Page 8 of Expose on the Ice

This one will not be easily misdirected.

And that’s a problem.

“So, Mr. Knox,” she continues, undeterred by my lackluster response. “What was it like, being drafted?”

I shrug, reciting the answer I’ve given a hundred times before. “An honor. A dream come true. Remember it like it was yesterday.”

She waits, pen poised over her notebook, clearly expecting more. When I don’t elaborate, she presses on.

“And how did your family react to your early success?”

My jaw clenches involuntarily. “They were proud.”

Lily’s brow furrows in concern. “I’m sure they were. Can you tell me more about your relationship with?—”

“We’re close,” I cut her off, my tone sharp enough to make her flinch. “Next question.”

She recovers quickly. “Right. Let’s talk about your playing style. You’re known for your aggressive approach on the ice. Where does that come from?”

I rattle off another practiced response about competitiveness and drive. Next question, canned response, over and over. I know this game. I’d rehearsed it even before being drafted, and I’ve played it a hundred times since. I’m as good at it as I am at hockey.

And it works.

Most of the time.

The press doesn’t want the truth. They want lines in a can. An easy quote. A happy vignette. So that’s what I give them. And her. And it’s what I’ll continue to give her, until she decides it’s pointless trying to get more and goes away.

But as I speak on autopilot, all clichés and bullshit, I find my gaze wandering. Lily is still leaning forward slightly, hanging on my every word, despite how little I’m giving her. A strand of dark hair has fallen across her cheek, and I have the strangest urge to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.

Then I catch myself mid-sentence, realizing I’ve completely lost track of what I’m saying. My eyes have drifted down to where Lily’s blouse gapes, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of a lacy bra and creamy skin. It’s enough to short-circuit my brain for a moment, derailing my well-rehearsed spiel.

Come on, Carter, I chide myself.Get with the program, man.

I quickly snap my gaze back up to her face, hoping she hasn’t noticed. But from the way her cheeks flush pink, and she shifts in her seat, I have a sinking feeling she’s caught me looking.

“I’m sorry. What was the question again?” I ask, trying to regain my composure.

“Not a problem,” Lily says, making a point to sit up straight. “I asked how you would describe yourself off the ice.”

“Private,” I say flatly.

She sighs, frustration clear in the set of her shoulders. “Mr. Knox, I understand your desire for privacy. But this series is meant to provide fans with a more in-depth look at who you really are. Surely there must be something you’d like them to know about the man behind the jersey.”

For a moment, I almost feel bad for her. She’s just trying to do her job, after all. And there’s something disarmingly earnest about the way she looks at me, like she genuinely wants to understand. But then I remember why I’m here. Why I have to keep her at arm’s length.

And why she hasnochance of getting past my defenses.

“What they see on the ice is who I am,” I say coldly.

LILY

I stare at Knox, reaching boiling point. His stonewalling is beyond irritating, and I’ve had enough. In truth, I’m also frustrated that nothing seems to be working. I’d caught him glancing at my cleavage, but it hasn’t made him any more forthcoming.

Good, well-researched questions haven’t worked.

A professional demeanor hasn’t worked.

Flashing some skin hasn’t worked.

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