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Chapter Twenty-Two

Blake

I lean against the boards, watching my kids battle it out on the outdoor rink. The Iron Ridge clock tower looms behind them, its face glowing gold against the darkening winter sky.

Steam rises from the players' helmets as they chase the puck across the ice, skating like they have since the first damn minute of the match.

The opposing team in their red jerseys has put up a good fight, but our green and gray colors dominate the ice.

Mikey, our smallest defenseman, throws a hip check that would make Connor proud. The crowd of parents gathered around the boards cheer, their applause mixing with the distant toll of the clock tower marking the hour.

Snow starts falling, fat flakes drifting down to dust the ice. The lights strung around the outdoor rink flicker on, a subtle light splashing over the playing surface.

It's pure hockey, this youth team stuff.

The kind that made me fall in love with the game. No fancy scoreboards or luxury boxes, just kids playing their hearts out under an open sky.

"Two minutes left!" I call out, tapping the boards with my stick.

I can see the determination on their faces. These moments matter more than any NHL game – watching these kids find their confidence, their strength, their love for the game.

Pride swells in my chest as Mikey intercepts a pass and rockets down the ice. The kid's got fire in his veins, just like I did at his age. His mom works doubles at the diner to keep him in gear, but you'd never know it from the way he plays – head high, shoulders back, pure determination.

"Nice hustle, Mikey!" My voice carries across the ice as he sets up Roger Jenkins for a perfect shot.

Roger's slapshot echoes through the rink like thunder. The puck finds the back of the net, and the small crowd of parents erupts. His mom couldn't make it today – another setback in her rehab recovery – but Roger's playing like a champion anyway.

Lei Tran zips past me, his skates barely touching the ice. Mrs. Tran clutches her hands together in the stands, praying just like she always does, surrounded by tupperware containers of her famous chocolate chip cookies.

She may not understand all the rules of this weird foreign game, but she understands her son's smile when he's on the ice.

My boys are up 3-0 with five minutes left. The kids are crushing it, playing like a real team. No showboating, no selfish plays.

Just pure hockey the way it should be.

I catch movement by the entrance and spot Sophia slipping in just like she promised she would after finishing up at the office. The flash of a camera draws my attention and I feel my fists squeeze together.

Some national reporter snapping photos of her like they have been of me all afternoon. At least it's just me and her, not the kids. So far. That was Sophia's promise, and she's kept it. Keep the spotlight on the captain, let the program stay pure.

Looking at my team – my kids – I realize I was wrong to fight her on this. Her plan protected exactly what matters most, and it's letting them continue to shine on the ice.

Mikey scores again, and the rink erupts. I pump my fist, letting out a whoop that makes Sophia laugh as she approaches me from behind.

Warm arms slide around my waist, and that familiar vanilla scent that drives me insane wraps around me.

"Hey, sweetheart," I say, leaning back into my girls warmth.

"Hey, you," she says, gripping my chin and turning me around to kiss me.

Cameras flash from somewhere, but for just a second, I don't care.

I pull away from the kiss, letting my hands fall to clutch hers as I take in her outfit - a cream cashmere sweater dress that hugs every curve, paired with knee-high brown leather boots. Her blonde hair falls in waves around her shoulders, looking too damn good to be out here in the cold.

"Careful, sweetheart," I growl, looking her up and down like a wild animal. "You're gonna distract my impressionable boys with that stunning rack."

"Blake Maddox!" She gasps, swatting my arm hard enough to sting.

My grin deepens as I rub the spot. "What? It's a fact. Your tits are fantastic."

Rolling her eyes at me, Sophia slides beside me at the boards, her eyes tracking the action on the ice, a face of pure stubbornness set on ignoring my heart-felt compliments.

"How's the team doing?"

"Good. Better than good. Look at them." I gesture to where Mikey's setting up another play, his passes crisp and confident. Lei swoops in to receive it, looking up for the next pass.

She watches for a moment, then turns that soft smile on me. "You built this, you know."

I don't answer right away, my throat tight as I watch these kids, my kids, play their hearts out.

Because yeah, I did build this.

Built it from nothing but hope and determination and the memory of what it felt like to be that angry kid with nowhere to go after my world fell apart.

Until Eli opened this door for me.

More flashes catch my eye from the parking lot. A small crowd of photographers has gathered, their long lenses pointed our way. My jaw clenches, but I force myself to stay focused on the ice.

"Ignore them," Sophia whispers, squeezing my hand. "They're just doing their jobs."

I grunt, watching the team set up another play from behind our goal. The cameras keep clicking, and my shoulders tense with each flash.

But Sophia's right - this is part of the deal now. I need to get used to it.

As long as they stay away from my kids, I can handle being their golden boy. Golden couple. Whatever.

Still, I pull Sophia closer, shielding her from their view with my body. Some things I want to keep just for us, despite the board at Icehawk HQ constantly breathing down Sophia's neck for 'more content'.

The final whistle blows, and my team erupts in cheers. Green jerseys pile together at center ice, sticks raised high. Pride swells in my chest as I watch them celebrate their 5-0 victory.

"Told you they'd kill it," I say, turning to Sophia with a grin.

But she's not watching the celebration.

Her eyes are fixed on her phone screen, thumb frozen mid-scroll. The color has drained from her face.

"What?" My stomach drops at her expression.

She blinks rapidly, shoving her phone into her pocket. "Nothing. Just a... notification."

But I know better now. Know the way her teeth catch her bottom lip when she's worried. How her fingers fidget with the hem of her sweater. In these past months, I've memorized every tell, every micro-expression of this incredible woman.

This isn't nothing.

"Sophia." I step closer, lowering my voice. "What's wrong?"

"Really, it's-" She stops herself, forcing a bright smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "The kids were amazing today. You should be so proud. Let's head to Ridgeview for a drink after, what do you think?"

My jaw clenches. Something's off.

"Sure."

The same instinct that warns me of an incoming check on the ice screams that something's wrong. But before I can press further, Mikey skates up to the boards.

"Coach! Did you see my goal? Top bins! Just like you always say!"

I paste on a grin for him. "Sure did, kid. Beautiful shot."

Eventually, I step outside the rink after chatting with the parents for a few minutes and find Sophia's a few feet away from the entrance. She has her back to me, phone clutched in her hand.

She's doom-scrolling again, her shoulders tense.

Something's still off.

"Enough." I snag her elbow, turning her to face me. "What's got you so rattled?"

She tries to pocket the phone but I catch her wrist. Our eyes lock in a silent battle before she finally relents, holding up the screen, shining it so bright in my eyes that I have to squint to make it out.

When I do, the headline hits me like a cross-check to the chest:

Blake Maddox's Off-Ice Distraction—Is Iron Ridge's Star Losing Focus?

Below it, photos of us. The kiss at the hotel in Chicago. Her at my games. Us at practice. There's even one of us the other morning when we went for a stroll up in the mountain trails.

And worse yet?

Each photo is twisted into something calculated and cold, used to serve the purpose of the story, not to paint the real picture.

"They're saying I'm..." Her voice cracks. "That I'm using you for publicity. That I'm the reason for your penalties last month. That the board hired me to-"

"Stop."

Ice floods my veins.

"Who wrote this?"

"Some sports blog picked it up first, but now it's everywhere." She scrolls through notifications. "Twitter, Instagram, major print outlets..."

My fingers curl into fists. We'd known the media attention would come, but this? This targeted hit piece? Right before we play the final regular season game on home ice? Right before we stake our claim to nab the last spot for playoffs?

"Blake, I swear I didn't-"

"Hey," I say, my voice softening. "It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay. I'm not blaming you."

She takes a deep breath, her eyes glistening. "It's just... all this work. Everything I've done. I wanted to protect the kids, the youth program. To protect you and everything you went through to get where you are."

Her voice wavers, and I feel it. Her pain.

It's raw, real, and it hits me right in the chest.

"But still... I'm not being taken seriously. I came here to make a change, to dive into my career and be that woman who changed the world. Just like mom did. And now... this ."

I reach out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I know," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I know, Sophia. It's bull shit."

And just as I'm about to pull her into my arms, I hear it. The click of a camera. The whirr of a shutter.

I turn, and there they are.

Paparazzi. Fucking vultures. Feeding on our private moment.

"Hey!" My roar echoes across the parking lot as the photographer bolts, his dark shape darting between cars like a startled meerkat on cocaine.

The camera bounces against his chest as he scrambles away, making a scene and collecting every hard glance from the parents who are just trying to take their kids home after a damn hockey match.

I take two steps to follow, my blood burning hot, but Sophia's hand catches my arm.

"Don't." Her fingers dig into my jacket. "It'll only make it worse, Blake."

She's right. Fuck, she's right.

But that doesn't stop the rage coursing through me.

This is exactly why I've kept my life private, why I've built walls around everything that matters. The media, the vultures - they don't care who they hurt or what they destroy as long as they get their fucking story.

I pull Sophia close, tucking her against my chest. We just stand there, and I hold her for as long as we both need. Her breath is stuttered and shaky against my neck.

"I can handle this," she whispers, but I hear the tremor in her voice. "I wanted to be strong. So I will be."

"No." It comes out like an order. And maybe it is. " We can handle this."

The weight of what's coming settles in my gut like lead.

The articles will keep coming. The photographers will keep hunting. They'll dig deeper, looking for dirt, for scandal, for anything they can twist into clickbait.

And eventually, they'll find the truth about the youth program. About my past. About everything I've fought to protect.

My jaw clenches as I watch another shadow dart between the cars, the flash of a camera lens catching the streetlight.

This can't continue. Not like this. Something has to give.