Page 91 of Expose on the Ice

I smile, feeling a spark of my old determination returning. I type back:

"Yep. I’m staying. And I’m going to do my job. The right way."

I have no idea how Carter will react when I drop the story on him, on the world, but it’s time to take back the power from Frank and everyone else who’s tried to hurt Carter and keep him from me. I know it might backfire, hurt him more than ever, and end us once and for all.

But I have to try.

The story of Lily Grant and Carter Knox isn’t over yet, and this time, I’m going to try my hardest to make sure I get it right. And if I screw it up, I’ll do it running to him, not running from danger, and God help anyone who stands in my way.

CHAPTER 37

LILY

The cursor blinks steadily, taunting me with its rhythm as I sit at my desk, staring at the blank document on my laptop screen. I flex my fingers, hovering over the keys, feeling the weight of my decision pressing down on my shoulders.

This is it. The moment of truth.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I’m about to do. The story of Carter Knox needs to be told – the real story, not the sensationalized garbage Frank has been peddling. And I’m the one who has to tell it. My fingers begin to move, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence as the words flow.

"Expose on the Ice: The Real Carter Knox."

I pause, considering the title. It feels right. This will not be a hatchet job or a puff piece. This is about peeling back the layers, showing the world who Carter really is – flaws, struggles, and all. And then letting the readers choose their view of the man.

As I have.

The words pour out of me. I start at the beginning. Carter’s guarded expression the first time we met. The fight we’d had. The force field around himself, refusing to let anyone in. Beingforced to spend weeks on the road with him with no chance of finding anything real.

The memory of how infuriated I’d been brings a smile to my lips.

I detail how I’d gone around him. Gotten to know members of the team, followed him and eavesdropped through moments of kindness and spied on moments of pain, all things he wanted to keep from me, from everyone else, and from the public.

But the more I write, the more I draw connections.

About the man.

About his past.

About the stakes of keeping his secrets.

And the crushing blow the failure to do so has caused him.

I recall – and write – everything I know about the accident, his culpability, and the cover-up that had allowed him to continue on the trajectory of professional hockey. The sacrifices others had made, and the secrets they’d sworn to take to the grave.

But instead of the sensationalist trash Frank had posted, I put it all in a new light. I write about a boy who’d made a mistake, been scared, and been swept along in the moment. I write about parents desperate to protect their son, making an impossible choice, sacrificing their future so their son could still have one.

I tell of a young man shouldering a burden no one should have to bear. Of a boy who’d become a man filled with regrets and with guilt, a virtual hermit despite being a hero to millions and having the wealth most people could only dream of.

My fingers fly across the keyboard as I delve into the mental demons Carter battles every day. The guilt that eats at him, the pressure to be perfect, the fear of letting everyone down. I write about the late practices, the punishing workouts – not just to hone his skills, but to quiet the voices in his head.

The thought brings a tear to my eye, but I keep going.

I include everything. All my research, burned in my notepad, but also burned in my brain. It’s the best job I can do, with all the information I have. Everything I know, everything he’s told me, and everything I suspect he feels. I hold nothing back.

Me included.

I throw it all in there. My gradual attraction to him. The false starts we’d had. The whirlwind of romance. And then the loss of it. Frank, the villain of the story, is given no respite, the executioner who’d cleaved the link between us, due to a threat to cause yet more damage.

As I type, I feel a lump forming in my throat. God, we’d put him through hell, hadn’t we?

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