Cold as Ice (3 page)

“I don't think so. I have nothing she wants.”

“Sure you do. She was always tied down with your dad and the kids.”

“That's what she wanted.” Carla shakes her head. Was her ex trying to make her feel better?

“She also wanted to be able to travel.”

“She can still do that,” Carla says, shrugging it off.

Timothy stops flicking the pen. “Your dad's a homebody. You have freedom, she doesn't.”

Carla can't disagree, but the idea of having a family of her own burns within her like a candle she can't blow out.

“Don't let Ryan overstep you,” he says.

She looks Timothy's way. Ryan has been giving her a hard time since she got her promotion. “Why, what have you heard?”

“He wants your job.”

“I heard they all want my job. Have you heard something I don't know?”

There was always the fear of losing a job. Not because of bad reporting; it has mostly to do with “structure” and a new face, to compete with the other stations. It's always fresh, always new, and the set or reporters were always changing every few years or so to keep the audience entertained.

“I'm not getting fired, am I?” Carla asks timidly, sliding her chair over to have a closer conversation. Sometimes when someone was getting fired, that person was the last to know. It seemed unfair, but that's how it went working in television. The person with the job loss was the one who was stunned, like getting hit from behind.

“There's talk about restructuring, but I don't think it has to do with your department; more on the production side of things.”

“Really?” Carla can feel the tightness in her throat. “You would know,” she says, relaxing her shoulders. “It would be silly to get rid of me. I've been here for six years.”

“Time doesn't mean anything,” he says, and she knows Timothy is right.

“Did you see the job posting for the Sports National?” he asks.

“No, I haven't been looking,” she tells him, turning around, but all she can see is his mound of brown hair and the slight crease of his forehead, probably from staring at his writing on his computer. He's a good news writer, quick and precise. He would be hard to replace, considering he is labeled a veteran and great at what he does.

“It's up your alley,” Timothy says. “National, working with guys, probably would suit you just fine.”

“I'm comfortable.” She shrugs. “That's what happens when you work and enjoy the same things as males. You blend in.”

“You want to be known as the best female sports reporter, here's your chance.”

“Thanks for thinking of me. I'll check it out.”

“Well, it's dinnertime,” Timothy says, getting out of his chair. His body is lanky and lean. He hasn't changed in all the years she's known him. He never did put on pounds after marriage like his grandmother said he would, even though he's a big eater.

Carla used to tease him about how much food he ate without putting on any weight. He looks the same now as he did six years ago, when they first met. She'd just been hired at Channel Five and he'd offered to show her around, which led to having dinner. They saw each other every day at work. Most of the time their shifts would end at the same time and they would have dinner together. Timothy was always there for her, and Carla liked having someone who wanted to be with her night and day. He was easy to be around, never demanding, always laid-back and offering advice when needed. There were times when Timothy suggested that she should slow down her presentation and take deep breaths between stories during a newscast. He helped her to focus. Carla trusted him and could tell him anything; he was her backbone when she needed it. Then, when the sports director position became available, no one was thinking about hiring a female. It was Timothy who had vouched for her and supported her. She loved that he knew his stuff and stuck up for her when she needed someone on her side.

They dated, but that seemed like a waste of time. They so loved being together and working together that they'd tied the knot exactly twelve months after they met. They bought an apartment and carpooled to work. They were inseparable. Timothy knew Carla wanted a baby; he didn't show any interest in being a dad, yet that was all Carla could think about. She made every effort to plan their lovemaking around the best time to conceive, but after no success and the thrill of being pregnant and then the disappointment of the two miscarriages they'd had, they drifted apart. They were unable to agree on anything. Carla couldn't stand being around Timothy, angry at him for not wanting a baby, not wanting to try. Didn't he want to make her happy? Weren't they supposed to band together to fulfill each other emotionally? Timothy gave off an apprehensive vibe that only added to Carla's disappointment. She didn't want to be around him. Every time she was with him, her feelings got hurt, which led to arguments, which led to the separation. She couldn't stay married to him. Timothy didn't take the separation lightly, claiming he loved her, but she realized she wasn't in love with him anymore. Once separated, they both talked about one of them leaving their jobs, but it wasn't fair that either had to leave when they were both doing well in their careers. They liked where they worked and had put so much into their jobs.

The separation was hard, seeing each other at work and going home for dinner without the other had its downsides, but Carla was determined to have a baby with or without Timothy. Going through the divorce, she'd had spurts of hope that Timothy would change his mind about a baby, or that she would magically fall in love with him again and be happy childless. But she knew it wouldn't happen. They were too far gone from what had begun as lovers and ended as two strangers. Carla had to live with the choice she had made, a decision she still thought about from time to time. She still wondered if there was something she could have done to prevent the breakup.

“You'll be gone before I get back, I hope.” His eyes narrow on hers. “Your shift is over. Go home. You need to eat.” Timothy grabs his jacket from his chair.

Carla glances at him and waves, then turns her attention to her computer, looking for the job posting. Her desk phone rings and lights up. She grabs the receiver. “Carla Sinclair!”

“I saw your broadcast tonight on Devin Miller.”

She exhales, rubs her forehead. Maybe she shouldn't have said the Warriors had no use for him. She squints her eyes and leans forward against her desk.

“How can I help you?” she says, composed, waiting for an outburst of unkindness. Warrior fans were like vultures when their team wasn't performing well. They didn't want to hear the truth.

“Do you want an interview with him?” the guy asks.

“Sure,” she says, sitting up straighter, having no clue as to who this person is. For all she knows, it could be a prank call.

“I can tell you where to reach him.”

“Where's that?” she asks, not wanting to hear this guy go on and on with a made-up story.

“If I tell you, you have to promise me I get to meet with him.”

Carla rolls her eyes and lets out a breath. This guy is wasting her time. “Are you a fan?”

“Yes. His biggest fan.”

She laughs. “That's the first.”

She rubs her head some more and decides to get off the phone. She really should be getting home. She's been at work for ten hours. It's time to have dinner and go to bed and do this circus all over again tomorrow.

“The team has a Web site with their media relations contact info on it,” she tells him. “Why don't you call them? They'll be able to help you,” she says, moving the phone away from her ear slightly. Maybe this guy will have better luck.

“I've tried that many times. They're not helpful.”

At least it wasn't just her who had a problem with them.

“I don't think I'll be much help,” she says honestly. “They haven't felt like talking lately.”

“I'm sure you'll have better results.”

“I don't make promises,” she says. “What are you asking for? You want to have something signed?”

“No. I want to speak to him.”

Carla rolls her eyes. “There are better players on the team who would love to talk and probably are willing to chat with a fan.”

“It's Devin I want to talk to.”

“I don't take special requests.”

“Can you make an exception? I'll give you an address where you can find him.”

Carla laughs. “He just was traded here. I don't think he has a house yet.”

“He bought a place in West Van.”

“Okay.” Carla laughs again. Good guess; most of the team live there or close to it. It was the upscale place to live. “So, I'll just show up at his house and expect an interview?” she asks, chuckling. This is one reason she didn't get into investigative reporting. She doesn't like the confrontation of getting into people's personal lives. Thankfully, she excelled in sports, had the coordination to throw a ball and shoot a puck, as well as the confidence to be face-to-face with celebrities.

“I can give you a phone number,” he tells her.

“You have Devin's address and phone number?” she asks, doubting very much that this guy is for real. “Why don't you just call him yourself?”

“I have, but he won't speak to me.”

“Because you're a fan?”

“He chooses not to talk to me. We haven't spoken in years.”

“Wait a minute, are you stalking him?” Carla asks. Perhaps this could be a news story: Crazy fan from Carolina didn't want Devin to leave.

“He ignores my calls.”

She sucks in a breath. He's a stalker! Her heart races and she swallows hard. “You should give up, then. He obviously wants his privacy.” Carla doesn't blame Devin for his actions. It must be tough, weeding out the obsessive fans from the everyday people.

“Because I have something to say to him in person.”

A chill runs down her spine. This could be serious. “And you want me to break the ice for you? Either call him or show up?”

“He'll listen to you. You're a pretty girl. You'll get his attention. I've seen you interview him. He knows who you are.”

She tucks a handful of hair behind her ear and rubs her hand along her skirt. “I'm sure Devin would like to hear from his biggest fan,” she says, playing along.

“Not anymore he doesn't.”

“And why is that?”

“I'm Keith Miller. Devin's dad.”

 

Devin is getting ready for his first road trip as a Warriors player, heading east the next morning before returning home for a stretch of games to wrap up the regular season, before play-offs. He is quite relieved he was traded; at least he would have a chance at his team winning the Stanley Cup. Last year had been a flop in Carolina and again this year; they weren't even close. At thirty, he'd called a variety of cities home; Raleigh was his longest at four years. He hoped now that he was in Vancouver—the fourth place he'd called home since playing for the NHL—he would remain here for six years, and stay on when his contract expired.

He had caught the evening news as he packed his bag, throwing in socks and extra T-shirts just in case he needed them. He didn't do laundry on the road; he waited until he came home, so packing extra was a necessity.

Since moving to Vancouver five days earlier, he hasn't missed Channel Five's evening news. Not because he was caught up in what was happening in the city but because the sports anchor, Carla Sinclair, was the hottest reporter he'd ever seen, and the most sassy as well. How did she know he was going to take a trade? Whether she remembers or not, it doesn't matter. Does she realize how entertaining she can be?

Devin stands at the side of his bed, throwing clothes into his suitcase as he watches the flat-screen TV on his bedroom wall. As soon as Carla has the spotlight, Devin plunks himself down and stares at her full, coral lips and vibrant blue eyes. She is staring at him as she talks about his move and why it's ridiculous that he's an overpaid defenseman. Devin's back becomes strained as he leans forward, taking it all in. Speechless. “What does it matter to her what I make?” he mutters, still glued to the screen.

“It would be nice to make the play-offs and credit the trade, but really? Is one trade going to do the trick?” Carla says, looking at the news anchor sitting beside her, as if wanting him to weigh in on her opinion. “Time will tell,” she says, before talking about the NHL standings.

Devin blows out a breath and gets up.
Is that how the city feels about me being here?
He scratches his head. He was warned by several old teammates that this city was one of the toughest in accepting new players, and that he would be under a magnifying glass until he could prove himself worthy.

I need to get something straight; I'm an asset to the team or I wouldn't be here.
Devin picks up his iPhone to search for Channel Five's number. He types an e-mail directed to the Sports Department. After writing a sentence, he stops and clears the message, knowing it could take a few days before the message was received, and decides to call the newsroom and ask for Carla. He'll leave her a message on her voice mail and tell her what he thinks of her. No need to leave his number. He can get it off his chest, and maybe she'll think twice about making comments about him in the future.

“Channel Five newsroom!”

“Can I please speak with Carla Sinclair?”

“I'll transfer your call. One moment.”

Devin puts his hand on his hip and paces, wondering what kind of message he will leave.