Page 23

Chapter Twenty-Three

Sophia

I wake to the gentle glow of dawn seeping through my curtains, my head still heavy with yesterday's media drama. It got so bad, I'd banished my phone to the depths of my sock drawer last night.

The mattress dips beside me, and Blake's solid, protective warmth shifts as he leans over. The rough pads of his fingers brush the hair away from my eyes, then soft, gentle lips kiss my temple.

"Morning, sweetheart."

His voice carries that delicious morning roughness that makes my toes curl. Deep, gravelly, filled with sleep and sexy seduction.

"Mmm… Is it too late for one of your famous steamy morning 'snuggles' ?"

His hand slides beneath the covers, fingers dragging over my bare thigh.

"Depends," he murmurs, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. "Are we talking the innocent kind of snuggles? Or the kind where I pin you to this bed and make you scream like a proud rooster waking up the entire damn town?"

I crack one eye open, fully expecting to see that cocky smirk he wears whenever he’s about to wreck me.

Instead, a steaming mug appears in front of my face.

"Unfortunately, baby, I have to get to the rink."

He sinks down on the side of the bed, kissing me again as I sit up and accept the cup with a grateful hum.

I groan, burying my face into the pillow as he sits on the edge of the bed.

"You’re cruel first thing in the morning, you know that?"

"But I finish practice at twelve. Meet me in the Player's Lounge after?"

I giggle and lean in for another kiss, pulling back and taking a moment to really look at him.

It's unfair how devastating he is first thing in the morning – all rumpled hair and sleepy gray eyes. The way he stretches and covers his yawn, muscles rippling across his broad shoulders, making my mouth water like I'm staring at a breakfast buffet.

My fingers itch to trace the Icehawks tattoo on his forearm, but I clutch my coffee mug instead. The media circus from yesterday churns in my stomach, threatening to spoil this peaceful moment.

But my sexy man?

He never lets me stew in the turmoil for too long.

The shower hisses to life in the bathroom, and my phone buzzes from its exile in my sock drawer. Placing my coffee on the nightstand, I pull it out and my mother's name flashes across the screen.

I press the phone to my ear. "Hey, Mom."

"Sweetheart, I just saw the articles. Just ringing to make sure you're okay?"

Shit.

There’s a softness in her voice I don’t expect, and that alone puts me on edge.

I brace myself for the lecture. The one about controlling narratives, staying ahead of the media cycle, and turning bad press into leverage.

Mom's built her career on managing sports media circuses just like this one and I'm actually surprised it's taken her this long to call me.

I rub my temple, already exhausted. More coffee. I need more coffee.

"I’m fine. It’s just noise. It’ll blow over."

"You sure about that?"

Oddly, her tone isn’t accusing. It’s knowing.

"What else am I supposed to do? This is the job, right? Media, spin, crisis control. It’s part of the package."

She hums in a way that I’ve seen a thousand times before - lips pressed, brow slightly furrowed. I don't even need to see her to know the expression on her face right now.

The same way she used to when I was a kid, sitting on the couch, watching her work PR magic with her high-profile clients. Athletes, coaches, sports executives, it didn't matter who it was, my mother had the answers.

"This isn’t just media spin, Sophia," she finally says. "It’s you. The way they’re talking about you, about your career, your relationship… It’s not about your work. They’re turning you into a story."

A lump forms in my throat.

I know she’s right. I've known it ever since we got back from Chicago. That's when things started to feel different. Not just around town, but in the board room too.

But hearing someone else say it? And not just me thinking it?

It stings .

I force a dry laugh. "Yeah, well, that’s what I get for falling for the star player, I guess."

"Does he make you happy?"

My mothers words knock the wind out of me.

I blink and sit upright in my bed. "What?"

"Blake," Mom says simply. "Does he make you happy?"

I open my mouth to respond, but I'm completely stunned.

Mom is not the type to entertain sentimental nonsense. She’s all strategy, all career focus, all ‘ keep your emotions in check ’ because that’s how women survive in this industry.

So for her to ask me this… it throws me completely off balance.

I glance up.

Through the cracked bathroom door, steam curls through the air, and I see Blake. He's completely naked, dripping wet in the shower, shameless as ever.

Then, he catches me looking, the phone pressed against my ear.

His mouth tilts into that cocky smirk that used to drive me insane. I hated that look. Then, because he’s ridiculous, he grabs a shampoo bottle and pretends to sing into it like a microphone.

My chest tightens with warmth.

God, I love this man.

I exhale a soft laugh and answer without thinking. "Of course he does."

"He makes me feel… safe. And seen." My voice drops a little, the honesty of the admission surprising even me. "Like I don’t have to prove myself all the time. He just… gets me ."

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line.

"Then I’m happy for you, sweetheart."

"You are?"

"Of course," Mom says lightly. "Blake’s a damn good player. But more importantly, he seems like a damn good man. Ever since he's actually started doing media, which by the way, thank you. "

I frown, sitting up straighter. "Wait, are you—are you actually endorsing this? You ? The woman who told me relationships were distractions? That love and ambition don’t mix?"

Another hum. "I might’ve been a little too rigid about that when you were younger. I'm older now, and things look… different."

I blink again. Who is this woman and what has she done with my mother?

"You always told me to work twice as hard," I say carefully.

"And does your job make you happy?"

My throat tightens. "It used to."

"Then maybe it's time to walk away."

I nearly drop my phone. This can't be my mother speaking – the same woman who fought tooth and nail in the male-dominated sports industry for decades.

"Sophia, listen. I've learned that respect only matters if it's given for the right reasons. Otherwise, it's just a leash." Her voice softens. "Sophia, sweetheart, you're too wonderful to just give in. Don't let them put a leash on you."

"I spent my whole career thinking I had to be twice as ruthless, twice as perfect, twice as untouchable. All because I was a woman. And I made it. But looking back? I sacrificed more than I should have. And I never want you to wake up one day realizing the same thing."

I stare at the wall, completely floored.

"Thanks, Mom."

After we hang up, I stand before my bedroom mirror. As odd as they were, my mom's words echo in my head.

Because she's right. That’s exactly what’s happening.

Not just the media frenzy, not just the board’s expectations, but everything.

This career I’ve fought for so long… is becoming the very thing I feared.

I take a long, deep breath. The daily boardroom meeting starts in an hour. I've spent months fighting to prove myself, bending over backward to show my worth.

For what?

So they can reduce me to Blake's PR girlfriend?

My reflection hardens. No. No fucking way.

Today that changes.

***

The sun is shining over a bright, beautiful winter's day in Iron Ridge, but even still, the boardroom has never looked so polished.

Of course, the usual sleek, professional setup remains. The long oak table, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Iron Ridge’s clock tower, even the food in the table is there.

But today, it's piled high.

Higher than usual.

And as I walk inside with my shoulders back, my face determined after talking with mother dear this morning, my eyes catch on something sitting on the table in front of my usual spot.

What the…

A massive bouquet of deep red roses sits in front of my usual chair, the fragrance so strong it nearly knocks me over. Beside it are two unopened bottles of wine - one red, one white. A small white card leans between them.

"For the woman who’s changed the game."

Greg grins like a proud father as he bursts inside the boardroom. “Sophia! Welcome! Thought we’d celebrate a little. Didn’t know your favorite drop, so you get both.”

He chuckles and pulls out a seat beside Big Mike, who's nodding approvingly at the head of the table.

“You deserve it. We’ve got big things to discuss today.”

I set my bag down and plaster my best fake smile.

"Okay.. thanks for the wine and flowers."

I scan the room, pulse kicking up. There are too many people here. More than there usually is.

And not just the usual Icehawks executives. No. More suits. Bigger names.

People I don’t recognize. People I do recognize. NHL executives.

My stomach plummets.

Greg claps his hands together. "First off, congratulations, Sophia. We've discussed it all before, but the numbers are beyond anything we imagined, and they just keep rising."

Greg starts a slow clap that spreads through the room like a stadium wave. The kind that makes me want to crawl under the table and hide with the dust bunnies.

Before I know it, the whole room is thundering with applause and gaping at me like I've just invented the game.

Big Mike chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, yes… The Blake Maddox Effect is unstoppable.”

Greg beams. “We’re making history here. And now?”

He gestures toward the NHL execs who are all staring at me like I'm the last slice of pizza at a frat party, and I'm not entirely sure if I should curtsy or run for the hills..

“It’s time to level up.”

Oh God.

I don't like the sound of that. This is not what I had planned when I stormed into the meeting you a few minutes ago, fired up after being pulled back into focus by mom.

Greg leans forward, hands splayed on the table. "Sophia, you’re no longer just a part of the Icehawks brand."

Big Mike nods, serious now. “The NHL has been watching everything that's been happening here at the Icehawks. And impressed as they are, they want to make you the official face of the league.”

My breath catches.

"They what ?"

The NHL execs exchange satisfied glances, the kind of look men give each other when a deal is already done. How much has Greg pocketed for this PR stunt I wonder?

Big Mike gestures around the room. “It’s never been done before. A woman as the face of the league. It’s groundbreaking.” He looks at me and smiles. "Your mother would be proud, Ms. Hart."

Greg misreads my shock. “Think about it, Sophia. Red carpets. National campaigns. Exclusive interviews. A brand deal with Chanel is already in the works.”

My stomach knots.

“This is next-level,” Greg continues, practically vibrating with excitement. “Blake and Sophia— the NHL’s golden couple .”

I grip the edge of the table. The air in the room shifts.

They don’t care about my work. They don’t care about my marketing strategies. They don’t care about hockey.

They want the Maddox-Hart Show.

Respect only matters if it’s given for the right reasons. Otherwise, it’s just a leash.

And this? This isn’t respect.

It's a fucking leash.

The scrape of my chair against the floor cuts through the boardroom like nails on a chalkboard.

Every head snaps toward me, but I barely notice. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. My hands are trembling, but my voice is steady as ice.

"Let me get this straight." I plant my palms on the table, leaning forward. "I came here to revamp the Icehawks' brand. To build something real and give this town a real boost."

I look around at the five-thousand-dollar suits and flashy gold watches.

"And now, you're telling me my job is to smile for the cameras and play the part of Blake Maddox's girlfriend?"

Greg waves his hand dismissively, that patronizing grin still plastered across his face. "Soph, come on. You're overthinking this."

"Overthinking it?" My laugh comes out sharp and bitter. "I wouldn't be put in this position if I was a man!"

The room plunges into dead silence.

Greg and Big Mike exchange a glance that makes my blood boil even hotter.

Greg clears his throat, adjusting his tie. "You should be flattered. Women kill for opportunities like this." He gestures toward the NHL executives. "You heard us mention the Chanel thing, right?"

Something snaps inside me.

All those months of work, years of work to get here, all those strategies and plans, reduced to this - to being nothing more than arm candy for their golden boy.

My fingers find my ID badge, unclipping it as I shake my head.

"Find another pretty face." I straighten my spine, meeting every shocked look around the table. "I quit."