’t disagree, but I’ve got nowhere to put it. I even showed it to a friend at Sports Illustrated, and they’ve got nowhere to put it.”

  “So, I need to cut it down.”

  “For starters, and then maybe, I don’t know, lighten it up a bit.”

  “It’s about human trafficking and sex workers in Super Bowl cities. How do I lighten that up?”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I know, but I’m not publishing the Atlantic, or even Rolling Stone. I know you love the in-depth stuff, but really, I need a blogger right now. No one wants long-form journalism, at least not in this format.”

  “Then what format should I use to tell more complex stories?”

  “I don’t know. Documentaries had a big year, but that’s not the work of this network, and you still want to work for the network, right?”

  “Of course,” she said, without even thinking.

  “Good. Because you’re still one of the best, but right now I need short snippets and teasers to add to the human interest angle for the big game next weekend.”

  “But what if these people are not actually interesting humans?”

  Flip laughed, but Max didn’t see the humor. “I’m serious. I’ve already filed a story on the guy who works for Habitat for Humanity, and the one who’s still in the National Guard, but for every one of them, there are two players beating their kids or getting stoned with hookers or doing nothing but complaining all the time.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find something. Hell, you managed to make curlers sound interesting for three months.” He laughed again, but her shoulders drooped as the full weight of that realization settled over her. She’d had both an easier and a more fulfilling time covering the people she’d worked to get away from than covering the people she’d fought to get back to, and she’d given up a shot at something real in order to do it.

  “Who did you get to cover the curling, anyway?”

  “Hmm. Actually, I can’t remember his name. Nobody I’d ever heard of before.”

  “Is he any good?”

  “Seems adequate.”

  Her jaw twitched. “That’s a ringing endorsement.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s no you, but it’s just curling. Besides, what do you care what happens over there? I’d have thought you’d be eager to leave that assignment behind.”

  She would have thought so, too. In fact, she had thought so. She’d been so damn quick to get out of curling, she’d hurt Callie. No matter how hard Max tried to focus on Callie’s comment about work, she hadn’t quite been able to forget the pain she’d seen on her face. She wanted to leave all of that behind as well, but even here, weeks later, in the shade of palm trees and power, she had failed to do so.

  “The thing is,” she said slowly, “curling may not be much to watch at first, but the people there ended up being much more compelling than I anticipated. They live their sport in ways and at levels some of these millionaires can’t even imagine. And Callie, the skipper, she’s this true force of nature. She’s electric in every setting. She’s got this drive that’s singular and as pure as the driven snow. She makes everyone around her better than they ever even dreamed of being. And that spills over off the ice.”

  “Yeah, I’m going to have to stop you right there,” Flip said. “I get that you’re fond of waxing poetic, but, and I say this with all professionalism, whatever’s going on with you and this woman, you need to save it for your therapist.”

  Her face flamed instantly. “What?”

  “Look.” Flip took on a patronizing tone. “I can’t touch any part of your personal life. I’m not a counselor. I’m not your drinking buddy.”

  “Right,” she said flatly, trying to hide the embarrassment from her voice. They weren’t friends. She didn’t have any friends. She had a boss, she had colleagues, she had interns, and she had a bunch of se
lfish, overpaid, overprivileged assholes to cover. This was her life. This was what she’d told herself she wanted, over and over and over again, until she couldn’t see herself anywhere else. “Sorry, you’re right.”

  “Good,” he said, “then you’ll get back to writing those short, happy pieces?”

  “Yeah,” Max said, then sighed and added, “through Sunday.”

  “All right,” he said, then seemed to really hear what she’d said. “You’re there for two more Sundays.”

  She shook her head, not because he could see her but to try to clear the remnants of old dreams from her mind. “I’ll finish covering the Pro Bowl, but then I’m done.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, incredulously. “Done with what?”

  She smiled in spite of the trepidation she felt growing inside her. “Writing fiction.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “This one’s for all the marbles, kids,” Ella said as they stepped onto the ice.

  Callie didn’t know whether to choke her or hug her. The choking impulse came from the fact that she didn’t really want any more attention brought to the fact that they’d somehow made it to the finals of the United States Women’s Curling Nationals. Six months ago, that wouldn’t have blown her mind. She’d expected to be here, right up until three weeks ago. Now she was surprised, and more than a little ashamed, that she had done less than any other member of her team to put them in this position, which, of course, was where the urge to hug Ella came from.

  She wanted to hug Brooke and Layla, too. They had played phenomenally all week. They had become the team she’d always known they could be—passionate, persistent, and with a precision that continued to wow everyone watching. As she looked across the ice at the first-place American team, she knew they must be feeling the same mix of emotions. Nervousness, a desire to protect what they undoubtedly thought of as theirs, a shaken confidence, and a confusion that this team might be a threat even without Callie at the top of her game. The conflict of pride in her friends and disappointment in herself was just one more to add to the long list of things tearing her apart.