Page 5 of Expose on the Ice

The world around me fades, replaced by the vivid nightmare of that night. The rain-slicked roads. The glare of oncoming headlights. Sarah’s laughter turning to terror in an instant, a sound that will forever echo in my mind.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes the images more intense. My knuckles turn white as I grip the boards, desperately trying to anchor myself to the present. But I’m drowning in the past. The sickening crunch of metal. The acrid smell of smoke and gasoline. Sarah’s broken body, so still in the wreckage.

“It wasn’t your fault,” they’d told me later, repeatedly, like a mantra.

My parents.

The cops.

My agent.

But I know the truth.

I’d been the one driving. I’d been the one who’d had too much to drink at that stupid party, the one who thought I was invincible. I’d been the one who’d refused when Sarah had insisted on driving. And Sarah had paid the price.

The cover-up had been swift and ruthless. Hush money for witnesses. Favors called in to make evidence disappear. Police reports altered, toxicology results buried. My silence bought with the promise of a bright future and the weight of my family’s expectations.

It had been the perfect stitch up. A car accident, yes, but I’d been nowhere near it. A tragic loss for the Knox family, but one that wouldn’t derail the promising career of their star athlete son, the golden boy who could do no wrong.

“Think of your career,” my father had said, his voice cold and practical, even as my mother wept silently beside him. “Think of everything you’ve worked for.”

I’d accepted the deal with the devil, but nobody had warned me about the price.

Now?

Now, all I can think of is Sarah. All I caneverthink of is Sarah. Her laugh. Her dreams. The way she’d always been my biggest fan, even when I didn’t deserve it.

And now she’s gone.

Because of me.

The guilt claws at my insides, threatening to tear me apart. I want to scream, to confess, to beg for forgiveness I know I don’t deserve, to reveal the cover-up that had let me keep living while she stayed buried.

Instead, I’ve locked it away deep inside. Channeled every ounce of pain and self-loathing into becoming the best damn hockey player I can be. As if, somehow, it could make up for what I’d done.

But no matter how many goals I score, no matter how many games I win, in college or the pros, it will never be enough. Sarah will still be dead, and it will still be my fault.

Slowly and agonizingly, the present begins to seep back in. The chill of the ice. The harsh glare of the arena lights. The ache in my muscles.

I suck in a ragged breath, then another, forcing air into lungs that feel like they’ve forgotten how to work. My legs tremble as I push myself upright, still leaning heavily on the boards for support, the weight of my guilt threatening to drag me back down.

I push off, my legs still shaky beneath me. The weight of my memories presses down on me like a physical force, but I force myself to stand tall. No one can see the cracks. No one can know how close I am to shattering.

It’s time to call it a day.

With slow, deliberate movements, I gather the pucks scattered across the ice. Each one feels like it weighs a ton, but I welcome the burn. Physical pain is easier to deal with than the emotional torment raging inside me, a temporary respite from the guilt that threatens to consume me.

As I skate towards the locker room, the sound of voices drifts from the stands. I tense, not expecting anyone else to be aroundthis late. But it’s just the cleaning crew starting their nightly routine to keep the place in top shape.

“Did you hear about that journalist coming to do a big story on the team?” A woman’s excited voice carries across the empty arena.

I freeze, my hand on the gate.

“Oh yeah,” a man replies. “My niece works at the Star. Says it’s some hotshot young reporter. Supposed to be here all season, doing profiles on the players.”

My stomach twists into knots. A reporter? Digging into our lives?Mylife?

“Bet Knox will be first on her list,” the woman chuckles.

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