Page 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

Blake

I stand at Ridgeview's bar, my fingers drumming against the polished wood as I watch reporters file in. The stale scent of beer and decades of hockey history fills the room, but today it's different.

Today, everything changes.

"You sure about this, kid?" Eli wipes down glasses behind the bar, eyeballing every journalist and reporter who walks through the front door to his bar.

"Never been more sure of anything."

Except maybe Sophia.

The thought of her face on ESPN yesterday, those vultures tearing apart her career, seeing the pain they caused her… and that fucking suitcase, packed and ready in her apartment.

Just thinking about it makes my jaw clench.

I've spent years protecting myself, hiding from the spotlight, keeping my past buried. But they went after her. They made her doubt herself.

And that's where I draw the line.

Camera crews jostle for position near the dartboard, their equipment looking comically out of place against the worn wooden walls covered in jerseys and memories of Icehawks years gone by.

"Kid, I gotta say..." Eli's eyes crinkle with amusement. "You might be the first hockey player to ever host a press conference next to a dartboard."

I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension. My heart pounds against my ribs, but not from the usual pre-game adrenaline that floods my system.

This is different. This is everything I've run from.

Somewhere out there, my father might be watching. It didn't occur to me until I woke up this morning. But fuck it. Let him see. Let him see what his son became despite him.

"It's not a press conference," I mutter, watching more reporters squeeze through the door. "Eli, today is a reckoning."

He smirks and shoots me a wink.

There are plenty of Eli's contacts here – retired players, local journalists who actually give a damn about the game and not the numbers behind it. People who've known me since I was that weird kid who could hit a puck harder than anyone they'd ever seen.

They're all here.

They're the ones who'll tell this story right.

The NHL has never owned me. The media's never controlled me. But Sophia? They turned her into a headline.

And I let them.

Not anymore.

The door chimes for the millionth time today, but this time, my heart stops when I look up.

There she is.

Sophia freezes in the doorway. The confusion in her eyes shifts to disbelief, then to something between panic and fury as she scans the packed tavern.

I probably should have given her some warning.

But she would've tried to talk me out of it.

Or worse, not come at all.

Every table is filled. It looks like I've cornered here into some kind of media ambush. This is everything she doesn't need right now, everything she's trying to hide from.

I get that. I've spent my whole damn life like that.

But if I can just get to the point, get to the interview, she'll see.

She'll see it's all in the name of us.

Connor and Logan occupy their usual corner booth, Ryder perched on a chair he's pulled up beside them. Clara from Summit waves from her spot near the front, gesturing to a steaming cup of coffee she's saved for Sophia.

The whole damn town showed up. I knew they would.

Except the suits.

No sign of Big Mike or Greg anywhere, which is exactly how I planned it.

The corporate vultures won't get their claws into this. Won't twist it into another PR stunt or sponsorship opportunity.

This is about setting things right, on our terms. My terms.

Connor raises his beer in a silent toast while Logan and Ryder try, and fail, to look casual. They've got my back, same as always. Even Coach Brody showed up, though he's trying to blend into the shadows.

I follow his eyes, and they're directed at Natalie and Mia at the bar, both of who are giving me encouraging thumbs up.

The youth program families fill half the tables - not because I asked them to come, but because they heard what happened to Sophia and showed up on their own.

That's Iron Ridge for you. We protect our own.

Clara spots Sophia and jumps up, handing over the coffee - probably spiked with something stronger, knowing Clara - and drags her down to the spare seat where I want my girl.

This is it. Everything is set.

No fancy cameras, no corporate logos, no carefully crafted PR statements. Just us, our people, and the truth.

This is how it should be. How it always should have been.

Camera crews adjust their equipment. Reporters tap their pens against notepads.

Sophia's eyes finally find mine from her seat. Her expression screams What the actual fuck did you do?

I can't help the smirk that tugs at my lips. She's still so fucking gorgeous when she's mad.

Eli clears his throat beside me, straightening his collar as he prepares to take the makeshift stage we've created near the dartboard. The same spot where he used to talk me through endless plays when I was too young to actually drink in his bar.

I catch Sophia's eye again and wink. Her responding glare could melt ice.

But underneath the anger, I see something else. Something that makes my chest tight.

Fear.

Don't worry, baby. After today, no one's ever going to question your place here again.

I move through the crowd toward Eli, dodging Connor's attempt to trip me and Logan's elbow jab. The familiar path to the dartboard feels different with every eye in the place locked on me.

Eli grabs the microphone someone's jerry-rigged to the ancient speaker system. The feedback makes half the room wince. Leave it to Eli to turn my carefully planned moment into a circus.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Ridgeview Tavern—home of cheap whiskey, bad decisions, and apparently…" Eli looks to me, brow arched. "…live press conferences now."

A ripple of laughter runs through the crowd. Even Sophia's lips twitch, though she's still giving me that death glare.

I take my place beside Eli, bracing for whatever's coming next. Twenty-plus years of knowing this man has taught me to expect the unexpected, but I trust him more than anything.

"Tonight, we have a special guest: The Icehawks Captain himself, Blake ' Mad Dog ' Maddox!"

The whole damn place explodes. Whistles, cheers, and apparently now, a stupid "Mad Dog" chant that Connor starts in from the corner booth.

Mad-dog! Mad-dog! Mad-dog!

I shoot Eli my best captain's glare. The one that makes rookies skate extra laps and reporters rethink their questions.

"Mad Dog?" I grunt. "Seriously?"

Eli just grins, that same shit-eating grin he wore the day he caught me stealing pucks from the practice rink when I was twelve.

The bastard's enjoying this. Some favor.

In front of me, I catch Sophia hiding a smile behind her coffee cup. At least someone's finding this funny.

Eli's voice softens as he leans into the mic. "Some of you old-timers like me might remember a scrawny kid who used to hang around the rink. Angry. Lost. Looking for trouble." He catches my eye. "Well, that kid became our captain."

The room goes quiet. Even Connor stops his stupid chanting.

"Back then, that kid spent more time cleaning the rink than playing on it." Eli's gravelly laugh echoes through the mic. "But he had heart. Showed up every morning at five, scraped the ice until his hands bled. All for a chance to skate later on that day."

I catch Sophia's gaze across the room. She swallows so hard I see it.

"You should've seen him back then." Eli gestures toward me. "Skinny as a rail but hungry. Not just for food, though Lord knows he cleaned out my kitchen often enough. But he was hungry for hockey. For something bigger than himself."

The reporters lean forward, pens poised. This is the story they've been chasing for years, but I've never let anyone tell it. Until now.

"That determination, that grit - it made him the man you see today. Your captain. Your Mad Dog." Eli pauses, and looks at me with a teasing glint in his eye. Asshole. "But in all these years, I've never seen him as determined as he is right now. And folks, I don't think it has anything to do with hockey."

My chest tightens as Eli's words land.

He's right.

For the first time in my life, something matters more than the game.

My hands are sweating as Eli steps back, passing me the mic.

This is it. Everything I've spent years protecting, everything I've hidden - I'm about to lay it all bare.

I grip the mic tight. "Yeah, um… hello. Welcome."

A polite applause.

Fuck, this is awkward.

"Listen, I don't do press. I don't do media. At least, I didn't. But today? I'm making an exception because I have some things I want to say."

I clear my throat, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.

"Not gonna lie—this is the part where I usually let my stick do the talking. Or, you know, throw a punch."

A few chuckles ripple through the room.

I hate this. Hate having the eyes of the media dissecting every move I make.

But then I picture her .

Sophia.

Her eyes red, a packed suitcase by the door. The way she almost walked away from everything because of this bullshit.

I exhale hard.

And then, I start to tell my story.

"Growing up in Iron Ridge, my life started like any other story. Happy family. Mom, Dad, little house up on Maple Street. Dad took me skating before I could walk. Put a stick in my hands soon as I could stand."

The crowd murmurs appreciatively. A few nods from the old-timers who remember those days.

"This town... it's special. The way hockey runs through its veins. The way the whole place shuts down for home games. The way everyone shows up with casseroles when someone's hurting." I gesture around the tavern, knowing they get where I'm coming from. "Hell, look at this place. Ridgeview Tavern is covered. Every inch drenched in memories. Stories. Dreams."

Connor raises his beer and hollas. A few others follow suit.

"I learned to love the game here. Spent hours on that frozen pond by the stadium. Must've shot a thousand pucks at my dad's garage door." I crack a smile. "Sorry about those dents, Mrs. Peterson."

Laughter ripples through the room. Mrs. Peterson, still living in that house after all these years, waves from her corner booth.

My smile fades. "But then..."

The room goes quiet. Even the clink of glasses stops.

"Things changed. The game changed."

My knuckles go white around the mic. I hear Sophia's sharp intake of breath from across the room.

Stay strong, sweetheart. I'm getting there.

"I was ten years old. The day after my birthday." The words already taste bitter on my tongue. "And suddenly, that happy story? That perfect little American hockey family? It all fell apart."

The reporters' pens scratch frantically against their notepads. This is what they've been waiting for. The original story of Blake Maddox. The dark past I've kept buried all these years.

But for once, I don't care what they write.

Because this isn't about me anymore.

"The next few years? I was pissed. At him. At my mom. At the world. I started fights, broke shit, lost every good thing I had." I shake my head, exhaling sharply. "But if it wasn't for one man, Eli Thompson, ladies and gentlemen, there would be no me."

The applause hits like a wave.

Eli's looking smug as hell, but he's earned it. I mean it.

"Every damn good thing I've had since the day my life changed forever is because of him." I turn to face the cameras directly. "But lately, there's one more person that helps me get through each and every day. And suddenly, the hockey family I love so dearly, isn't playing nice."

The room goes dead silent.

I find Sophia's eyes in the crowd, giving her a small nod before locking my eyes on the camera again. On every reporter who printed those bullshit headlines.

"And I've had enough."

My throat tightens. My chest burns.

A small whisper passes through the room, but I don't falter. We're in overtime now, and that's when Blake Maddox rises to the top.

"To all those people out there thinking Sophia Hart rode my name to the top? You've got it backwards. I'd give up my name for her ." My voice carries clear and strong. "I've captained this team for a decade. I've given everything to this sport. But I have never met someone more determined, more brilliant, and more worthy of this job than Ms Sophia Hart."

The reporters' pens have stopped moving. Every phone is raised, recording.

"The Icehawks brought her in for a reason. And she's done a damn good job." More cheers and hollas. "For those of you don't see her for what she is? Then you don't deserve her."

A murmur ripples around. The kind of sound people make when they know they’re witnessing something big. Something that can’t be spun any other way.

"You think a couple of smug panelists and washed-up execs can take her down? You think a few bullshit headlines are enough to shake me? To shake her? "

My voice drops lower, deadlier.

"Then you don’t know Sophia Hart."

I lean into the mic, slow and deliberate. "And you sure as hell don’t know me."

I let the silence stretch for a second longer, my pulse steady, my message unmistakable.

Then I lean back.

"This bullshit stops now. The headlines? The constant harassment? Taking aim because she's a woman? This is hockey, and all this circus crap, it's ruining the game we love."

"Don't ruin hockey with your stupid egos. It's got no place in our game, and good people like my girlfriend over there shouldn't have to put up with your masochistic shit."

"Thank you all for coming."

A long beat passes through the room, then pure Iron Ridge chaos erupts.

Cameras flash. Voices overlap. Reporters scramble, shouting questions, but I don’t answer.

Because I don’t need to.

The message is loud and clear.

I push through the crowd, not caring who I knock aside. My focus narrows to one person - Sophia. Her eyes are wide, glistening with tears as I climb over chairs to reach her.

My hands find her waist and I lift her up, pulling her against me.

The smell of her perfume hits me as I crush my mouth to hers. She tastes like everything I never knew I needed until she stormed into my life with her marketing plans and determination to ruin my world.

"I love you," I breathe against her lips. "Forever."

The tavern erupts around us. Connor's voice rings out first, of course it fucking does.

"IR-ON RIDGE! IR-ON RIDGE! IR-ON RIDGE!"

Others join in, the chant building like thunder. Even Eli's gravelly, suddenly emotional voice joins the chorus as he gives me a wink and a nod that looks something like a proud father would do.

"IR-ON RIDGE! IR-ON RIDGE! IR-ON RIDGE!"

I keep Sophia pressed against me, one hand tangled in her hair as the chants echo off the wooden walls. I throw my fist in the air with each beat of the chant, and Sophia just laughs beside me.

This is my town. My team. My girl.

And now they're playing by my rules.