Page 25 of Icy Pucking Play

But as I launch into my feature ideas, I can't help but think about how this assignment is quickly becoming about so much more than just a story.

It's about a grumpy goalie who might not be as icy as everyone thinks.

It's about a family that's letting me see behind their carefully constructed walls.

It's about...possibilities.

And that's both exciting and terrifying.

But mostly exciting.

Even if I still can't play golf to save my life.

Chapter 8

Evan

Wednesday mornings at the Blades' practice facility usually belong to me.

It's my time—just me, the ice, and the satisfying thwack of pucks against my pads. No teammates. No coaches. No distractions.

But today, the usual peace of my pre-dawn ritual is broken by three things. To start with, my nephew, who's currently sending shot after shot at my net with the kind of intensity that makes me proud (and a little concerned for my ribs). Second, a certain reporter, perched in the stands with her ever-present notebook, somehow making our practice gear look good.

And, last but not least, Clark fucking Ellis—hockey player-turned-blood-sucking-sports-agent, who's been lurking around the facility like a badly-dressed vulture since dawn.

"Uncle Evan?" Ryland's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You okay? That last one almost got through."

Almost being the operative word. Even distracted, I'm still the Ice Man.

"I'm fine." I straighten up, resetting my stance. "Again."

He eyes me skeptically but takes his position. The kid's got good instincts—on and off the ice. Which is exactly why I need to keep Clark away from him.

The next shot comes in hard, top corner. I snag it cleanly, but my satisfaction is cut short by slow clapping from the bench area.

"Nice save, Daniels. Still got it after all these years."

Every muscle in my body tenses at that voice. Three years later, and Clark Ellis still has the ability to make my blood run cold.

"Mr. Ellis!" Ryland calls out enthusiastically, because my nephew has no idea what kind of asshole Clark Ellis is. "Did you see that shot?"

"Sure did, kid. You've got your uncle's talent. Maybe even more."

I risk a glance at Sophie in the stands. She's watching the interaction intently, pen poised over her notebook. But something in her expression changes as she observes us, that sharp journalist's instinct picking up on the sudden tension in the air.

She catches my eye, and I see the moment she decides to intervene.

"Ryland!" Her voice carries across the ice. "Mind if I get some quick shots of you practicing your stick handling? The lighting's perfect right now."

God bless Sophie Bennett and her perfect timing.

Ryland skates off eagerly—he's already figured out that Sophie actually cares about getting things right, not just getting attention. Which leaves me alone with Clark.

"Careful there, Evan." He’s all slick blond hair and fake smiles, Clark leans against the boards, everything about his posturecalculated to look casual. "Your new little reporter friend seems awfully interested in team dynamics."

"Stay away from my nephew, Clark."

"Now, is that any way to talk to an old teammate?" His smarmy smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Besides, I'm just here as an agent. Young talent like Ryland needs proper representation."

---