Page 12

Chapter Twelve

Sophia

I groan, burying my face in my pillow as a very particular ache settles between my thighs.

I’m sore in muscles I didn’t even know I had. What the hell? I didn't even do anything.

It’s like I did a full-body workout at the gym, except instead of weights, I lifted one giant six-foot-four, smirking, ego-inflated hockey captain.

My thighs throb. My core is ruined . My voice is slightly hoarse, because apparently, I’m the type of woman who screams when she orgasms. Good to know .

My phone buzzes loudly on my nightstand, rattling against the wood like it’s just as eager for me to wake up as the rest of this godforsaken town.

Nope. Not dealing with the real world yet. Not when my body still aches in places it definitely shouldn’t, and my apartment still smells like him.

It's a scent so inherently Blake Maddox it practically growls . It’s on my skin. My sheets. My goddamn soul.

I inhale deeply, and-

Regret hits instantly.

Because now, on top of the ache between my thighs, I’ve just deep-throated a memory that I should probably be trying to forget.

I crack one eye open, squinting at the pale sliver of light creeping through the blinds. The sun is barely up, the sky still smudged with dawn, but already, Iron Ridge is awake.

I can hear it - car doors slamming outside, the distant echo of a radio announcer predicting a "massive night for the Icehawks." Somewhere, a dad is probably face-painting his toddler while his wife shakes her head in resigned hockey widow fatigue.

Because it’s game day in Iron Ridge.

My phone buzzes again.

"Dammit. Go away."

I throw an arm out, slapping at it blindly, but instead of knocking it off the table, I see my screen flashing bright with a notification from the official Iron Ridge Icehawks Instagram account.

With a sense of absolute bone-chilling dread, I grab my phone and unlock it. There, in glorious high-definition, is a video.

A very specific video. A video that I thought I was in charge of uploading to the social media accounts of the club.

The caption added to the video?

Blake Maddox gives the new Icehawks Executive a lesson in skating… and something else?

I choke on my own spit and slam the volume button down so hard my phone nearly cracks.

I click play, horrified, watching the already-viral footage unfold before me.

I stare in horror as the reactions flash up before my eyes as Blake has his hands firmly on my waist, steadying me on the ice like he actually gives a damn. The camera shows him smirking down at me, all amusement and satisfaction, like I’m his favorite new toy.

Then, I can barely watch as Blake lets me go. For a moment, I look happy. Heart emojis flash before my eyes, then, I start flailing like a baby deer, limbs windmilling in a desperate, futile attempt to stay upright.

Cue laughing reactions flashing everywhere on the screen.

I can only watch as I see myself crash to the ice in a spectacular, bone-rattling, soul-crushing face-first wipeout.

I don't know why I do it, but I look to the comment section to try and ease the sting of embarrassment.

'He looks at her like she's the puck. And he's about to slapshot her straight into his bed!'

'I bet my life savings our boy went home with that last night.'

'THE CHEMISTRY. I AM DECEASED.'

I throw my phone across the bed and fall back against my pillows.

Okay. Okay. This is fine. Totally normal, new world stuff? Everyone will be distracted by the game today, and nothing will come of this. Right? RIGHT?!

***

The stadium is electric. A roaring sea of gray and green, flags waving, scarves held high, an entire town collectively losing its damn mind over their team.

There's five minutes left in the game and the Icehawks lead three-zip against Montreal. The energy is feral .

I take a slow sip of my cocktail, the tangy mix of raspberry and lemon fizz swirling across my tongue. But in my glass, there's something decadent and expensive catching the light.

I swirl my glass before my eyes, frowning as I follow the little floaties inside the liquid.

Gold flakes. There are gold flakes in my drink.

“Holy shit,” Natalie murmurs beside me, eyes locked on the ice. “That’s his second goal tonight. Kid’s on fire.”

She’s talking about Ryder, who’s just ripped another puck into the back of the net, sending the entire stadium into meltdown.

Beside us in the corporate box, Eli Thompson practically levitates out of his seat, hands thrown in the air, beer sloshing dangerously close to the half empty tray of wagyu sliders on the buffet table.

“ATTA BOY, RYDER! BURN ‘EM TO THE GROUND!”

Big Mike, already one too many drinks into the night, waves a dismissive hand. “Relax, Thompson. Game’s not over yet.”

“Bah.” Eli scoffs, waving him off. "As good as buried… BURIED!"

I arch a brow, sipping my drink. “Isn’t that what LA’s coach said last time?”

Eli grins, tossing a peanut into his mouth. “Damn right. And where is he now? Unemployed .”

Natalie nudges me suddenly, drawing my attention from the ice.

“Look,” she nods toward the crowd.

It takes me a second to find what she’s seeing. And then, there, in the middle of section 102, Mia is standing, waving a massive handmade sign like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

RYDER’S MY BESTIE!

It’s covered in red hearts and glitter, as if she raided a kindergarten art class and went crazy. As Ryder skates past the boards, he spots it. His grin is instant. Beaming. Like she’s the only person in this entire arena who exists.

He taps his stick against the glass once, smiles at Mia and mouths something that I can't quite catch, then skates off, still smiling like an idiot.

I blink. “That’s… cute?”

Natalie sighs so hard I feel it in my soul.

“It would be cuter if they weren’t so in denial. Honestly, it’s exhausting watching two people be that obsessed with each other and not just do it already.”

I hum, sipping my drink again, still amazed that I'm consuming gold. Gold!

I know. It's edible. And probably just those fancy flecks they put on cakes and shit these days to look all fancy and rich.

But still.

Greg, meanwhile, has barely looked at the game. He’s glued to his phone, no doubt tracking engagement numbers of that stupid video like it’s the stock market .

Every time my phone pings in the back pocket of my jeans, I know it’s another wave of chaos from that damn video.

I don’t look. I refuse to look.

I focus on the ice as the final two minutes of the game tick down. The Icehawks are in full control, keeping Montreal on their heels. Logan flattens the biggest guy on the ice and the puck slides across to who else but Blake Maddox.

The entire stadium holds its breath.

Even Eli stops mid-rant about the referees as I glance up to the Megatron above center ice.

"Three seconds!"

Blake glides across the blue line, smooth as sin, calm as you like with the puck on his stick like it’s an extension of his body. Even amongst the chaos around him, his sharp gray eyes flick upward - right at me .

I don’t even have time to process the way my stomach clenches before he winks. And with one second left on the clock, he fucking scores.

The arena explodes.

“HAH! THAT’S MY GODDAMN CAPTAIN!" Eli shouts, completely and utterly unhinged. "SOMEONE GET ME ANOTHER BEER!”

Natalie stares at me like she just witnessed a miracle.

“Okay,” she says slowly. “That… was that directed at you ?”

I swallow, glancing down at the ice. Blake is beaming, skating past the bench, then looking up… right into the corporate box and at me again, only this time…

He blows me a goddamn kiss!

Natalie chokes on her drink.

My cheeks burn as Natalie continues to sputter beside me. I quickly hand her a napkin and she practically vomits on it. Gross. Greg's face has gone from its usual shade of disapproving pale to something approaching nuclear fusion, his phone forgotten in his slack grip.

"Did he just—" Greg starts, then stops, his mouth opening and closing like he's just witnessed the second coming of Christ himself.

"FREE DRINKS AT RIDGEVIEW!" Eli's voice booms from somewhere in the hallway behind us as the celebration music blares around us and he disappears from the corporate box. "FIRST ROUND'S ON ME! CELEbrATE WITH YOUR CAPTAIN AT RIDGEVIEW TAVERN!"

I'm going to kill Blake. Slowly. Painfully. Right after I figure out why my stomach is doing backflips and my heart is trying to escape through my throat.

"Oh my God," Natalie wheezes, finally catching her breath. "That was... that was..."

"Nothing," I say quickly. Too quickly. "That was nothing."

"Nothing?" She arches a perfectly manicured brow. "Sophia, the captain of the Icehawks just blew you a kiss on live television. Across the country. You're already viral!"

As if on cue, my phone buzzes again. And again. And again.

I close my eyes and take a long, steadying breath. "I think I'm going to need something stronger than gold flakes in my drink tonight."

"Good thing we're heading to Ridgeview," Natalie grins, looking entirely too pleased with this development.

I shake my head, standing up to follow Natalie as she grabs her coat and hands me mine. But before I can take a step, Big Mike catches my arm.

“Sophia,” he says, tone weirdly serious after such an emphatic victory on home ice.

I pause. “What’s up?”

He exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “I know you’ve had trouble settling in, but… that video? The one of you and Blake? It’s going off.”

Really? I hadn't noticed.

I force a polite smile, even as my stomach churns. "Thanks for looking out for the engagement metrics."

"Looking out?" Big Mike's eyebrows shoot up as he steps closer, lowering his voice despite the noise of the fans cheering the team off the ice. "Kid, you don't understand. We've been trying to boost real engagement for years. Not just likes and shares – actual emotional investment from our fanbase. Remember why we hired you? Now suddenly, the whole damn internet wants to know who the mystery woman is that got our stoic captain to crack a genuine smile."

My heart skips.

"So we're using it, running with the momentum," Big Mike continues, that corporate gleam in his eyes growing brighter. "We're making you the face of something bigger."

"I'm sorry, what?" I blink rapidly, trying to process his words.

"I've set up an interview for you. One of the kids from Blake's youth program. We're still gonna do it how you wanted. Just a little different. Real touching story – exactly the kind of content we need and something I know you'll be perfect for."

The blood drains from my face. Blake's program. The one thing he's been adamantly protecting from exactly this kind of exposure.

And now, because of one viral moment between us... I've got no choice but to expose it.

Because suddenly, they want me in front of the camera.

"Mr. Hawthorne, I don't think—"

"You wanted to make an impact, right?" He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Well, here's your shot. Don't fuck it up."

He strides away, leaving me frozen in place, my cocktail buzz completely evaporated.

Through the glass of the corporate box, I can see Blake across the arena, surrounded by his teammates, completely unaware that we've just accidentally handed corporate exactly what they wanted – a way into his carefully guarded world.

Shit. What have I done?