The Ice King Regrets

Five years later…

I returned to the hockey world with a press badge around my neck, a recorder in my bag and a heart I had trained into silence so carefully that sometimes I mistook the numbness for healing.

The New York Titans’ arena glittered like nothing bad had ever happened inside it.

Outside, fans crowded the entrance in jerseys, scarves, and face paint, chanting Noah Kade’s name like a prayer. His face flashed across the giant screens above them: sharper now, older, more untouchable. Captain of the Titans. Hockey’s golden boy. The man the world had decided to love.

The man who had once destroyed me without looking back.

I walked past the crowd without slowing.

I was not here as the girl who had loved him. I was not here as the girl who had cried on a bathroom floor with one hand over her stomach and no one coming to save her. I was here as Aria Vale, investigative journalist, and in my bag were notes, names, dates, and enough smoke around the Titans to suggest fire.

Maybe Noah was standing too close to that fire.

Maybe he had started it.

Maybe I would be the one to burn him down.

I didn't care.

Security scanned my badge and waved me through.

“Media room is down the hall,” the guard said.

“I know.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Because I did know. I knew the cold corridors, the smell of ice under concrete, the distant roar of fans shaking the walls.

Years ago, I had waited in places like this wearing Noah’s hoodie, holding coffee he always forgot to drink, believing I belonged beside him.

Now I belonged to the story. Only to the story.

The media room was loud with reporters, camera crews, and men who mistook confidence for intelligence. A few people looked up when I entered. Some recognized my work. Some recognized my past.

I heard one whisper. “Isn’t that Kade’s ex?”

I signed my name on the press sheet without looking up.

A male columnist near the table smiled. “Aria Vale. Didn’t expect to see you back here.”

“Neither did I,” I said.

“Must be awkward, considering…”

I lifted my eyes. “Considering what?”

His smile thinned. “Your history with Kade.”

“My history is not the story.”

“And what is?”

I capped the pen and handed it back. “Whatever people in this building are trying to hide.”

That shut him up immediately.

Good.

I took a seat near the front, pulled out my notebook, and wrote one name at the top of the page.

NOAH KADE.

Then I underlined it once.

Not because it hurt. But because it mattered.

The Titans’ media director entered first, smiling the tight smile of a person paid to keep disasters presentable. Behind him came Daniel Price.

My fingers tightened around my pen.

Five years had passed but I remembered his voice perfectly. How calm, polite and cruel it had been.

Mr. Kade does not wish to be contacted.

Daniel saw me almost immediately and for one second, his expression shifted.

Then the professional smile returned.

“Ms. Vale,” he said, stopping beside my chair. “Welcome back.”

“Mr. Price.”

“It has been a long time.”

“Five years.”

“I trust your coverage will remain fair.”

I looked up at him. “Fair to whom?”

His smile slipped just then. “To the truth, of course.”

“Then we want the same thing.”

I held his gaze long enough for the warning to land. He swallowed visibly and walked away.

The press conference began.

Coach Reilly came first and said absolutely nothing with impressive confidence. Marcus Reed, a Titan player, followed, charming the room in under thirty seconds. He smiled, joked, deflected questions, and made everyone feel like they were lucky to be connected to him.

When I asked about rumors of internal misconduct, his smile did not move a bit.

“Internal misconduct?” he repeated. “That sounds dramatic.”

“It usually is when people bury it.”

The room quieted and Marcus looked at me properly then. “You are?”

“Aria Vale.”

Recognition flickered just then. Then amusement. “Right,” he said. “I’ve heard of you.”

“I would be worried if you hadn’t.”

A few reporters laughed. Marcus did too but his eyes stayed cold. Then he left a few minutes later.

I smiled as I watched him walk away and turned my head to look at my phone. Then the smile vanished as the room changed suddenly.

Cameras adjusted. Reporters straightened. The hair on my neck bristled. Even the air seemed to tighten.

I did not need anyone to say his name. My body knew it was him before I saw him. And I hated that.

The media director returned just then. “Captain Kade will take questions now.”

I made myself turn to look at him.

He was taller than I thought he would be. Broader. Harder. His dark blond hair was damp at the edges, his jaw bruised, his blue eyes lowered as he took his seat behind the microphone.

He did not look at me.

Not at first.

He simply answered the first question. Then the second. His voice was calm, low, controlled as he did so. It was the kind of voice that gave reporters quotes without giving them access to him.

I gripped my pen as I told myself that this was not Noah. That this was not my Noah. That this was Captain Kade.

The man who had tried to destroy me without looking back.

Suddenly, I raised my hand. The media director hesitated while Daniel Price went still by the wall.

Finally, my name was called.

“Aria Vale.”

Noah stopped just for half a breath. Then slowly, he lifted his head and looked at me.

Five years vanished.

Five years returned.

His eyes found mine across the room, and for the first time since I walked into that arena, my heart remembered how to hurt.

His face did not change much.

But his eyes did. Shock, pain and something dangerously close to longing filled them.

My fingers tightened around the recorder in my hand as Noah stared at me like he had seen a ghost.

While I stared back like I had come to bury one.

At the same time, a thought ran through my mind:

The game had just begun.