Page 21 of Wrong Score

What started as a simple autograph request has turned into a full-fledged meet-and-greet session. The parents look on, clearly touched by Bex's kindness and patience with their children.

Finally, after what must be at least fifteen minutes – far longer than would typically be considered polite for a celebrity encounter in a restaurant – Bex stands up. He ruffles Cory's hair gently. "Keep practicing those saves, yeah? And listen to you mum and dad," he says with a wink.

The boys chorus their thanks, practically vibrating with excitement. The parents, too, express their gratitude before he leaves.

As Bex turns to head back to our table, I quickly avert my gaze, not wanting him to catch me staring. But I can't help sneaking glances as he makes his way back, noting how the tension seems to have melted from his shoulders, how his step seems lighter.

Just as Bex is about to sit down, a waitress approaches with a water pitcher. "Can I refill your glass, sir?" she asks.

"Yes, thanks," Bex replies, then pauses. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, extracting a credit card. Leaning in close to the waitress, he speaks in a low voice, but I'm close enough to catch his words. "Take care of the family's bill with this, will ya? But not ‘til after we've left."

The waitress's eyes widen, but she nods in understanding. "Of course, sir. I'll take care of it."

As if sensing my gaze, Bex's eyes find mine across the table. I watch as the realization dawns on him that I've witnessed this entire exchange. The smile dies slowly on his lips, replaced by his usual guarded expression. It's like watching a shutter close, blocking out the light.

For a moment, we just stare at each other. I want to say something – to acknowledge what I've seen, to tell him how touched I am by his kindness. But the words stick in my throat. How do I express my admiration without sounding condescending? How do I let him know that I've seen a glimpse of the man behind the gruff exterior without making him feel exposed?

Before I can figure it out, Bex breaks eye contact, turning to engage in conversation with another assistant coach beside him. The moment is gone, leaving me with a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.

As the dinner continues, I find myself stealing glances at Bex, trying to reconcile the man I thought I knew with the one I just witnessed. The gentle way he spoke to those children, the genuine interest he showed in their excitement, the quiet generosity of paying for their meal. None of it fits with the image of the grumpy, unapproachable coach I've been battling with for months.

As a journalist, I pride myself on my ability to see beyond the surface, to dig for the real story. But have I failed to do that with Bex? Are Keely and Autumn right that there is more to him?

I participate in the conversations around me as our bills start coming back and everyone finishes off the last of whatever they were drinking. It's time for us to head back to the hotel for our early morning flight back home tomorrow.

As we all stand to leave, gathering our coats and saying our goodbyes, I find myself lingering. I want to say something to Bex, to acknowledge what I saw, but I'm not sure how. As I debate with myself, I see him heading for the exit.

Making a split-second decision, I hurry to catch up with him. "Coach Bex," I call out, just as he reaches the door.

He turns, his expression guarded. "Yes, Summers?"

I take a deep breath. "I just... I wanted to say that what you did for that family was really nice. Those kids will remember this night for the rest of their lives."

Bex stares at me for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, to my surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches up in a small, almost shy smile. "Yeah, well," he says. "Some people believe that I don't let my fans know me at all. And I never turn down an autograph for kids. I'm not a monster like you portray me to be."

"I’ve never thought that you’re a monster," I say, following him out to the sidewalk of the building, our hotel is only a few short blocks away. We all walked here so we might as well walk back. There’s no need to hail a cab.

He tucks his hands in his pockets and stares up at the dark night sky, not making any effort to continue our conversation, so I continue.

“Paying for their meal was really sweet. You took an extra step to make that family’s night magical.”

His eyes whip down to mine, his eyes back to their usual guarded stare. He doesn’t like something I said.

"That stays out of the article… in fact, all of tonight does. Got it?" he says.

"Your fans would love to hear about the boy with the cast and how you sat with them while they asked you questions about—"

"No," he says, cutting me off.

I hear the friendly chatter of the rest of the team pushing past the doors of the restaurant, completely unaware of the conversation that just passed between Bex and me.

He watches them head in our direction and then he turns and starts walking away from me.

Soon the sound of the rest of the group envelopes around me as I get gobbled up into the group and start walking with the herd of hockey players and staff.

Fine, if I can't use the moment with the family to show Bex in a different light than what he shows the world, I'll dig deeper into Bexley Townsend.

Something tells me that his stern stare and don't-touch-me attitude are only surface-deep. Now that I’ve seen that there’s more to him, I’ll have to find a way to flush it out of the man… whether he likes it or not.

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