Page 59 of Expose on the Ice

As I make my way through the corridors, I greet a few more players and staff members. Each interaction leaves me scrutinizing their behavior, searching for any clue that might reveal the culprit. Nothing obvious sheds any light on the mystery, so it will need to be solved another day.

The press room is already buzzing when I arrive for Carter’s press conference. I slip into an empty seat near the back, pulling out my notebook and pen. My stomach churns as I glance around at my fellow journalists.

How many of them know about my fling with Carter?

Do they think I’d used off the record material?

I push the thoughts aside, reminding myself to focus. Since figuring out someone had leaked the contents of the notepad in my bag, but not the one in my apartment, my journalistic instincts have taken over again.

I’m here to do my job, regardless of the personal drama swirling around me. I have to maintain my professionalism, even if it kills me. I have to find out who the leak was, and hopefully protect Carter in the process.

The room falls silent as Carter walks in. My breath catches in my throat as I take him in. He looks… different. There’s a determination in his stride, a set to his jaw that I hadn’t seen before. This is a man on a mission.

But it’s also a man who is hurt.

And that makes my heart ache.

As he takes his seat at the front of the room, our eyes meet for a moment. A surge of energy courses through my body, memories of our kiss flooding back unbidden. But before I can decipher the emotion in his gaze, he looks away.

Mark Turner steps up to the podium, clearing his throat. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice. Carter Knox has prepared a statement and will then take questions."

The room erupts in a flurry of camera clicks as Carter leans towards the microphone. I grip my pen tightly, my knuckles turning white as I wait for him to speak. I’m hoping he’ll come up with some magic to reduce the pressure on him, but I know whatever happens is only likely to turn the heat up.

"I’m here today," Carter begins, his voice steady and clear, "to address the recent article about my past and to set the record straight."

I feel my heart rate pick up. My mind flashes to the notebook in my apartment, with all the details I’d found thatweren’tinthe recent story. What is he going to reveal? Is he going to let the whole world in on the cover up?

"First, I want to clarify that I did not intend to contribute to that story," he continues. "Its publication has re-opened some old wounds."

My eyes widen at his words because I realize his eyes are locked on me.

"However," Carter pauses, "the information it contained was true. And I believe it’s time for me to tell my story, in my own words."

The room falls deathly silent, every reporter leaning forward in anticipation.

CARTER

"Six years ago, my sister Sarah and I were inseparable," I begin, my voice surprisingly steady. "She was my biggest fan, always cheering me on at games in college and high school. But one night, everything changed."

I pause, scanning the room. The reporters are hanging on my every word, pens poised over notepads. But my gaze keeps drifting back to Lily. She looks… devastated. Despite everything that had happened, seeing her pain twists something inside me.

"My father was driving us home from a late-night practice," I continue, forcing myself to focus. "It was raining, the roads were slick. He… he lost control of the car."

The words feel rehearsed, hollow. Because they are. I’d gone over this story countless times with my agent, making sure every detail aligned with the cover-up we’d maintained for years. Butnow, saying it out loud to a room full of strangers, it feels like a betrayal all over again.

"Sarah didn’t make it," I say, my voice finally cracking. "And I… I threw myself into hockey. It was the only way I knew how to cope. Everything in that article was correct, and I will now take questions."

Questions erupt from the crowd, a cacophony of voices demanding more details, more pain, more scandal. They’re like hyenas, circling for the kill. But as I scan the room, my eyes lock with Lily’s again. She isn’t one of these shit stains, interested in destroying me.

Because she could have done itwaysooner.

I’d spilled my guts to her weeks ago.

Yet the story had only just come out.

And now?

She isn’t scribbling notes furiously like the others. She isn’t shouting questions or jockeying for position. Instead, she sits there, her green eyes locked onto me, filled with sympathy. It hits me then – the stark difference between her and the rest of the vultures in the room.

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