Page 43 of Expose on the Ice

I’m losing it.

A different door into the locker room swings open, the one that leads from the management offices, and I don’t need to look up to know who it is. Mark’s footsteps echo through the room, stopping right in front of me.

"What was that, Knox?" Mark’s voice is low, controlled, but I can hear the anger simmering beneath the surface.

I lift my head, meeting his steely gaze. "I screwed up."

"You’re damn right you did." Mark crosses his arms, his jaw clenched. "Our star player assaulting the mascot in front of a child? Do you have any idea how this looks? The PR nightmare this will be?"

I wince. "I’ll apologize?—

"You’ll do more than apologize," Mark cuts me off, his tone brooking no argument. "I’ve already called the children’s cancer ward at Omaha Medical Center, where the kid who witnessed your assault is currently getting treated for a rare form of childhood cancer. We’re hosting a fundraising ball to make amends, and you are the star of the show."

I feel my stomach drop. "Mark, come on, I’ll give the kid a signed jersey and buy Frosty a beer. I?—

"This isn’t up for debate," he says, holding up a hand to silence me. "And that’s not all."

The look in his eyes tells me I will not like what comes next.

"I invited that journalist, Lily Grant, to make the ball her the focus of her second story about the team."

My blood runs cold. "You did what?"

Mark’s eyes narrow. "Don’t think I haven’t noticed the tension between you two. Whatever’s going on, you need to get over it. You’re going to play nice, smile for the cameras, and give her the access she needs to write a glowing piece about our charitable efforts. And if you’re not the all-singing, all-dancing star of the show, we will have issues. Are we clear?"

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. "I don’t have a choice, do I"

Mark shakes his head. "No."

A wave of dread rushes through me. The thought of being near Lily again, especially in such a public setting, fills me with apprehension. After that night at the rink, I’d been avoiding her like the plague. And now this?

"When?" I ask, my voice sounding strangled even to my ears.

"Two weeks from Saturday," Mark replies. "That should give us enough time to pull everything together and for you to get your head on straight."

I nod numbly, my mind already racing. Two weeks. Two weeks to prepare myself to face Lily again, to put on a show for the cameras and the donors, all while trying to keep my past buried.

"And Carter?" Mark’s voice softens. "I don’t know what’s been eating at you lately, but you need to get it together. This team needs you at your best, not punching mascots and snapping at reporters. Whatever’s going on, deal with it, or I’ll have to deal with you."

With that, he turns and leaves, the forceful slam of the door closing behind him with a finality that echoes through the empty locker room. It sends a final message that Mark ispissed.

I sit there for a long moment, my head in my hands. The anxiety that I’d been trying to keep at bay comes rushing back, threatening to overwhelm me. I’d already told Lily more than I wanted and, even though she’d promised to keep it off the record, I wasn’t sure I fully trusted her.

And now she has an entire night glued to me.

The thought makes my chest tighten, my breath coming in sharp gasps. I can’t let that happen. I can’t let her expose the truth about Sarah, about that night, about the cover-up. It would destroy everything I’d worked for, everything my family had sacrificed to protect.

But how the hell am I supposed to keep her at arm’s length when Mark is practically throwing us together?

The ping of my phone breaks my reverie. I dig it out of my locker and stare at my phone, the message from my Uncle Pete burning into my retinas:

"Carter, heads up. Someone’s poking around town, asking questions about Sarah. Journalist, I think. Your mom’s worried. Call her. And be careful."

My stomach twists into knots. Uncle Pete isn’t actually my uncle, just my dad’s old fishing buddy, and one of the few who knows the entire story. He’d always looked out for us, and if he’s reaching out like this, it means trouble.

I toss the phone into my locker and pace the locker room, running my hands through my hair. Damn it. This is exactly what I’d been afraid of. And I know exactly who’s behind it. One nosy reporter who has a knack for finding her way through the cracks in my armor and my story.

Lily Grant.

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