Page 16 of In the Defensive Zone with My Enemy

Sophie’s voice snaps me back to the present.

I mentally shake myself and clear the knot of emotion from my throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”

The slight tilt of her head suggests she’s not convinced.

I rub my hands down the top of my thighs. The soft fabric of my trainers against my palms feels soothing. When she told us she wanted shots of us in our regular clothes as well as our gear to go with the profile pieces, I found myself intrigued. “So, how does this work?”

She opens the notebook she always carries with her. “I have a list of questions I’ve created so that the profiles will have a continuity and flow to them.”

I nod, but my anticipation of what those questions will cover spikes my pulse like I’m back on the ice doing drills.

Then she stands up and sets the journal on herchair, open to the page she was studying, and grabs her phone off the desk. “I’ll ask each question and use this to record your answers.”

I point to her notebook. “You don’t just jot down notes?”

She gives me a hesitant smile. “No, I need my hands for my camera. I prefer candid shots and find the best ones happen when my subjects are talking about themselves or about something they love.”

The passion in her voice captivates me. And somehow being her ‘subject’ shoots an oddly warm sensation through my chest. Suddenly, this feels intimate and unexpected. I’m not a fan of surprises normally. Especially when I’m dealing with someone I don’t know very well.

But Sophie has this way about her. She’s like a free spirit, always embracing the world with a smile.

“Ready to start?”

I blink, realizing I was staring at her. And judging how she passes her camera back and forth in her hands, I may have made her uncomfortable. “Yeah, sorry. Just lost in thought.”

Her mouth tilts up in this cute manner that pushes her cheeks up. “Feel free to share.” Her eyes widen as she backpedals. “I mean, if it’s something you think fans would want to know about you.”

She jerks her camera in front of her face, leaving me to wonder if she did that more to cover her embarrassment than to snap photos of me.

I squelch the temptation to smirk and, instead, tuck my chin, determined not to give her any direct shots. Kinsley doesn’t need any more drama in her life, and the press has a way of creating it. Not that what happens here in Florida would affect her in New York, but I don’t want to take the risk. The more I wind up in the limelight, the more likely there will be ripple effects.

Sophie snaps a few pictures, then lowers her camera. “Let’s start with the most basic question. Why hockey?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose as I formulate my answer. “Istarted playing street hockey as a kid, just in the neighborhood with friends. Guess it just grew from there. I played in high school, then college.”

She leans over to check her notebook. “What about your family? Did they support you early on? Go to all of your games?”

My chest tightens, and a flash of heat rides up the back of my neck. I rein in my reaction and take a breath. “My father hasn’t been in the picture since I was eight, and yes, my mother would attend every game.”

Every single one except the last…

She lifts her camera again. “Would you say she’s your biggest fan, then?”

My gut twists. I turn my head away to keep my face shielded. “Can we talk about something else?”

“Sure.” Her whisper snaps my attention back. The way she’s blinking makes me realize how angry I sounded.

Inwardly groaning, I close my eyes and drop my head. “Sorry. I didn’t intend to sound angry.” I work more saliva into the desert of my mouth. “It’s still hard to talk about her.”

Sophie’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I forgot about the accident. I didn’t get much time to research the team, so I’ve been trying to read up on all twenty of you. And the trainers and the staff. That’s a lot of information to absorb in just a few days when you think about it, and easy to confuse which player did what or experienced…” She catches her breath. “Experienced tragedy…sorry.”

The way her words tumble out in a rush, and the cute blush of her cheeks makes me want to reassure her I’m not angry, even though I am—just not at her. I’m mad at the world…and hockey. I guess blaming the world or the game is a break from blaming myself.

I rub my hand over my mouth, which sounds like sandpaper. I’m about to tell her it’s okay, but then my phone chimes—the special ring tone I assigned to Kinsley so I know when it’s her.

“Sorry. I need to take this.” I reach for my phone in my pocket as I stand.

“Oh, sure. I’ll wait.” She blinks at me, still appearing somewhat unsettled.

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