Page 65 of Expose on the Ice

LILY

My heart flutters with excitement as I arrive at Baxter Arena. The past few days with Carter have been a whirlwind of touching moments and deep conversations. We’ve taken it slow and made genuine progress, both personally and professionally.

As I make my way through the bustling corridors, the pre-game energy is palpable. Players are in the zone, their faces set in game-day focus. Staff members rush about, clipboards in hand, barking last-minute instructions into headsets. I breathe it all in, feeling more at home in this world than I ever have before.

I spot Carter across the locker room, our eyes meeting briefly. He gives me a subtle nod, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. My cheeks warm at the memory of our last encounter, his firm hands, his lips on mine…

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. I’m here to work, after all. As I scan the room, something catches my eye. Tank Thompson, sidelined with an injury, is pacing near the far wall. He’s dressed in street clothes, a stark contrast to his teammates’ uniforms.

But it isn’t his attire that grabs my attention – it’s his behavior.

Tank’s eyes dart nervously around the room as he holds his phone to his ear, speaking in hushed tones. His free hand clenches and unclenches at his side, a tell-tale sign of anxiety. As I watch, he cuts off the call, only to have the phone buzz again moments later. He answers immediately, turning his back to the room.

My journalistic instincts begin to tingle. Something is off. Tank has always been an open book, jovial and laid-back. This furtive, anxious version of him is completely out of character. I edge closer, trying to catch snippets of his conversation without being obvious. Tank’s voice is low, but I catch a few words.

"No, not yet… I can’t…"

He glances over his shoulder, and I quickly pretend to be engrossed in my notes.

"Look, I told you, I need more time," he’s saying, his tone urgent. "If anyone finds out…"

I inch closer, my heart pounding. What is Tank mixed up in? And why does he sound so scared?

Suddenly, a hand clamps down on my shoulder. I spin around, coming face to face with Carter. He laughs. "What are you doing, Lily?"

I open my mouth to explain, but at that moment, Tank ends his call and turns, stealing both of our attention. His eyes widen as he sees us, fear flashing across his face, before he schools his features into a neutral expression.

"Hey, guys," he says, his voice overly casual. "What’s up?"

"Just wanted to wish you guys luck," I say. "I’ll be watching you…"

CARTER

For the first time in weeks, my mind feels clear, unburdened by the weight of secrets and lies as I step onto the ice. The press conference had worked its magic, throwing most of the vultures off my scent. The story about Sarah has faded from the headlines, replaced by the latest celebrity scandal or political drama.

And my biggest secret – the cover-up – is still safe.

But it isn’t just the media circus dying down that has me feeling lighter. It’s Lily. Our recent conversations, the connection we’ve forged through honesty and vulnerability, have unexpectedly lifted a weight from my shoulders. The possibility of a future with her fills me with a hope I haven’t felt in years.

As I glide across the ice during warm-ups, my movements feel fluid and natural. The puck seems to find my stick effortlessly, and my shots are hitting their marks with satisfying precision. It’s as if all the pieces are finally falling into place, on and off the ice.

I catch sight of Lily in the press box, her familiar face among the sea of reporters and photographers. Our eyes meet, and I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips. She returns it, her green eyes sparkling even from a distance. That simple exchange sends a jolt of energy through me, igniting a fire in my chest.

The ref’s whistle pierces the air, signaling the start of the game. As I take my position for the face-off, I feel a surge of determination. I want to win this game, not just for the team or the fans, but for myself, to prove that I can overcome the demons that have been holding me back.

The puck drops, our center wins control, and I spring into action. I take a pass, sending it back to our defenseman. I dart forward, weaving between opposing players with a grace that surprises even me. The game becomes a blur of motion, each play flowing seamlessly into the next.

I find myself in perfect sync with my teammates, anticipating their moves and responding instinctively. When Echo passes me the puck from across the ice, I know exactly where he’ll place it before his stick even makes contact. I receive it smoothly, using my momentum to charge towards the goal.

The goalie’s eyes widen as I approach. I fake left, watching him shift his weight, then snap my wrist, sending the puck sailing over his right shoulder and into the net. Goal. The horn blares, and the crowd erupts in cheers.

As we skate back to center ice for the next face-off, I can’t resist glancing up at the press box again. Lily is on her feet, applauding with the rest of the crowd. The pride in her eyes is unmistakable, and it fills me with a warmth that has nothing to do with physical exertion.

LILY

Not wanting to miss a second of the game, I rush back from the bathroom. Carter is on fire tonight, his performance electrifying the crowd. As I round the corner towards the press box, hushed voices catch my attention. I slow my pace, recognizing Tank’s deep rumble.

"I told you, this is the last time," Tank is saying, his tone urgent and low. "I can’t keep doing this."

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