When she returned, she called her college counselor to accept an overseas internship that had been offered to her. Numb with disillusionment, she went to London to work for a prestigious magazine and embark on a fabulous life. Whether or not she’d succeeded at the latter depended on whose yardstick was used.

For the next year, she became an avid browser of the sports pages, seeking news of the NHL. She dug for information about rookie players but found nothing on Tony Fiore, only that he’d graduated with distinction from Notre Dame. She refused to let herself dwell on him, though she burned with curiosity. What had happened to his dreams? His big plans to become a star on ice?

What did it matter if his plans didn’t include her? Eventually she’d forced herself to stop wondering. Stop caring.

A musical chiming noise, like the sound of silver bells, startled Elaine, drawing her back to the present. Apparently the bells signaled the skaters to clear the ice for grooming. The blocky Zamboni machine emerged from its tunnel and pushed out onto the oval to methodically smooth out the ice that had been chopped up by the blades of the skaters. Perched like a toy high on the seat, the driver wore a bright red muffler that streaked like a banner down his back.

Elaine did a double take.

“What’s wrong?” asked Tony.

“I’m being stalked by an elf.”

“Come on.” Laughing, he grabbed her hand. “I’ll buy you a hot chocolate.”

It was lousy hot chocolate from a machine, but the watery sweetness had a strange, simple appeal. “So you became a cop,” she said. “How did that happen?”

“It was my backup plan, in case hockey didn’t work out.”

“I take it hockey didn’t work out.”

He took a gulp from his white cardboard cup. She waited, but he didn’t address her comment. Instead, he asked, “So what about you? I figured you’d be an ace reporter or something. Didn’t you study journalism in college?”

She had a fleeting recollection of her idealism. By becoming a reporter, she’d wanted to make a difference in people’s lives, digging out the facts and holding up a mirror to society. Instead, she made dinner reservations and threw parties and pushed luxury products. She convinced women who couldn’t afford subway fare that they must not be without a certain seventeen-dollar brand of lipstick. As the writer of overwrought press releases, she practiced a strange, hybrid form of reporting and publicity.

Tony’s question was still hanging in the air.

She sipped her drink. “So I became a publicist, okay? Maybe I don’t protect and serve, but it’s a living. Look, Tony, you caught me on a bad day.”

“So tell me what a good day is like.”