Page 6 of Expose on the Ice

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to slam my stick against the boards, which would scare them enough to put some new holes in the stadium roof. The familiar rage bubbles up inside me, threatening to spill over. Instead, I push through the gate, the scrape of my skates alerting them.

“Oh! Mr. Knox!” The woman’s eyes go wide. “We didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

I manage a tight nod, jaw clenched, struggling to keep my face neutral. “Just finished up,” I say. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Not at all, sir,” the man says, giving me a respectful nod. “Have a good night.”

I return the nod, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. As I stride towards the locker room, their voices fade behind me, but their words echo in my head. A journalist poking around, asking questions, digging into our pasts.

Intomypast.

My hands shake as I reach for the locker room door. I’ve worked so hard to keep everything buried, to maintain the carefully crafted image of Carter Knox, star player, and not a damn thing more than that. But now it feels like the ground is shifting beneath my feet.

I step into the empty locker room, the familiar smell of sweat and stale equipment doing nothing to calm my racing heart. As I sink onto the bench in front of my stall, one thought plays on repeat in my mind: what the hell am I going to do?

I strip off my gear, tossing it into my stall. As I reach for my towel, a folded piece of paper flutters to the floor. Frowning, I bend to pick it up, recognizing the handwriting of Mark Turner, the team’s GM, then read it:

“Knox, you’re babysitting a journalist. She arrives tomorrow after practice. Her name is Lily Grant. Play nice.”

My stomach drops. Of course it’s me. Star player, face of the franchise – who else? I crumple the note in my fist, a humorless laugh escaping my lips.

Play nice? Yeah, that’d be a cakewalk.

I head for the showers, cranking the hot water as high as it will go. The scalding spray hits my skin, and I welcome the sting. Anything to distract from the dread coiling in my gut, a physical manifestation of the fear that has become my constant companion.

A whole damn year. Twelve months of some eager pup following me around, yapping questions, trying to dig beneath the surface. Trying to find my secrets, like I’m a bone to be slobbered over. Pissing here, shitting there, making a mess.

Well, good luck with that.

I brace my hands against the tile, letting the water cascade over my head and down my back. Steam fills the air, thick enough to choke on. Kind of like the panic threatening to claw its way up my throat.

I’ve spent years cultivating my image: cool, collected, unflappable. I’ve built walls so high and so thick, sometimes I’m not even sure what’s left on the other side anymore.

All to hide the truth.

To keep my secrets safe and my past buried.

And now this Lily Grant is going to try to tear it all down.

My fist connects with the tile, the dull ache in my knuckles a welcome distraction. I can’t let that happen. Iwon’tlet that happen. Whatever the cost, I’ll protect my secrets and keep my past hidden. Everything depends on it.

The water begins to cool, and I shut it off with more force than necessary. As I towel off, my mind races through contingency plans. I’ll have to be careful. Calculated. Give her enough to keep her satisfied without revealing anything real.

I can do that. I’ve been doing it for years. I’ll give her the Carter Knox the world expects to see – arrogant, cold, untouchable – and not adamnthing more than that.

My career, my reputation, my entirelifedepends on it, and I’ll be damned if I let some nosy reporter destroy everything I’ve sacrificed so much to protect.

CHAPTER 3

LILY

Ismooth down my blazer as I follow the PR assistant through the echoing hallways of Baxter Arena. The click of my heels on the tiled floor echoes, mingling with the distant sounds of practice. Each step brings me closer to the biggest opportunity of my career.

“Here we are, Ms. Grant,” the assistant says, gesturing to a door. “Mr. Knox will be with you shortly.”

I nod, mustering a smile despite my nerves. “Thank you.”

The conference room is small but well-appointed, with a long table dominating the space. I settle into one of the leather-backed chairs, spreading out my notebook and checking my recorder for the thousandth time.

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