Page 34 of Expose on the Ice

"Alright," I say, kicking off my shoes. "But I warn you, it has been alongtime since I skated."

A ghost of a smile flickers across Knox’s face as he skates to the boards, grabbing a pair of rental skates. As he moves, even while on his way to being blind drunk, it’s impossible not to notice his grace. His power.

His magnetism.

He returns with the skates, and as I sit, putting them on, I’m sure I give him a glimpse of my underwear – if you could really callthattiny, lacy thing underwear – without meaning to. Even the thought of it makes me flush beet red.

Nice one, super-confident-sexy-Lil, my mind mocks me.Smooth as ice!

I hit the ice, grateful for the support of the wall as I find my balance, looking like a giraffe on skates compared to Carter – evendrunkCarter. I’d played hockey as a kid, and skated a little during college, but it had been a long time. And as we move, the scrape of our skates echoes in the cavernous space.

It feels oddly intimate, like we’re the only two people left in the world. Knox offers me the bottle, and I take it without thinking. The whiskey burns going down, and I cough hard, but it helps chase away the chill that had settled in my bones.

"So," I say, handing the bottle back. "You want to tell me what’s really going on?"

I struggle to keep up with Knox as he glides effortlessly across the ice. The silence between us stretches on, broken only by the scrape of our blades and the occasional swig from the whiskey bottle. I start to wonder if he’ll talk at all, or if it had all just been an elaborate ruse to laugh at my skating abilities.

Finally, Knox speaks, his voice low and rough. "You want to know what’s going on? Fine. I’m drowning, Lily."

I hold my breath, afraid to interrupt and break the spell. I know I’d told him this was off the record, but even if I can’t use a word of it, I’machingto find out his secrets. Knox continues, his words coming faster now, like a dam breaking.

"Everyone’s always expecting me to be a hockey god. The savior, the franchise player. From the age of six until now, I’ve been the avatar of everyone else’s dreams and hopes. Do you know what that’s like?"

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

His eyes are intense as he goes on. "And then you show up, with your questions and your notebook, digging into every corner of my life. It’s like I can’t breathe anymore. Can’t think. Can’t…"

"Carter, I?—

He cuts me off with a sharp gesture. "And now you’re following me to my parent’s home? My childhood rink? What the hell, Lily? That’s crossing a massive line."

Guilt gnaws at my insides. He’s right, of course. I’d gone too far, slipping an Apple Air Tag into his bag, then following him. I feel ashamed, but I’d been desperate for a story. But before I can apologize, Knox continues, his voice softer now.

"You don’t know what it’s like, carrying this… this weight. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Sarah’s face."

My heart clenches at the raw pain in his voice. I want to reach out, to comfort him somehow, but I hold back. "Your sister?" I ask gently.

Knox nods, his eyes far away, as if he’d forgotten he doesn’t want to tell me anything. "She was… God, she was everything. And now she’s gone."

I bite my lip, torn between my journalistic instincts screaming for more details and my growing concern for the manin front of me. I know his sister is dead. It had come up in my research about him, something about an accident involving her father, who’d since gone to jail.

The details were sketchy, and I’d planned to find out more, but his hostility about family-related questions had put it on the back burner. But now, I wonder if there’s more there. More that led to the emotional mess I’d seen exiting his family home, who is now skating with me on the ice.

And I suddenly connect it to what Tank had said, about Knox’s shift from being a carefree young kid to the intense ball of aggression he is now. The timing would line up, because his sister had died a few months before the draft.

I swallow hard, guilt and something else – something warmer – swirling in my chest. "I’m sorry," I whisper. "I never meant to?—

"To what?" Knox challenges, his voice bitter. "To dig up all the shit I’ve been trying to bury? To make me relive every mistake?"

I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. "To hurt you," I say softly. "That was never my intention, Carter."

He laughs, a harsh, broken sound that echoes through the empty rink. "Well, intentions don’t mean shit. Nor do regrets. I’m the king of those."

We skate in silence for a moment, the weight of his words hanging between us. I struggle to find the right thing to say, to balance my role as a journalist with the unexpected care I feel for this broken man, who is so put together on the ice, and seems to be an utter mess off it.

I find myself caught between conflicting desires.

Part of me – the ambitious journalist – wants to memorize every word, to craft the perfect exposé. But another part, growing stronger by the minute, just wants to listen, to understand, to help if I can, or to just be there for him if I can’t.

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