Page 26 of Expose on the Ice

He chuckles, a deep rumble that seems to vibrate the table. “Sure, sure. And I’m the tooth fairy. Come on, what’s really on your mind?”

I sigh, deciding honesty is the best policy. “Alright, you got me. I’m trying to understand Carter better. Off the record.”

“Okay, as long as itisoff the record…” Tank’s expression softens slightly, and he takes a long sip of his whiskey, seeming to weigh his words carefully. “Look, I know he comes off as a grade-A asshole most of the time. And trust me, he can be, mostof the time. But there’s a hell of a lot more to him than that, he just doesn’t let anyone see it.”

I lean in, intrigued. “Go on.”

“There’s no one you’d rather have on your side in a tough game. And nobody works harder than that kid,” Tank says. “You saw how he led from the front. He crushed that guy, tried to fight the whole team. He knew we needed something to get us up and about, and he delivered. And then healsoscored the game winning goal.”

My drink arrives, and I take a grateful sip. “Yeah, I’ve noticed more dimensions to him than I expected, that’s for sure…”

Tank nods. “Sure, his attitude pisses us off every so often. But weirdly, it also brings the rest of us closer together. He doesn’t need to be adored, doesn’t seem to want to be, either. Something else drives him, and he fuels us. And when the chips are down, he always stands up.”

I think back to the fight, how the team had rallied around Carter in a split second. “So, he’s the black sheep, but also the heart of the team?”

“Bingo.” Tank points a finger at me, grinning. “You’re sharper than you look, sweetheart. That’s exactly it. Knox is like… I don’t know, the grumpy old man of the team, even though he’s one of our youngest players. We all gripe and roll our eyes at him, but deep down, we respect the hell out of him.”

I mull this over, trying to reconcile this image with the prickly, defensive Knox I’ve encountered. “Butwhatdrives him? What makes him so special?”

Tank’s expression grows serious. “You had to be there, back when he first joined the team. The kid was a machine, Lily. I’ve never seen anyone with that kind of drive, that kind of raw talent. It was like… he had something to prove, you know? But more than that, it’s like he was running from something.”

I feel a little thrill at that last part. There it is again, that hint of a deeper story lurking beneath the surface. “Running from what?”

Tank shrugs, draining the last of his whiskey. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Whatever it is, it lit a fire under his ass that’s never gone out. And as much as he pisses us off sometimes, we all know we’re better with him than without him. We joke about him, we rib him, but he’s good for us.”

I nod, processing this new information. It paints a more complex picture of Knox than I’d had before – still frustrating and difficult, but also matched what I’d seen with my own two eyes since I’d started to look around, rather than simply try to drill him for answers.

“Thanks, Tank,” I say sincerely. “This helps a lot.”

He waves a hand dismissively, drains his drink, and stands. “Don’t mention it. Just… go easy on the kid, alright? He’s got his reasons for being the way he is, even if he won’t tell anyone what they are.”

As he stands and departs, taking care of the check on the way out, I sit there and finish my drink alone. My mind is whirling with new information and perspectives, which are forcing me to change my mind about the guy, his place on the team, and the angles I want to take in reporting.

When I’m done, I make my way back to the hotel. On the short walk, I can’t shake the contrast between the two eras of Carter Knox that Tank had described: a college kid who played free and like an artist, and a pro who was driven by some unknown force and had turned into a sledgehammer.

The player Tank had described, and I’d seen, was a fanatic.

A maniac that awed his teammates and asked nothing of them.

Who put it all on himself.

Butwhy?

The question plagues me as I reach the hotel. The lobby is quiet, most of the team having retired to their rooms or still out celebrating, and few other guests around. I’m about to head for the elevator when a familiar voice catches my attention.

My journalist’s instincts kick in, and I duck behind a large pillar. Peering out, I see Knox sitting on a secluded corner sofa, his back to me. He’s speaking in hushed tones to a woman I don’t recognize. Gone is his usual aloofness. Instead, his shoulders are slightly hunched, his head bowed.

He looks… vulnerable.

“You don’t need to worry, Isla,” he’s saying, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “I’ll get those bills paid.”

“Carter, you’re doing too much already,” the woman – Isla – replies. “I can’t keep taking your money like this.”

“Yes, you can. Just let me help you and your kid, okay?” Carter insists, then waits until she nods. Standing, he continues, “I’ve got to go.”

I watch as Isla stands as well, and the pair of them share a slow, deep hug, pressed together. Unbidden, a flicker of jealousy sparks in my brain, and I feel some sensitive parts of my body tingle. For the briefest moment, I want to be in Isla’s shoes.

A second later, it’s over. He retreats to the elevators, thankfully not spotting me, and Isla starts heading for the exit. As they head in different directions, I have a split second to decide. I can ignore the situation, press him on it and likely be stonewalled like usual, or I can talk to Isla.

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