Cold as Ice (4 page)

The beeping hold stops and the phone is ringing. Prepared to tell her she should keep her opinions to herself, that no one cares what she thinks.

Carla answers the phone nonchalantly, as though he caught her in deep thought.

“It's Devin Miller,” he says, tongue-tied, and then pauses. “We met—”

“Devin, hi. I didn't expect you to call me.” She pauses. “I've been waiting for your agent to get back to me so I can interview you. You didn't give me your number when I saw you at Buckley's.”

“I'm not calling for an interview. I'm calling to defend myself.”

“So you're a defenseman on and off the ice,” she says. “I had a phone call a few minutes ago from a man who said you were hard to reach, but just my luck, you're on the phone.”

“Listen, what you said about me isn't what the public needs to know.”

“I'm reporting the facts.”

“You don't need to share.”

“Yes, I do. It's what matters in this city.”

“Let the fans make the decision. Let them be the judge of whether I'm worthy enough to play here. Your comments are planting seeds in people's heads before they have a chance to judge me for themselves. Besides, I am what the Warriors need or I wouldn't be here.”

“Not for forty-six million dollars. Sorry. We need goals scored.”

“And saved. That's what I'm best at.”

“That's a goalie's job.”

“I'm not calling to argue with you, but I'm telling you that I would appreciate it if you didn't talk about me unless it's about the game I play.”

“Sorry. I didn't think I'd hurt your feelings.”

“You haven't,” Devin says, leaning against the doorway, looking out onto the mountain of boxes in the living room. “I'm telling you because I don't like people talking trash about me.”

“I'd never talk trash, Devin.” She says his name directly, keeping his attention. “My job is to report on sports. I'm fair. I'd never say something that's untrue,” she says. “Now that I have you on the phone, I need to book an interview with you.”

“So you can beat me up?” he asks and then laughs. She has some nerve.

“I want to talk to you.”

“We're talking.”

“For the record. I want it taped,” Carla says.

Devin's chest tightens. “I don't know if I can trust you,” he says.

“You can trust me. It's you I'm unsure about.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“If you're calling me to tell me you disagree with the truth, what are you hiding?”

“Nothing!”

“I want to know what you're going to do to prove you're worth the money.” Her voice was all innocence.

“Ouch! Do you do this to all the players?”

“Only to the ones who think they're too good for the team.”

“You think I'm good?” he asks, his lips tightened into a grin. He couldn't help himself. He was beginning to enjoy the banter.

Her silence captures his attention.

“Guess you'll have to prove it. Show us what Walker sees in you and convince me.”

“Thanks. Didn't know you were paying my salary.”

“When it comes to the job, money talks. The more money you earn, the more fans care about who you are.”

“I guess I'll be well liked then.”

He wanted a city to call home permanently, and closer to Seattle, where his mom and stepdad lived. He was going to give it his all and make a difference during the play-offs. He needed it just as much as the team did.

“You're not too conceited.”

“Hey, money talks,” he says, unable to hold back. He likes playing along with her. She's easily irritated and tenses up. He could tell by her tone. He could imagine her little oval face going red with frustration. He's entertained.

“You know, we're good,” she says. “My mistake. I don't need an interview.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No. I think I got what I need.”

“I'm afraid to ask what that is,” he says with a chuckle.

“Attitude. And if I have questions, I'll go through Walker.”

“Look, sorry. You can interview me,” he says, surrendering. “I'm heading on the road, but when I get back we can set something up.”

“You're not leading me on, are you?”

He chuckles. “You'll know when I'm leading you on. I'll give you my phone number.”

C
arla scrolls the postings on a media job board, checking her back from time to time to make sure there isn't anyone peering over her shoulder. She comes across one for Sports National in Toronto. Could she move away from her friends and family? Maybe a change of scenery is what she needs to meet someone and settle down again.

“Carla! Looks like a secret admirer,” Pamela says, cooing.

Carla turns around. “For me?” She reaches out to take the fruit bouquet from Pamela's hands.

“You don't see many of these; they cost more than flowers. Must be a real catch. Who's it from?”

“I have no idea.” Carla sets down the painted ceramic vase on her desk, unwraps the cellophane and plucks the card out from between the pointy strawberries on long white plastic toothpicks. She skims the words. Her face grows warm. Her stomach flips. She has to reread his name. “Devin Miller.”

“The hockey player?” Pamela shrieks.

Carla bites her bottom lip and places the card down. “I'm just as surprised as you are.”

“Tell me something juicy!” She claps her hands together.

Carla shakes her head. “Believe me, there's nothing to tell.”

“Then what does he want?”

Carla's eyes widen. “Nothing. He's just hurt that I called him out on air. My opinion, of course,” she says, eyeing the fruit arrangement and picking off a row of grapes, popping one after the other into her mouth. She sits back in a daze as she gets ready to place a grape in her mouth. She chews and swallows, then says, “He didn't like that I shared his high salary with everyone. He thinks he's worth it, but he's not.” Carla looks at Pamela, who is standing in front of her, wearing a long skirt and blouse. She is nodding and pausing at Carla's story. “At least it's not what the Warriors need right now,” Carla carries on. “But then, who am I? I don't get paid the big bucks to make those types of decisions. They were desperate to fill the skates of a veteran player and Miller wanted out of Carolina. They haven't been doing well this season. It's just too bad we didn't get a new center man, though. We could use more power on the offense.” Carla shakes her head and slides a strawberry off the pick, staring up at Pamela's brown eyes.

“They should trade a whole forward line instead of focusing on defense. There's nothing wrong with what they have or had,” Carla rambles on, chewing on a berry.

“Okay, well, I have to go,” Pamela says.

Carla exhales and swings her seat around with a push of her toes. The job posting is visible on her screen. With a rise in panic, she clicks off and opens the Warriors' home page. She slips off another strawberry from the pick and bites into it. She sucks the juice as her eyes gloss the screen. There is nothing new, so she makes her rounds on the Internet to other media sites to see what stories are making headlines.

“There was a fight that broke out over an international table tennis game,” a voice says from behind her, snapping Carla out of her concentrated state.

She turns her attention to the young sports reporter. “Okay,” she says, raising an eyebrow.

“I've never heard of it before,” Ryan says.

“Neither have I. The sport needs more attention. It's boring as watching paint dry.”

“I don't have anyone to talk to yet,” he says. “I'm waiting on a call. Should hear back this afternoon.”

“That's fine,” she says, clicking her keyboard.

“I've got a call out to Ted Walker and Steve Morrow.”

She stops, tilts her head. “They're on the road.”

“Steve is. I don't expect him to return my call, but it's worth a try.”

“He might. What's the story?”

“Well, the trade deadline is this Wednesday, has to be more trades. I heard Brandon Keller might go to Pittsburgh in exchange for a two-man deal.”

“They won't do that.”

“No?”

“No, Keller is worth more; they'll get someone like Lawrence Grattan and a first-round draft pick.”

Ryan walks away, and Carla stops typing and looks at the card from Devin. She picks up the card and rereads it. Is he worried she'll call him out again? What does he want from her? If Keith Miller is who he says he is, then why doesn't Devin want to talk to him? Could it be a guy with the same last name, claiming to be his dad? What's the story?

Carla takes her cell phone in hand and punches in the number Devin gave her. She types a message, “Good luck tonight. We'll see how sweet you are,” and hits SEND.

“Carla!” a voice yells.

She puts down her phone and turns in her chair.

Ryan runs over. “Ted returned my call!”

“That was fast.”

“I've got an interview with him!”

Her eyes bulge. “How did he reach you?” she asks, and then punches her lips together, shakes her head and blinks. “I mean, did he call the newsroom?” she asks hopefully.

“He called asking for me,” Ryan says.

“So he's agreed to an interview,” Carla says, disappointed that she didn't get a personal call. Ever since she got the job at Channel Five six years ago, it's been an uphill battle to get recognized as a knowledgeable sports reporter, and now as the sports director, it seems even harder.

“He said he could manage a few questions.”

“Yeah, that's what I would expect from him,” she says, eyeing his jeans and polo shirt. For a twenty-five-year-old, Ryan is going places. His charming smile is enough to capture an audience, and even though the guy isn't brilliant, his looks are. “Is it a press conference?”

“He said he invited me and Channel Nine.”

“It will be a press conference,” Carla says directly. “More than one media outlet is a press conference. I'd expect a full room, considering Ted hasn't made an appearance in weeks. When is it?”

“Today. At three.”

Carla checks the clock on the wall. “In an hour. There's something big. Make sure you ask about Devin Miller. I want to know why they're paying him a big salary and not strengthening the forward line instead.”

“Okay, boss,” Ryan says and rushes off, calling for his cameraman.

For the next hour and a half, Carla checks her phone. There is no reply from Devin or Ryan. She's desperate to know what Ted is announcing, and if it's anything important.

Carla does her best to put together her information for the six o'clock news. Whatever Ryan gets from the press conference, it will have to be added at the last minute. Her adrenaline always rose when stories broke and the last story got shortened or bumped. It made her job exciting, and to be able to work under pressure was a gift. She worked with some reporters who had panic attacks every time they were on the clock, but not her; she was excited. It fueled her.

She checks her phone again as she hears the buzz. A glance at the sender, and she hesitates to answer. Carla wants to finish up with one more thing before concentrating on something else. When her phone buzzes after a message has been left, she puts her phone to her ear.

“Hi, Care Bear. I made lots for dinner. See you when you get here!”

Her phone buzzes again, indicating a text. This one's from Ryan. Her heart beats faster. She swallows hard, anticipating the news.

“What?” Carla asks out loud. “You're kidding me!”

Did he say anything about their forward line?
she types, and then sets her phone down in front of her, waiting for his reply.

Her phone buzzes.
Said they are working on it. Looks like Brandon Keller will go to Pittsburgh for Lawrence Grattan and their first-round draft pick.

“What's going on with the team?” she mutters to herself.

He's the cherry on top. Why wouldn't they want him? He's worth more than the Warriors can afford now that they're paying Miller. I'm sure of it. I'll see you when you get here.
Carla sets down her phone and gets working on her story, ready to fill in the blanks as soon as Ryan gets back so she can view the clip and report on it for the evening news.

Carla begins typing as she hears her name being called. She freezes in midsentence, expecting a quick question, but instead it's Pamela standing at her desk, holding on to something pink in her hands and grinning so wide that her cheeks are round like plums.

“Hi, Pamela,” Carla says. “What's going on?” It's not often that Pamela needs something from a reporter besides relaying a message.

“I have this scarf that I've never worn and I just thought . . . well, I want you to have it.” She hands it over.

“Thank you. That's kind,” Carla says, taking the accessory from Pamela's hands. “Are you sure you don't want it?”

“I've had it in my closet forever and I never wear it.”

“Do you want something for it?” Carla looks at her, wondering why she's shown an interest in her.

“No! No! I'm just glad you can use it,” Pamela says, jumpy.

“I'll wear it tomorrow,” Carla says with a quick nod and folds it over, setting it beside her computer.

“Great,” Pamela says, disappearing from the newsroom.

Finally, Ryan comes cruising in, chirpy and proud. “Got it!”

“What is it?” Carla asks.

Ryan stops in front of her and bobs his head, pointing his thumb back. “Do you want to have a look? Kyle is cutting it down. The feed's too long.”

“I don't have time. What else did he say?”

“They traded Vince Merelli to LA.”

Carla falls forward. “What? He's top line!”

“Well, you knew he wanted out, he told us he'd take a trade if an opportunity arose. It's a good trade for Merelli. He's playing with Keaton Williams, his old teammate from Boston.”

Carla shakes her head. She loves the Warriors. Not only is she a fan but they are her hometown heroes as well. She grew up watching the game with her dad, who is a devoted fan, a sports enthusiast, and will watch pretty much anything that involves teams and an object to score.

“I have to finish up,” Carla tells him and spins around to type one last sentence.

The six o'clock news is two-thirds over and Carla madly types the last of her script and hits PRINT.

“Are you ready?” Timothy asks, his voice cause for alarm.

She jumps up and scurries over to the printer. “I'm going!” She grabs her papers and steps on to the platform.

“Thirty seconds!” the floor director yells.

She takes a seat, fastens her microphone to her blazer, flips her hair off her shoulders and relaxes in her chair as she hears the countdown. From a distance, she spots Pamela talking to Timothy. They both laugh, yet he is focused on watching the anchors. Carla looks down at the papers in front of her and prepares herself for her opening in five seconds.

She exhales at two seconds.

“Good evening,” Carla says with a very slight nod. “Another big trade for the Warriors today. Not what was expected, considering Vince Merelli was our top line. He said before he would take a trade if the right team wanted him. . . .”

She finishes her read, and after a last-minute comment about the weather, David Gillies ends the news with a “Thanks for watching. Good night.”

Carla stands up, throws her papers into the recycling bin and grabs her purse underneath her desk.

“Good night,” a voice says.

She sees Timothy at her desk.

“Dinner plans?” he asks.

“My mom's house. My weekly appearance.”

“Still doing that?”

Carla shrugs. “Beats eating alone.”

“Does she still make cabbage rolls?”

Carla nods. They were Timothy's ongoing request but he would eat anything her mom cooked and praised her after every meal, as though Carla didn't cook for him. Timothy got along with her family, even when arguments broke out at occasional dinners between Carla and her mom. They were arguments about minor things: traveling before having children, buying a house in the suburbs or the newest health scare. Timothy would be the referee and never took sides, and that would cause disagreements on the drive home. Carla felt like he always agreed with her mom, but he said it wasn't worth getting involved.

“She makes the best,” he says.

“I'll tell her to make you some. She still tries to send me home with leftovers.”

“The last time I ordered them in a restaurant they weren't the same.”

“She'll be happy to hear that.”

“Say hi to them for me.” He walks past.

“Will do. 'Night!”

 

A half-hour drive to her parents' house, and she is starving. Even though her mom could be suffocating at times, Carla can't decline a dinner invitation. Her mom could turn anything boring into something appealing; no wonder Timothy looked forward to Sunday-night dinners. It's hard to believe Carla wasn't an overweight child growing up, although she didn't appreciate good food until her college years, when fast food seemed to be the norm.

“I'll heat up your dinner,” her mom says, running into the kitchen.

Carla takes a seat on the couch beside her dad.

“We were watching you tonight,” her brother Gavin says, sitting across from her wearing his Vancouver police uniform. He has short, light brown hair and hazel eyes like their father and fair skin like their mother, yet the siblings all have similarities to one another. They all have the same thin nose and fair eyebrows. “Hard to believe we got Grattan.”