Page 8

Chapter 8

Evan

W ednesday mornings at the Blades' practice facility usually belong to me.

It's my time—just me, the ice, and the satisfying thwack of pucks against my pads. No teammates. No coaches. No distractions.

But today, the usual peace of my pre-dawn ritual is broken by three things. To start with, my nephew, who's currently sending shot after shot at my net with the kind of intensity that makes me proud (and a little concerned for my ribs). Second, a certain reporter, perched in the stands with her ever-present notebook, somehow making our practice gear look good.

And, last but not least, Clark fucking Ellis—hockey player-turned-blood-sucking-sports-agent, who's been lurking around the facility like a badly-dressed vulture since dawn.

"Uncle Evan?" Ryland's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You okay? That last one almost got through."

Almost being the operative word. Even distracted, I'm still the Ice Man.

"I'm fine." I straighten up, resetting my stance. "Again."

He eyes me skeptically but takes his position. The kid's got good instincts—on and off the ice. Which is exactly why I need to keep Clark away from him.

The next shot comes in hard, top corner. I snag it cleanly, but my satisfaction is cut short by slow clapping from the bench area.

"Nice save, Daniels. Still got it after all these years."

Every muscle in my body tenses at that voice. Three years later, and Clark Ellis still has the ability to make my blood run cold.

"Mr. Ellis!" Ryland calls out enthusiastically, because my nephew has no idea what kind of asshole Clark Ellis is. "Did you see that shot?"

"Sure did, kid. You've got your uncle's talent. Maybe even more."

I risk a glance at Sophie in the stands. She's watching the interaction intently, pen poised over her notebook. But something in her expression changes as she observes us, that sharp journalist's instinct picking up on the sudden tension in the air.

She catches my eye, and I see the moment she decides to intervene.

"Ryland!" Her voice carries across the ice. "Mind if I get some quick shots of you practicing your stick handling? The lighting's perfect right now."

God bless Sophie Bennett and her perfect timing.

Ryland skates off eagerly—he's already figured out that Sophie actually cares about getting things right, not just getting attention. Which leaves me alone with Clark.

"Careful there, Evan." He’s all slick blond hair and fake smiles, Clark leans against the boards, everything about his posture calculated to look casual. "Your new little reporter friend seems awfully interested in team dynamics."

"Stay away from my nephew, Clark."

"Now, is that any way to talk to an old teammate?" His smarmy smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Besides, I'm just here as an agent. Young talent like Ryland needs proper representation."

"He has an agent."

"He has his mommy making calls. That's not the same thing." Clark straightens his designer tie—always trying too hard, always pushing too far. "I could do big things for him, Evan. Open doors. Make connections."

"The way you've done for all your other clients?" I keep my voice steady, though my hands want to shake. "How many of them are still playing?"

Something ugly flashes across his face, but before he can respond, Sophie materializes at his elbow.

"Mr. Ellis? Sorry to interrupt, but I couldn't help overhearing—you used to play with the Blades, right?"

Clark's expression shifts instantly to his media smile. "Sure did, sweetheart. Few years before your time, I imagine."

I watch Sophie barely hide a wince at “sweetheart” but her polished smile never wavers.

"Actually," she says brightly, "I was just reviewing some old game footage for background on the Daniels hockey legacy. Your last season was...interesting."

The way she says “interesting” makes Clark's smile slip.

"Lot of penalty minutes that year," she continues innocently. "Especially in that game against Pittsburgh. The one where you got suspended for unsportsmanlike conduct? And then there were those rumors about your post-career dealings with rookie players..." She tilts her head. "I'd love to get your perspective on your approach to player management."

"Another time maybe." Clark straightens his tie again, a nervous habit I remember from our playing days. "Got a meeting across town."

He walks away trying to look unhurried, but I catch the tension in his shoulders.

"So," Sophie says once he's gone, "that's Clark Ellis."

It's not quite a question.

"Sophie…"

"The same Clark Ellis who left the league under a cloud of controversy and now seems very interested in your nephew?" Her eyes are sharp, assessing. "I might be new to this, but even I can spot a shark in a bad tie."

I stare at her. "How did you…"

"I'm good at my job, Evan." She meets my eyes steadily. "I'm also good at knowing what doesn't belong in a story."

The knot in my chest loosens slightly. "The Pittsburgh game?"

"That part's public record. But the way you tensed up when he approached..." She shrugs. "Let's just say I've developed a good radar for people who bring out the Ice Man's ice mode."

"You didn't have to do that."

"Do what? Casually mention his questionable history? Point out that his post-hockey career has been marked by rookies signing bad contracts?" She adjusts her notebook. "Just doing my job. Research is kind of my thing."

"Your job is covering Ryland."

"My job is telling the truth." She glances over to where Ryland is still practicing, thankfully out of earshot.

I'm saved from having to respond when Ryland skates over.

"Sophie! Did you get the shots you needed? Uncle Evan's been helping me with this new move. Want to see?"

"Actually," I cut in, "practice is done for today."

"What? But we just started…"

"Hit the showers, kid. We'll pick this up tomorrow."

He looks between Sophie and me, then at Clark's retreating figure. He's not stupid—he can feel the tension in the air.

But he just says, "Sure, Uncle Evan. Same time tomorrow?"

I nod, grateful for his discretion. Another thing that makes him different from Clark—he knows when to push and when to let things lie.

Once he's gone, Sophie turns to me. "I should get going too. Got to transcribe my notes and…”

"Have coffee with me."

The words are out before I can think better of them.

She blinks. "What?"

"Coffee. Do you have time?"

"I...yes. But…"

"There's a place around the corner. Good coffee. Quiet." I take off my mask, mostly to give my hands something to do. "We should talk about...boundaries. For the feature."

"Boundaries," she repeats. "Right. For the feature."

"Unless you have somewhere else to be?"

"No! I mean, no. Coffee sounds good. Great. Very...professional."

Professional. Right. Because that's what this is.

Never mind that I've been thinking about how she felt pressed against me during those golf lessons. Or how she doesn't seem to care about who I am and what I do—she just treats me like...me.

Or how she just faced down Clark Ellis armed with nothing but old game footage and scary-accurate research skills.

"Let me just..." She gestures to her notebook and camera. "Five minutes?"

"I'll meet you out front."

She nods and hurries off. I head to the locker room, very deliberately not watching her go.

“Nice job, Casanova,” Ryland says from where he's apparently been eavesdropping. “So subtle.”

"Shouldn't you be showering?"

"Shouldn't you be admitting you like her?"

I throw my blocker at him. He dodges, laughing.

"Just saying," he calls as he heads for the showers, "coffee is a good start!"

Kids these days. No respect for their elders.

Twenty minutes later, showered and changed, I find Sophie waiting by her car. She's swapped her practice gear for jeans and another one of those Blades hoodies she seems to live in, her near-black hair falling in waves around her shoulders.

She looks soft. Touchable. And very dangerous.

"Ready?" I ask, pushing away thoughts that have no business being in my head.

"Lead the way."

The coffee shop is exactly as I remembered—quiet, tucked away, the kind of place where no one looks twice at a hockey player and a reporter having coffee at eight a.m.

"So," Sophie says once we're settled in a corner booth, "boundaries…"

Right. Boundaries. The reason we're here. Not because I like the way she scrunches her nose when she's thinking, or how she wraps her ponytail around her fingers absentmindedly.

"About Clark," I start, then stop. How do I explain this without explaining everything?

"We don't have to talk about him." She takes a sip of her coffee. "Really, Evan. Whatever history is there...it's not my business. And it's definitely not going in the feature."

"No?"

"No." She sets her mug down firmly. "This story is about Ryland.”

"Even if drama would get more clicks for your website?"

"Even then." She leans forward, eyes intense. "Look, I get why you don't trust reporters. I get why you want to protect your family. But I'm not here to dig up dirt or create controversy. I'm here to tell a story about hope, and hard work, and the kind of love that makes people better."

"The kind of love that makes people better," I repeat softly.

"Yeah." Her cheeks pink up slightly. "Too cheesy?"

"No." I study her face, searching for any sign of deception and finding none. "No, that's...that's exactly what Ryland needs people to see."

She smiles, bright and genuine, and something in my chest shifts.

Because maybe, just maybe, she sees more than she's letting on.

Maybe she sees how I'm trying to be better—for Ryland, for Natalia, for myself.

Maybe she sees me.

And maybe that's not as terrifying as it should be.

"So," she says, pulling out her notebook, "about tomorrow's practice..."

I let her steer us back to safer topics, watching as she outlines her ideas for the feature. She's good.

Thorough. Thoughtful. Always thinking about how to protect Ryland while still telling his story.

And if I spend too much time watching her hands move as she talks, or noticing how the morning light catches her hair...

Well, that's my problem.

For now, we have boundaries.

For now, we have coffee and conversation and the promise of a story worth telling.

For now, that has to be enough.

Even if part of me is starting to wonder what it would be like to have more.