Page 8 of Icy Pucking Play

"Uncle Evan…"

"I said no." He turns those ice-blue eyes on me, and suddenly I understand why they call him the Ice Man. "This isn't happening. You can just head on back home."

"Mr. Daniels," I try, summoning every ounce of confidence I can muster (which, covered in coffee and holding a broken laptop bag, isn't much). "I know you have concerns…"

"Concerns?" He lets out a harsh laugh. "You want to follow my nephew around with a camera, dig into our personal lives, and publish whatever half-truths get you the most clicks? No. I have more than just concerns."

"That's not what this is," I protest, heat rising in my cheeks. "This is about telling Ryland's story, about showing people who he really is…"

"I know exactly what this is." He steps closer, using every inch of his six-foot-plus height to loom over me. "It's a young reporter trying to make a name for herself, no matter who she has to step on to do it."

The words land on me like dynamite. "Is that really what you think of me?"

Something flashes in his eyes—regret maybe?—but it's gone before I can be sure. "What I think doesn't matter. What matters is protecting my family."

"From me?" The hurt in my voice surprises even me. "I brought you coffee every morning for three months. I kept stats for your games. I watched Natalia when your sitter canceled. Did you think I was just...what? Playing the long game?"

"Sophie…" Ryland starts with concern in his voice, but Evan cuts him off.

"You worked for us. Now you work for them." He gestures at my press badge like it's personally offended him. "And they only care about one thing: getting the story, no matter the cost."

"That's not true," I say quietly. "And I think you know it's not true."

"What I know," he says, each word precise and cutting, "is that the last time I trusted someone from the media, they turned my divorce into a circus. They camped outside my house. They followed my daughter to school. They turned the worst moment of my life into entertainment."

Oh shit.

"I didn't…I wouldn't…"

"Save it." He steps back, and somehow that hurts worse than the looming. "Ryland, practice starts in ten. Don't be late."

And then he's gone, leaving nothing but the scent of spilled coffee and the wreckage of my career aspirations in his wake.

Ryland lets out a long breath. "Well...that could have gone better."

I slump against the wall, feeling like I just finished a boxing match. "Does he really think I'm like that? That I'd exploit your family for a story?"

"Nah." Ryland slides down to sit next to me. "He's just...protective. Ever since the divorce, he's had this thing about the media. Can't really blame him."

"I guess not." I look down at my ruined coffee tray. "I'm sorry I ambushed you both like this. I should have waited, let you tell him first."

"Hey, this isn't your fault." Ryland bumps my shoulder with his. "Besides, Uncle Evan's bark is worse than his bite. Usually. Most of the time. Okay…sometimes."

Despite everything, I laugh. "Not helping."

"Look." He stands, offering me a hand up. "Give him time to cool off. Let him see that this isn't some tabloid hit piece. He'll come around."

"You think so?"

"Trust me." Ryland grins, and for a moment I can see the family resemblance in more than just gestures. "He liked youwhen you worked here. That doesn't just go away because you changed jobs."

I think about the way Evan looked at me just now, like I'd personally betrayed him. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Well, I am." He glances at his watch and winces. "Shit. Practice. Um, you can watch from the media box? It's probably safer than rinkside, given Uncle Evan's current mood."

"Good call." I gather what's left of my dignity and my belongings. "I should probably change first, though."

"Yeah, coffee isn't really your color." He starts backing away. "Meet you after practice? We can talk about what you're looking for with the feature."

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