Page 16

BLAISE

I show up to the library twenty minutes early.

That is mostly because I finished up a paper I was working on early and didn’t have anything to do in the time I would have had free before I needed to be at the library.

It is not because I am trying to impress her.

What it does give me is time to get my head on straight about whatever questions she’s going to ask during this interview.

I choose a seat that is near the entrance but just off to the side, giving me the perfect view of her when she arrives.

Because I’m sitting in a slightly more secluded corner, it’ll give me an opportunity to look at her, to figure out exactly how irritated she’s going to be with me today because she has to interview me.

I’ve been overthinking this meeting since I got her email, and I wish I’d just shown up for the group interview.

Yes, it would have taken some maneuvering because of the group project, but I could have made it work.

After all, It would've been easier because the other guys were present to be the buffer between us.

Instead, I'm here early, waiting for a one-on-one with the one person on campus who makes me feel like I'm losing my carefully constructed control every time I’m in the vicinity of her.

I flip open one of my political science books and pretend to read while actually watching the entrance. Three minutes until our scheduled time, and still no sign of her. My leg bounces under the table, a nervous habit I thought I'd kicked years ago.

The door swings open, and I straighten up before I can stop myself. It's just someone with an overloaded backpack. Not her. I exhale slowly and check my phone again. 2:58 P.M.

Maybe she's not coming. Maybe this is her way of getting back at me for missing the group interview. I wouldn't blame her, but Willow's always been professional, even when she's pissed off. Especially when she's pissed off.

Just as I'm considering emailing her, the door opens again, and there she is.

Willow Sanchez, walking into the library like she owns the place, her dark ponytail swinging with each step.

She's wearing a coat that’s unzipped and I get a glimpse of a burgundy sweater and black jeans.

My eyes reach her boots before jumping back up to her face when I notice she’s scanning the area, looking for me.

I raise my hand slightly, just enough to catch her attention. Our eyes lock, and for a split second, the fire that’s usually in her eyes around me isn’t there. It’s in that moment I know I’m screwed.

Not because she looks good. She does. Obviously.

Not because I’m nervous. I am. Completely.

But because within what feels like a millisecond, the fire returns and her jaw tightens.

I watch her walk over to me, the confidence in her stride betraying nothing of what might be going through her mind.

My own thoughts are an absolute mess, but I’ve always known how to hide them.

I close my book harder than necessary, and out of the corner of my eye I see someone glancing over at me and I’m sure they are annoyed.

"Hey," she says when she reaches me, her voice clipped. No smile, no warmth. Just business.

"Hey," I return, standing up awkwardly before realizing I don't need to. I gesture to the chair across from me. "Thanks for coming."

She shrugs off her coat and drapes it over the back of the chair before sitting down. "I need quotes from you for the article. Should we find a study room?"

"Actually..." I look around. "It's pretty quiet here. Unless you'd prefer somewhere more private?"

Her green eyes narrow slightly. "This is fine."

She pulls out her notebook and phone, setting them on the table between us. "Do you mind if I record this?" she asks, already pressing a button on her phone.

"Go ahead."

She nods, all business. "Great. So, same questions I asked the others. What's been the most memorable moment for you this season?"

I lean back in my chair, trying to look relaxed even though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "Probably the game against Westlake. That overtime goal against them was amazing."

"You didn't score it," she points out.

"No," I admit. "But I set it up. Sometimes the plays that don't make the highlight reels matter more."

She writes something down, her handwriting quick and neat. "As a defenseman, you're often the unsung hero. Does that bother you?"

"No." The answer comes immediately. "I'm not in it for recognition."

"Then what are you in it for?"

Her question catches me off guard. It’s not just the words, but the intensity behind them. For a split second, it feels less like an interview question and more like she's asking me something deeper.

"The game," I say finally. "The strategy. Finding order in chaos."

She doesn't write that down. Instead, she looks up, her green eyes meeting mine directly. "And how does that translate off the ice? Finding order in chaos?"

There's something in her tone I can't quite place. It's not just professional curiosity. It's something else.

"It's how I approach most things," I say carefully. "Breaking complex situations down into manageable pieces."

"Including people?" The question comes out sharper than I think she intended for it to, or maybe she wasn’t expecting to ask it at all. I pick up on it because she immediately glances down at her notebook as if she can’t look me in the eye.

"People aren't puzzles to solve," I reply quietly. "They're more complicated than that."

The corner of her mouth twitches, and for a moment I think she might smile. She doesn't.

"The others talked about legacy," she continues, steering back to safer territory. "What do you hope the underclassmen take from your time here?"

I consider this, genuinely wanting to give her something useful for her article. "That there's value in doing the unglamorous work. Not every contribution is accounted for and that’s okay. As long as it means the team is succeeding and winning games, that’s what I prefer."

She nods, writing again. "And looking ahead, beyond graduation? What will you take from being a Red Wolf?"

"Perspective," I say. "Learning when to push forward and when to hold the line. When to take risks and when to play it safe."

Her pen stills. "And which are you doing right now?"

I blink. "What?"

"Playing it safe," she clarifies, her voice neutral but her eyes challenging. "With this interview."

I tilt my head slightly. "I'm giving you honest answers."

"Are you?" She sets her pen down. "Because it sounds like you're giving me carefully constructed quotes that your coach would be very proud of."

I lean forward slightly. "What do you want me to say, Willow?"

"Something real would be nice."

We stare each other down for a moment and I end up breaking the connection.

Much like I did the night we kissed after that party.

This time, however, I don’t leave her hanging.

"Fine," I say, my voice dropping lower. "Real? I think about that Westlake game because it was the first time all season I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be. Not overthinking, not second-guessing. Just...present. I also didn’t have a panic attack before I hit the ice so that was nice as well. "

Her pen hovers above the page. The admission about my anxiety seems to have caught her off guard. For a moment, the professional mask slips, and I see something softer in her expression.

"You have panic attacks before games?" she asks quietly.

I look away, immediately regretting sharing that detail. "Sometimes. Not as much anymore."

"How do you manage them?" The question sounds genuinely curious rather than journalistic.

"Structure. Routine." I tap my finger against the table. "That's why I'm so methodical about everything. It keeps me grounded when my brain wants to spiral."

She writes something down, but she’s not writing as fast. "Is that what the color-coded notebooks are about?"

I raise an eyebrow. "You noticed that?"

"Hard not to," she says with a slight shrug. “I noticed it years ago.”

The fact that she's been paying attention to something so small about me makes my chest tighten in a way I'm not prepared for. "Yeah, well. Organization helps."

"And hockey?"

"Hockey helps too," I admit. "When I'm on the ice, everything narrows down to just the game. No room for overthinking, but sometimes getting onto the ice is a battle in itself."

She nods, but I can’t read the expression on her face.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. Part of me wonders if there is any more left to say.

Did I answer all of her questions? Scare her off because I mentioned my panic attacks?

It wouldn’t be the first time in my life that someone has looked down on me because I have them.

"Does Knox know?" she asks finally, her voice soft enough that only I can hear it.

I hesitate. "Not really. Not the extent of it." My fingers drum lightly against the table. "Coach is probably the only person who really knows. It's not something I advertise."

"Yet you're telling me." It's not a question, but there's confusion in her tone.

"Yeah, well." I shrug. "You asked for something real."

She studies me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to look away. "I did. I just didn't expect you to actually give it to me."

"Will you put it in the article?" I ask. It hits me that I actually care about how she’ll respond to this more than I realized.

She looks up and her green eyes search mine before she answers. "No," she says finally. "I’ll keep that between us.”

"Thanks." I feel my body relax slightly as she confirms this won’t become a public spectacle.

"Don't thank me," she replies quickly. "It's not my story to tell." It’s then that she glances down at her notebook before she clears her throat. "I think I have everything I need for the article."

"That's it?" The words escape before I can stop them.

Willow looks up, one eyebrow arched. "Did you want me to ask more questions?"