Page 91 of Icy Pucking Play

My phone buzzes as I step into the cool night air.

Cynthia:Did you seriously just witness the Ice Man deck someone at Giovanni's??? It's all over Twitter!

Perfect. Just perfect.

Another buzz.

Brad:Please tell me you're not going to write about this.

And finally, one from Julia:He's hurting. But so are you. Maybe that means something.

I look down the street where Evan disappeared, then at the restaurant where Clark is probably already spinning this into another scandal.

The way he spun Chelsea.

The way he's trying to spin me.

But I'm not Chelsea. And maybe that's the problem. Because I don't want a story. I want...Evan. All of him—walls and scars and trust issues included.

Too bad I just proved him right about everything he fears. Too bad I let Clark Ellis manipulate me into becoming exactly what Evan thought I was: just another reporter looking for a story.

Even if that's the last thing I ever wanted to be.

Chapter 23

Evan

The parking lot of Giovanni's is eerily quiet after the chaos inside. Like the calm after a particularly brutal storm.

Fitting, since I feel like I just weathered one.

My hand throbs where it connected with Clark's jaw. Good. The pain gives me something to focus on besides the look on Sophie's face when I walked in. I’m trying to forget the way she was sitting there, listening to him, like everyone else who…

"Evan!" Sophie's voice carries across the lot. "Wait!"

I keep walking. Because if I stop, if I look at her...

"Please," she calls out. "Let me explain!"

"Explain what?" I turn so fast she nearly runs into me. "How you went behind my back to meet with him? How you let him manipulate you just like…"

I cut myself off, but it's too late.

"Just like Chelsea?" Her voice is soft. Too soft. "That's what this is really about, isn't it?"

"You'll love Clark," Chelsea had said three years ago. "He really gets it. Gets us. The whole hockey family brand we could build..."

I should have seen it then. The gleam in her eyes. The way she was already planning her exit strategy.

The way she was using us all for content.

"This is about trust," I say roughly.

"No, this is about fear." She steps closer, and I hate how well she reads me. "Fear that I might be like her. That I might choose my career over…"

"Over what, Sophie?" The words come out harsh. "Over me? Over my family? Because from where I'm standing, you already did."

"That's not fair."

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