Page 15

Chapter Fifteen

Sophia

T he moment my consciousness claws its way to the surface, I know one thing for certain.

I’m dying.

My eyeballs feel like they’ve been removed, stomped on, and put back in the wrong way. My mouth tastes like regret. My stomach lurches at the memory of that weird hockey shot from hell and the multiple pink cocktails I definitely did not need after it.

I groan, rolling over and fully prepared to die in this bed, only for my nose to bump against something unexpected .

My brows furrow as I crack one eye open, the dim morning light filtering through my curtains just enough to reveal the contents of my nightstand.

And oh.

Something smells good.

Like, really good.

I blink at my nightstand, my vision still fuzzy. At first, I assume I’m hallucinating. Because there’s no way in hell what I’m seeing is real.

I sit up too fast. "Shit, bad choice, bad choice."

My brain slams into my skull and I squeeze my eyes shut. But I force myself to focus because this? This deserves my full attention.

A thoughtfully assembled, over-the-top, too-perfect-to-be-coincidence care package sits on my nightstand. There's a thermos of coffee, clearly from Summit Café that's still warm when I grab it.

Beside it, is a neatly wrapped chocolate croissant, tied with baker's paper and a twine bow, like it's some kind of artisanal delicacy reserved only for proper French girls.

A take a slurp of coffee and swallow through the burn in my throat. Jeez. How much did I drink last night?

Lucky for me, there's a huge glass of water positioned precisely beside two painkillers, like it's been placed on my nightstand by the goddamn guardian of hangovers.

But, wait… there's a note.

I stare at it for a second, my heart thudding in my chest. I reach for the small note with shaky fingers, the paper thick with messy handwriting on the outside.

You talk in your sleep, Hart. And you snore. Yes you do. Yes, you DO.

Drink the water. Take the painkillers.

And don't embarrass yourself in your interview today.

-Blake

I exhale sharply, pressing my lips together as I stare at the note in my hand.

Of course, Blake Maddox can’t just be sweet. He has to be grumpy about it too.

He has to insult me while taking care of me, like it pains him to do something this thoughtful. Like he couldn’t just leave the coffee and croissant without making sure I know that, in his mind, I snore like a chainsaw.

But despite myself, my lips curve.

Because this… This is ridiculous.

He took care of me last night. And now, he's still doing it this morning. Not because he had to, but maybe, just maybe, because he wanted to.

The realization sinks into my chest, as I pick up the thermos and pop the lid, inhaling deeply.

The second the scent of fresh coffee hits my nose, my shoulders relax and my headache stops pounding for just a sweet, blissful moment. It’s from Summit Café - which is quickly becoming my favorite coffee in the world.

He got it exactly how I take it and I take a sip. A quiet, involuntary moan escapes my lips.

Sweet merciful caffeine gods.

Warmth spreads through me instantly, soothing the sharp edges of my hangover. If this is what being brutally hungover in Iron Ridge looks like, I might just start drinking more often.

Still smiling, I reach for my phone, ready to text Blake some kind of thank you. Probably something snarky, just to keep it light. Because I absolutely refuse to process whatever this means.

But the second I tap the screen, I freeze.

My notifications are insane.

Hundreds of them.

Texts. Missed calls. Emails. Social media exploding like the Fourth of July fireworks.

Then my eyes catch on the time in the corner of the screen and I spit a mouthful of coffee all over my new duvet.

"Fuck! I'm late!"

***

I rush into the interview room at Icehawk Stadium, my hair still damp from my rushed world-record length shower. My blouse is slightly misbuttoned, and I’m positive one of my heels is on the verge of snapping…

But I'm here. On time.

The production crew buzzes around, setting up lights and microphones while Greg fusses with camera angles.

"There she is!" Big Mike's deep voice carries across the room. "Our viral sensation."

I pause, my spine stiffening. "Sorry I'm late. I was finalizing the youth program documentation you requested-"

Not to mention, my head is still killing me.

"Oh, don't worry about that right now." Greg waves dismissively at the folder in my hands. "We've got bigger plans."

My stomach drops as I notice the camera setup. Three angles pointed at the interview chairs, none focused where the youth player will be sitting.

"Um, why-"

"The response to that skating video was incredible," Big Mike says, showing me his phone and cutting me off without even noticing. "We're onto something here. Engagement is through the roof. Comments section's gone wild speculating about you and Blake."

"And then that son of a bitch went and added fuel to the flames by blowing that kiss at you," Greg chuckles, grinning. "Classic Maddox."

"That wasn't the point of-"

"Sophia, listen. We need to capitalize on this momentum," Big Mike interrupts. "More content with you and Blake. Behind-the- scenes stuff. From now on out, you'll travel with the team, do interviews... all that usual shit."

"Travel with the team?" I blink. "What about my marketing initiatives? The community outreach programs I told you about?"

Big Mike claps my shoulder. "This is marketing, Sophia! The fans love you. You're relatable, you're fresh - you're exactly what we need right now."

I glance between them, reality sinking in like ice water down my spine. They don't care about my expertise or my plans for digital transformation.

They just want to parade me around like some kind of hockey Kardashian.

I haven't even looked at my phone this morning, but the way it's lighting up every few seconds tells me all I need to know.

My jaw clenches as I watch the crew adjust yet another light to hit my 'best angle.' Everything I've worked for, reduced to this - being the pretty face they can use to boost engagement.

I've spent my entire career proving I'm more than just a woman who happens to work in sports. Northwestern degree, innovative campaigns, countless late nights perfecting pitches – and what does it get me? A chance to be the Icehawks' version of a social media influencer because I happened to fall on my ass in front of their captain.

My phone buzzes again, probably another notification about that damn video. Each ping feels like another nail in the coffin of my professional credibility.

The youth program documentation in my hands – my real work, my vision for meaningful content – might as well be blank pages now.

"We'll start with some reaction shots," Greg says, gesturing to the chair. "Just smile and look... you know, approachable ."

Approachable. Right. Because that's exactly what I went to business school for.

But I force my expression neutral. Years of watching my mother navigate this world taught me when to pick my battles.

"Fine," I say, smoothing my skirt. "Where's the kid? Let's do the interview."

I settle into the interview chair as thirteen-year-old Jackson Maze fidgets nervously beside me, his Icehawks practice jersey slightly too big for his lanky frame. His dark curls peek out from under a well-worn team cap that looks like it's been signed by the entire locker room.

Poor kid is just as nervous as I am. He keeps glancing at the cameras and picking at his palms.

"Just pretend they're not there," I say softly, trying to channel my most reassuring smile.

But something nags at my fuzzy memory from last night. Some kind of flickering in my brain, half-buried under the fog of one too many cocktails.

Blake's voice, low and intimate in the darkness of my bedroom...

The memory slams into me.

Blake tucked me into bed. I remember it now.

His deep voice had woven stories about growing up in Iron Ridge as I nestled against him, trying my hardest to stay awake, just to listen.

They weren't just any stories - they were about how he'd been that kid, just like Jackson. A scrappy boy from the wrong side of town, getting into fights, anger burning through him until hockey gave him purpose.

Eli found me using a broken hockey stick…

Clean the rink, maintain good grades...

I glance at Jackson again, seeing him in a new light. The way he holds himself - proud but guarded, like he's waiting for someone to tell him he doesn't belong. Just like Blake must have felt at the same age.

Something settles heavy in my stomach.

And I don't think it's the hangover resurfacing.

I glance at the cameras. At Greg, rubbing his hands together like an evil genius at the thought of another viral moment coming his way.

"Ready?" Greg calls from behind the camera, his eyes flashing dollar signs already.

No. I'm not ready at all. Not when I finally understand what this program really means, what Blake has been trying to tell me all along.

And then, like I summoned him through sheer chaotic willpower, the interview room door swings open with way too much force.

Blake Maddox strides in, all towering dominance and authority, his presence immediately sucking the air out of the room.

The crew stops moving. Greg’s mouth falls open like a star struck teenager. Jackson practically vibrates with excitement.

And me?

I have deeply inconvenient thoughts about how stupidly good he looks right now, even if he doesn’t look at me at first.

His gaze goes straight to Jackson, his expression warming in that way that makes my stomach do deeply inconvenient things.

"Looking sharp, kid."

Jackson practically glows under his hero's praise.

But when Blake's eyes lock on me, they turn to steel.

My head throbs, but through the hangover haze, more of last night's conversation filters back.

And then… it hits me.

I straighten up, a sudden decision crystallizing inside the swirling slosh of a mess that is my head this morning.

If I want to keep the board out of Blake’s program, I need to give them something better. Something they can’t resist.

And I have just the thing.

"Ah, Blake! I'm so glad you're here, why don't you join us?"

"What?" He practically spits the word at me.

So much for the 'care' package.

"Come sit." I pat the chair next to Jackson, whose face lights up at the suggestion. "Share what the youth program means to you."

Blake stalks forward, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "What the hell are you doing?"

I flash my sweetest smile, fully aware that every single camera in the room is capturing this moment in high-definition glory. For just this moment, this isn’t about PR. It’s about making sure the board stops looking at his kids and starts looking at him.

"Oh, you know…" I bat my lashes for good measure. "Just telling a better story."

I can actually see the moment he realizes he’s trapped.

And God, it’s glorious.

"Sophia-" The warning in his tone could freeze hell.

"Please, Blake?" Jackson pipes up. "You never talk about when you started playing."

Blake's expression cycles through fury, panic, and resignation before settling on barely contained rage as he drops into the chair, glaring right at me.

He might hate me again. After we finally seemed to take some steps forward last night, here we are again.

But soon enough, I'll show him why I'm doing all of this.

He'll understand.

I signal the camera operator who has turned one of the cameras around to be pointed at Blake and Jackson now. Greg is practically doing cartwheels so much is his excitement.

Good. This won't be the fluffy PR piece they wanted, but it might be something far more important.

Blake's knuckles go white on the armrest. "You'll regret this, Sophia."

I’m either going to be a genius or a dead woman walking.

Because with Blake, there's no in-between.

"We'll see. Let's begin."