Page 8

Chapter Eight

Sophia

I might actually be concussed. That’s the only explanation.

My mind feels completely scrambled. My pulse is racing wildly like it wants to burst through my chest. And my mouth? Very much tingling, thank you for asking.

I stare straight ahead, barely seeing the festival lights, the bustling crowd, or the snow-dusted market stalls.

All I see is him .

Blake Maddox just kissed me.

No, actually. He devoured me. Pressed me up against a wall, stole every logical thought from my head, and left me with a one-way ticket to the "What the fuck just happened?" Olympics.

And I… didn't hate it.

Which is why I do the only reasonable thing a woman in my position can do. I take an aggressive bite of my caramel apple. Sugar helps with head spins, right?

Wrong.

The sweetness does nothing to drown out the lingering taste of him. The heat, the rough scrape of his stubble against my jaw, the way he-

Nope. Nope, nope, NOPE.

I punt the apple into the nearest trash bin and power-walk in the opposite direction like I’m fleeing a crime scene. Blake is quick to follow and soon the festival hums around us again, the twinkling lights, the smell of delicious food, the snow…

Couples wander between stalls, laughing, bundled up in oversized scarves, and somewhere in the distance, a brass band plays a cheerful, jazzy tune.

Meanwhile, Blake and I?

We are two perfectly rational adults who just fused our faces together behind a festival stall, and neither of us has a single goddamn word to say about it.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

I open my mouth, no clue what I’m about to say. A joke? A casual “Hey, about that kiss, wanna pretend it never happened” kind of thing?

Before I can decide, a loud shout breaks across the stream of people.

“Maddox! Maddox! We got a problem!”

I jerk my head up just in time to see Ryder and Logan charging toward us, both out of breath.

Blake tenses beside me, snapping out of whatever broody, post-make-out spiral he was having.

“The hell’s going on?” Blake demands.

Ryder grimaces. “Uh… kinda hard to explain.”

Logan crosses his arms. “Let’s just say the kids took some creative liberties with the snowball fight rules, and now there’s—” He gestures vaguely. “An uprising.”

I blink. “An uprising ?”

Ryder sighs, rubbing his temples. “Look, it’s fine , probably. Just… you might wanna handle it before the fire department gets involved.”

Blake curses under his breath, running a hand down his face like he already regrets whatever hell is waiting for him. "Those fucking kids, I tell you."

Then, finally, finally, he looks at me.

His gaze catches mine, unreadable, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know where to start.

My stomach flips.

His jaw tightens. Fingers flexing.

And then, like some kind of hockey-playing father figure, he pats me on the goddamn shoulder.

"Stay out of trouble."

My brain short-circuits. I swear to God my soul leaves my body as he turns his back and disappears into the crowd, storming alongside his teammates back towards the hockey rink.

Ummmm… what?!

What am I, one of his damn kids?!

Sure, let's kiss like the world is ending, like we're about to tear each other apart, like we're some kind of wild animals on heat, and then what?

A little shoulder pat and a dismissal?

Are you freaking kidding me, Maddox?!

I stomp past a row of twinkling festival stalls, fuming, my brain a tangled mess.

I should write an email. A strongly worded email.

One with bullet points. Maybe an entire PowerPoint deck about Blake's Maddox's dumb shoulder pat and why it's a crime against humanity.

I’m mid-internal rant when a strange, musty scent hits my nose. Is that… hay?

Before I can process that, something small and fast rams into my shin. I yelp, nearly tripping over a— a baby goat?! The little menace stares up at me, chewing smugly on my coat string as I try to pry it away from it's damn teeth.

Before I can argue with livestock, a voice calls out, “Sophia! Hey!”

Natalie is leaning over the fence of a petting zoo stall, casually laughing as a second baby goat tries to eat her scarf.

Could this day get any weirder? What in the hell is going on?

I go to open my mouth, but before the words come out another woman appears beside her. She's holding a fluffy gray rabbit and looking at me like she just caught me sneaking out of a stranger's hotel room at 3am.

"This is Mia, she's one of our local vet nurses, and this is her stall," Natalie says, wrestling her scarf from the determined goat. "And you look like you've seen a ghost. A very tall, hockey-playing ghost, might I guess?"

Mia's eyes dance with amusement as she shifts the rabbit in her arms. "Ohhhh, this is the marketing exec? The one Blake's been—"

"Don't." I hold up a hand, but my cheeks betray me with their burning.

"She's right… Why do you look like you just made out with an NHL player behind a snow cone stand?" Natalie's grin spreads wider.

"I... that's not..." I smooth my hair, which probably gives me away even more. "There was a snowball fight."

Mia hums, examining me like one of her feline specimens under a microscope. "Messy hair. Swollen lips. The slight dazed, ‘ where am I ?’ expression. Yep. Classic post-makeout syndrome.”

“I WAS HIT WITH A SNOWBALL,” I blurt out abruptly to the stunned face of what I can only describe as a stranger I've never met before.

A passing festival vendor literally pauses mid-step, giving me a side-eye before moving on. The baby goat also looks skeptical.

"Uh huh." Mia exchanges a look with Natalie. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

Natalie hands the goat a fresh piece of hay, still smirking like she's won something. "You clearly need us more than we realized. You, me, Mia, and a lot of cocktails. Girls' night at Summit Café soon?"

"I don't usually..." I trail off, distracted by movement on the other side of the walkway. A flash of broad shoulders and gruff features.

“Are you saying no?” Mia narrows her eyes.

I blink absently. “I—I just meant—”

Natalie gasps, clutching her chest. “Mia. She’s rejecting us.”

Mia nods solemnly. “Tragic. First Blake, now us."

“Oh my god,” I groan, rubbing my temples. “Fine! Yes! Girls’ night. Happy now?”

Natalie beams, victorious. “Ecstatic.”

Mia grins. “Don't worry. We’ll corrupt you properly.”

I nod, barely processing what I'm agreeing to as I spot Eli Thompson across the walkway.

"Uh. I gotta go," I blurt out, already stepping backward. "Talk soon and Natalie, thanks for showing me around— Mia, stop smirking at me! ”

Mia grins like the Cheshire Cat. “No promises.”

I groan and roll my eyes, turning on my heel and heading straight for the man with all the answers I need right now. It's clear that Eli knows Blake. And if my mom taught me anything, it's that when you have a problem, you go straight to the top.

And who's the biggest hero the Icehawks have ever had? Who understands the team better than anyone?

"Eli!" I smile brightly at him as he stands near a wooden whiskey-tasting stall.

From what I've heard these past two weeks, this man is an Icehawks legend. A retired enforcer with a face carved from stone and a presence that makes people shut up and listen. He’s the kind of guy who knows everything that happens in this town… probably before it even does.

He turns, eyes sharp beneath weathered brows, and a small smirk tugs at his mouth like he already knows exactly why I’m here.

"Sorry I didn't get to talk to you properly before. I was… dragged away."

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah, I saw. Hell of a snowball fight this year.”

I ignore the way my stomach tightens at the thought of what he saw.

Focus, Sophia.

“I was thinking…” I tread carefully, watching his face. “Earlier, you said something about the youth program meaning something to Blake. What did you mean by that?”

Eli doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he studies me, his expression unreadable but knowing, like he’s deciding just how much he wants to say.

Then he just chuckles. A deep, low sound that’s more amused than dismissive. Not a full laugh. More like a man recalling something private. Something important.

And that only makes me more curious.

“Look,” I press, folding my arms over my coat. “If I’m supposed to be working with this team, then I should understand what’s important to them. Why does the youth program matter so much to him?”

Eli exhales slowly, his breath a soft mist in the cold.

“Listen, Sophia. That's not my story to tell,” he says simply.

I bite back a groan. “Seriously?”

His smirk deepens. “If you really want to understand Maddox…” He shifts his weight, glancing briefly toward the main street. “Swing by Ridgeview Tavern tomorrow night. I'll be there. I think it might help explain a few things.”

Eli gives me one last knowing smirk before turning toward the whiskey stall, conversation clearly over.

***

The Ridgeview Tavern is louder than I expected.

Not in an overwhelming, big city club way, but in a deep bellied laughter, glasses-clinking, someone-yelling-about-last-week’s-game kind of way.

It’s the kind of place that feels alive .

A massive stone fireplace dominates one corner, flames dancing behind the grate. The walls showcase decades of hockey history - signed pucks, vintage photos, worn sticks mounted like trophies.

An Icehawks jersey hangs in pride of place above the bar, the signature across the number faded but still visible. The bar top itself is polished, lined with locally brewed beer taps and bottles of whiskey that look like they’ve been here longer than I’ve been alive.

This isn’t just a bar.

It’s history. It’s belonging. It’s everything Iron Ridge bleeds for.

The tavern buzzes with life. A group of regulars cluster around a table, their laughter punctuating the classic rock playing softly overhead. Two older men at the bar debate what sounds like ancient playoff statistics, while a younger couple shares delicious looking wings in a corner booth beneath a framed newspaper declaring "IRON RIDGE CLINCHES NEWEST FRANCHISE."

This isn't just some sports bar with memorabilia slapped on the walls. Every photo tells a story. Every mounted stick probably scored a legendary goal. The worn wooden floors have absorbed thousands of celebrations and commiserations.

For the first time since arriving in this town, I hesitate.

I know how to walk into boardrooms. I know how to pitch ideas, command attention, sell a vision.

But this?

This isn’t business. This is personal.

I tug off my gloves, shoving them into my coat pockets as I scan the room.

I spot Eli behind the bar and something clicks. This is his bar. That's his jersey above the bar, and they're probably his game-winning pucks that he's signed.

I smile his way and he pulls a glass out of nowhere, clutching a whiskey bottle and gesturing towards an empty stool. I cross the room, weaving between tables, dodging a waitress balancing a tray of overflowing beers and settle on the stool right at the front of the bar.

"Welcome to Ridgeview," Eli says, setting the short glass down in front of me with a soft thunk. "Been expecting you, Ms. Hart."

I take a sip of the whiskey - smooth, rich, with a hint of vanilla. Not the mass-market stuff I'm used to in corporate bars.

"How'd you know I'd come?" I ask.

Eli's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Because from where I'm standing, I can see you're smart enough to know there's more to this team than stats and social media metrics."

He pulls out a weathered photo album from under the bar, leather cracked with age, the edges worn like it’s been flipped through a thousand times.

From somewhere down the bar, a gruff voice groans, “Oh God, he’s got that damn photo album out again.”

Another voice chimes in, equally exasperated. “Somebody cut him off before he starts telling the ‘when I broke my nose in the playoffs and still scored the game-winner’ story.”

Eli doesn’t even look up as he flips the album open. “If you old bastards don’t like my stories, you’re welcome to take your asses to the diner for a warm milk and a nap.”

A round of grumbling laughter ripples down the bar.

I fight the tug of a smile as Eli flips the first page.

"See this?" He points to a black and white shot of men clearing snow off what looks like a frozen pond. "That's where the Icehawks started. No fancy stadium. No corporate boxes. Just folks who loved the game enough to shovel snow at five AM so their kids could play."

I sip my whiskey as the pages turn before my eyes, each one revealing another piece of history. Players in vintage uniforms. Play-off celebrations. Community events.

"This town was dying back then," Eli continues, wiping a glass. "Steel mill closed. Shops shuttering. But hockey? Hockey gave people something to rally around. Something to believe in."

A cheer erupts from the corner table - someone's telling a story about a legendary game-winning goal.

"That youth program you're so interested in? The one Blake thinks you're trying to ruin?" Eli's voice drops lower. "It's not about creating feel-good content, Ms. Hart. For some of these kids, it's the only stable thing they've got. The only place they belong."

I think about the practice rink, about Blake teaching that small boy how to stop properly. About the pride in the kid's eyes when he finally got it right. About the game at the winter festival yesterday.

"The Icehawks aren't just a hockey team," Eli says, refilling my glass. "They're the heartbeat of Iron Ridge. Always have been."

I glance around the tavern again, seeing it with new eyes. Every photo, every mounted stick, every jersey - they're not decorations. They're pieces of people's lives. Their hopes. Their dreams. Their identity.

My marketing strategy suddenly feels hollow, superficial.

I've been planning to try to sell a product when this was never about products at all.

I trace my finger along the edge of my whiskey glass, gathering my courage. "Don't get me wrong… this history lesson is fascinating, Eli. Really, it is. But what does it have to do with Blake? Why does he fight so hard against letting me tell these kids stories?"

Eli's ice-blue eyes lock onto mine, and for a moment, I see a flash of that legendary enforcer who used to protect his teammates on the ice. "Like I've told you, that's not my story to tell, Ms. Hart. But I will say this – some of us understand that program better than others because we've lived it. That's why you needed to see this, to see beyond the glass-walled office that you've been living in."

He turns another page in the album, and I catch a glimpse of a much younger Eli, kneeling next to what looks like a teenage boy with familiar ash-blond hair. The photo is worn, creased, like it's been handled countless times.

I'm sure it's a younger looking… Blake?

Before I can get a better look, Eli closes the album with a decisive snap. "Sometimes the best stories are the ones that stay untold. At least until the right person comes along to tell them. If you really want to change the youth program, Ms. Hart, then do so under Blake Maddox's guidance. Go behind his back, and he might never forgive you."

I take another sip of whiskey, letting the warmth spread through my chest as understanding begins to dawn.

Blake isn't just protecting those kids from the outside world – he's protecting something much more personal.

The question is: what the hell am I going to do with the board already breathing down my neck?