Page 14

Chapter Fourteen

Blake

W inning feels good.

Hell, tonight feels good.

The game was brutal, the Icehawks battled hard, and that final goal? That's the kind of moment the kids I train each week dream about.

The crowd losing their minds, the boys swarming me on the ice - it was the kind of high that sticks with you, leaves adrenaline buzzing in your veins long after the final horn.

And then, in the middle of it all, I’d seen her .

I blew her that kiss. Pure, unchecked, post-win adrenaline.

Now…

Sophia’s clinging to my arm like I’m her own personal escort, giggling like the night air is laced with champagne bubbles, and fuck , I don’t know what the hell is happening anymore.

"Blake, you’re so—so... tall ."

The bite of the cold night air apparently activated an even more impressive level of tipsy, like some kind of malfunctioning wind-up toy that just got cranked to full speed.

I glance down. “Not exactly breaking news, Hart.”

She squints up at me like I’m a riddle she’s desperately trying to solve. “No, but like, extra tall. Un…unecess…unnecessarily tall.” She waves a hand, wobbling a little as she stumbles over the word with way too many syllables for her right now. “Too much height.”

"That's just the rum talking."

She pouts. Actually pouts . “I’m not drunk.”

I lift a brow. “Sure. Come on, keep walking.”

“I’m not,” she insists, which might be more convincing if she wasn’t swaying like a goddamn sapling in a windstorm.

The streets of Iron Ridge are quiet, dusted with freshly fallen snow. Fairy lights twinkle in the shop windows, soft golden halos lighting up against the frost-covered glass. Ridgeview Tavern's pumping party in still in full flow, with strings of warm lights hanging between the old buildings around it, glowing against the night sky.

As we walk further away from the chaos inside Eli's bar, laughter continues spilling from the tavern, the hum of post-game celebrations going strong into the early hours of the morning.

Sophia, oblivious to everything but her own very serious case against my height, lets out a dramatic sigh. "You know what your problem is, Maddox?"

Oh, this should be good.

“Enlighten me.”

She wobbles. I catch her without thinking, my hand curving around her waist as she stumbles against my chest.

Warm. Soft. Fuck .

Her fingers curl into my sleeve, anchoring herself like I’m the only solid thing in the world. I could step back. Could put some space between us.

But I don’t.

"Your problem," she says, blinking up at me, completely unaware that my grip on her waist is way too tight. "Is that you're all..." She waves a hand vaguely. " Big and broody ."

I bite back a laugh. “Broody, huh? Is that right?”

“Mhmm.” She pokes my chest. “Like a tragic, hockey-playing vampire. Probably immortal.”

Okay, now I’m laughing.

“A vampire ?”

She nods solemnly. “You know... mysterious . Too attractive for your own good.”

I let out a dry chuckle. "You done?"

"Nope." She tips her head up, dramatic as hell. "Do you sparkle in the sunlight, Maddox?"

I snort. "Jesus Christ, woman."

Oh, she’s drunk-drunk .

I shake my head, gripping her waist a little tighter as she wobbles again. "I swear to God, Sophia. You’re worse than Logan after tequila shots.”

She gasps, horrified. “I’m offended . You take that back.”

I smirk. “Not a chance.”

She scowls up at me, her cheeks pink from the cold—or the alcohol. Probably both.

Snowflakes catch in her hair, the glow of the streetlamps making her eyes look bigger, warmer. She’s still gripping my sleeve, still pressed up against me like I’m the only thing keeping her upright.

And for a second - one stupid, reckless second - I forget.

I forget that I wanted her gone when she first showed up in Iron Ridge, that I saw her as nothing but a corporate suit here to ruin my team. I forget that she’s supposed to be off-limits, that she’s too polished, too big-city, too not for me .

Because right now, standing out here in the quiet, she’s none of those things.

Right now, she’s just soft and snuggly and looking up at me like I might be something more than a thorn in her side.

My fingers twitch against her waist.

“You’re thinking about kissing me, aren’t you?!”

Her voice is pure, delighted mischief, slicing straight through whatever moment just tried to happen.

I blink, startled out of my own damn head.

She grins, swaying slightly. “You are ! Oh my God, Blake, you like me.”

“I do not—”

“Go on then!” She puckers her lips in the most exaggerated, ridiculous way possible, sticking her face up toward me like a bad cartoon. “Kiss me. Sink those fangs into me, you big, grumpy vampire.”

Jesus Christ.

I scrub a hand down my face. "Wow. Just… wow."

She just giggles, delighted with herself.

And because I’m not an idiot, or a man willing to take advantage of a girl who’s currently balancing on the fine line between tipsy and fully gone, I grab her hand instead.

“Come on, Dracula. Let’s get you home before you regret this conversation forever.”

She stumbles again as I tug her forward, and this time, when she latches onto my arm, I don’t even bother shaking her off.

Sophia’s weight shifts against my side, her grip on my sleeve tightening as we turn onto her street.

The world around us is still and quiet now, the party at Ridgeview Tavern nothing more than a distant hum. Snow falls in soft flurries, dusting the cobblestone sidewalks and the old wooden porches lining the street.

For the first time all night, she’s not laughing.

She sighs, her breath puffing white in the cold air. “You ever feel like no matter what you do, it’s never enough ?”

The question throws me.

I glance down, but she’s not looking at me. Her gaze is fixed ahead, distant, her lashes heavy with something that isn’t just alcohol.

“Yeah,” I say after a beat. “I know that feeling.”

She hums. “My mom was a sports agent. One of the first female agents to break into the big leagues.” Her fingers absently twist the fabric of my sleeve, and I wonder if she even realizes she’s doing it. “She fought her way into a world that didn’t want her there. Didn’t respect her. But she didn’t care. She made them respect her.”

I stay quiet, letting her talk.

She exhales another soft, foggy breath. “She used to say, ‘ Soph, if you want something, don’t just sit around waiting for someone to give it to you. Take it .’” She swallows. “I spent my whole life watching her fight for a seat at the table, thinking that if I worked hard enough, if I proved myself, I’d get one too.”

Something tightens in my chest. The memory of that first marketing meeting hits me like a cheap shot to the gut.

I'd blown it off without a second thought. I didn't need another corporate suit trying to tell us how to "engage with fans" or whatever buzzword was trending that week.

While I was skating lazy circles on pristine ice, she'd been fighting for that seat at the table - the same seat I'd carelessly tossed aside because I could.

And worst of all, I know that exact feeling.

That pressure to be more, to prove something - not just to yourself, but to everyone else.

Her jaw clenches. “But instead, the board treats me like some kind of PR puppet. A distraction.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “Like that video they had us do together. Like I’m just… filling space until someone more qualified - someone male - comes along.”

I don’t even realize I’ve stopped walking until she does too.

She drops onto the front steps instead, patting the space beside her like an invitation.

Against my better judgment, I sit.

"And you know what's worse? I'm good at my job. Really good. But sometimes I wonder if any of that matters when all they see is—"

"A threat."

She turns to me, surprise clear on her face.

"That's what they see," I tell her, looking her dead in the eye. "You've been busting my balls since you got here."

She looks up, eyes glossy, cheeks pink from the cold, and fuck , she’s beautiful. She blinks, lips parting slightly, like maybe she wasn’t expecting that from me.

For a second, she just stares at me.

Then, a slow smile spreads across her face, wobbly but real. "Blake Maddox, are you actually being nice to me?"

"Don't get used to it."

She leans her head against my shoulder, the gesture so natural it catches us both off guard. It’s instinctive, the way my muscles tense, the way my pulse picks up speed.

She’s warm against me, her hair spilling over my sleeve, the scent of vanilla and citrusy curling around me.

She smells like home.

Like something I could spend the rest of my damn life with.

"They want me to do an interview. With one of the kids from your program." Her words are starting to slur together. "I didn't want to, but Big Mike—"

I frown. “What?”

Sophia hums, her head still resting against my shoulder, her body slumping into me like the weight of the night is finally catching up to her.

“The interview,” she murmurs, voice soft and drowsy. “Tomorrow. They set it up at—” She hiccups, her whole body jolting with the force of it. "Oh, I can't remember where. Somewhere."

She steamrolls ahead, waving a lazy hand, leaving my brain spiraling.

“Point is, I have to be bright-eyed and… and… and whatever that thing with the tail is tomorrow.”

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?

I almost smirk, but the confusion outweighs the amusement.

An interview with one of the kids from my program?

Why the hell would Big Mike set that up? And more importantly—why wouldn’t I know about it? I knew they were going after the program, to attract viewers and all that shit, but an interview? For what?!

My gut tightens, my brain firing on all cylinders, piecing together the edges of something that doesn’t quite fit.

But then Sophia shifts again, swaying precariously on the steps, her breath puffing against my arm. “Blake?”

“Yeah?”

She lifts her head, blinking up at me, her lashes heavy. “You’re very… sturdy.”

"And tall. Apparently. Come on, let's get you inside."

She grins, proud of herself for some reason, then lets out another loud hiccup before swaying so far sideways that I have to catch her. Again.

“Alright, that’s enough,” I mutter, hauling her to her feet.

“But—”

“Nope. Inside, Hart.”

She pouts, but she doesn’t fight me as I steer her toward the door, my mind still reeling over what she just said.

An interview with one of the youth kids. Tomorrow.

I don’t have time to process it.

Right now, my only focus is getting Sophia inside before she collapses on the damn front step.

I barely get my footing inside her apartment before she spins, pressing against me, hands flattening against my chest like she’s just remembered something vitally important to our survival.

"Wait," she says, voice low, hushed. "You could stay the night."

I go still.

Her fingers toy with my jacket collar, her touch featherlight but dangerous. Then her gaze flicks down. Just a quick glance at my mouth, but fuck, it’s enough.

My jaw tightens. My restraint is hanging on by a goddamn thread.

"Sophia." My voice is low. A warning she absolutely ignores.

She presses closer, her breath warm against my skin. “Come on… Stay with me. Please…”

I shake my head. “You’re drunk, sweetheart. And you have to be up early in the morning.”

Apparently you have some kind of interview to conduct.

"I'm turned on, sweetheart ," she teases, her voice all silk and whiskey.

I grit my teeth. “I think you need to go to bed.”

Her hands tighten in my jacket. “Come with me."

I want to. God, I want to .

She smells like that damn cocktail - sweet, bright, intoxicating - and for half a second, I let myself imagine it. Just one damn taste. One press of my lips against hers.

My forehead drops to hers before I can stop it, my grip on her hips threatening to snap as I fight the impossible pull of her.

I want to tilt her chin, claim that smart, teasing mouth, shut her up the only way I know will actually work.

But she’s drunk.

She’s warm and wobbly and barely standing upright, her lashes fluttering like the weight of the night is finally dragging her under.

And then - just as I brace for another torturous round of her endless goddamn taunting - her entire body sags.

“Christ, woman,” I mutter, shifting fast to hook an arm beneath her knees.

She murmurs something completely incoherent against my chest, half-asleep before I even cross the apartment towards what I'm guessing is her bedroom.

Soft, fluffy blankets are tangled on an oversized bed, the kind that makes you want to sink into it and never get up. A half-read book sits on the nightstand, the spine cracked, a coffee mug beside it with the faintest ring of dried caramel at the bottom.

Fairy lights drape along the window, twinkling softly against the snow outside. A fuzzy throw blanket is tossed over the foot of the bed, looking well-loved, and a single heel has been kicked under the edge of the dresser like she came home in a hurry one night and never bothered to move it.

It’s nothing extravagant. Nothing big-city corporate.

It’s warm. Soft. Hers.

I lower her down carefully on the mattress, tucking her under the blankets, my pulse still pounding in my throat.

She should be out. Should be snoring. Should be giving me some damn peace.

Instead, she grabs my wrist and tugs.

My body follows before I can stop it, knees hitting the edge of the bed as she cracks one eye open and murmurs, “Talk to me.”

I frown. “About what?”

She sighs, stretching, getting cozy under the blankets. “Anything. I like your voice.”

A huff of amusement escapes me. "Is that so?"

"Mhmm." Her voice is soft, sleepy. "Tell me about your childhood. Tell me about Eli. You seem close."

I sit back against the headboard, exhaling. "You really want to hear about that?"

"I want to know everything about you."

"Everything, huh?"

She flutters in the blankets, getting cozy and warm as her face rests way too close to my lap for me to be comfortable.

I start out telling her about school, slowly working my way up to the hardest part of my life.

“Iron Ridge was different back then,” I murmur, my voice low in the dim room. “Rougher. Mom worked three jobs just to keep the lights on. I spent most of my time at the rink because—well, because we didn’t have heat half the time, and at least the rink had hot water.”

Her fingers twitch, barely brushing against mine.

I glance down.

She’s still awake, barely, her eyes soft and heavy, her lips slightly parted in that almost kind of way.

I keep going.

“I started getting in fights. Acting out. All that shit that gets you labeled a problem kid.” I swallow hard. "Then one day, I’m out there with this piece-of-shit hockey stick I found in someone’s trash. Just hitting rocks across the ice, pretending they were pucks.”

Sophia hums, her breath warm against my arm.

I should stop. She’s drifting. Fading.

But somehow, that only makes it easier to keep talking.

“Eli found me there. He watched me for a while. Then he made me a deal - I could join his youth program if I kept my grades up and helped maintain the rink every day after school.”

My voice drops lower. “He changed everything. He gave me somewhere to belong. He was someone who gave a damn.”

I glance at Sophia.

She’s asleep now, her face soft and peaceful, her breath slow and steady.

I exhale slowly, watching her. The way her hair spills across the pillow. How her lips part slightly with each breath. How her fingers are still tangled in mine.

With a smile, I let go, and slide out of bed, pulling the blankets back up over her. Stepping back towards the door, I flick the light out and take a deep breath.

An interview with one of the kids. Tomorrow.

I need to talk to her about that. About everything .

But for now…

I flick the light off and step into the quiet hallway, exhaling hard.

Fuck. I'm in deep trouble with this woman.