Expose on the Ice (Sparks on the Ice #1)

Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

CARTER

T he harsh lights of Baxter Arena cast long shadows across the empty ice as I glide back and forth. My muscles burn, protesting the grueling workout I’ve been putting them through for the past three hours. But I ignore the pain, pushing myself harder.

One more drill. One more shot. One more chance to get it right.

The puck sails from my stick, ricocheting off the crossbar with a resounding ping. I curse under my breath as I skate after it, my frustration mounting as I prepare for another attempt.

I’m here long after my teammates have showered and gone home, long after Coach Carson has given me that look – equal parts concern and resignation – before turning off the lights in his office and going home, the hardest-working guy in the building being outworked.

They don’t understand.

Can’t understand.

I’m not just chasing perfection. I’m running from the demons that nip at my heels the moment I step off the ice. Once, hockey had been pure joy – when the ice beneath my blades had felt like freedom instead of a prison of my creation – but now, those memories seem to belong to someone else.

For me, there’s only the endless pursuit of better, faster, stronger.

And running away from my past.

From Sarah.

I fire off another shot, this one finding its mark in the top corner of the net. But even as the puck hits twine, I feel nothing, already moving to retrieve it and go again. One excellent shot isn’t enough. It will never be enough.

Next rep, I gather speed, weaving through imaginary defenders as I approach the goal at the other end of the ice. The puck dances on my stick, an extension of my will. I can feel the perfect shot building in my muscles, in my bones.

As I wind up to take the shot, time seems to slow. For a moment, I’m that kid again, playing on the frozen pond behind my house, with nothing but the joy of the game in my heart.

The puck leaves my stick, and I know instantly it’s off: a fraction too high, a hair too wide. The resounding crash as it smashes into the boards echoes through the empty arena, a mocking reminder of my failure.

But it isn’t just that sound that fills my ears.

Screeching tires. Shattering glass. A scream that still haunts my dreams.

My legs give out, and I stumble across the ice, barely managing to brace myself against the boards. Memories crash over me like a tidal wave, threatening to pull me under.

Sarah.

The world around me fades, replaced by the vivid nightmare of that night. The rain-slicked roads. The glare of oncoming headlights. Sarah’s laughter turning to terror in an instant, a sound that will forever echo in my mind.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but it only makes the images more intense. My knuckles turn white as I grip the boards, desperately trying to anchor myself to the present. But I’m drowning in the past. The sickening crunch of metal. The acrid smell of smoke and gasoline. Sarah’s broken body, so still in the wreckage.

“It wasn’t your fault,” they’d told me later, repeatedly, like a mantra.

My parents.

The cops.

My agent.

But I know the truth.

I’d been the one driving. I’d been the one who’d had too much to drink at that stupid party, the one who thought I was invincible. I’d been the one who’d refused when Sarah had insisted on driving. And Sarah had paid the price.

The cover-up had been swift and ruthless. Hush money for witnesses. Favors called in to make evidence disappear. Police reports altered, toxicology results buried. My silence bought with the promise of a bright future and the weight of my family’s expectations.

It had been the perfect stitch up. A car accident, yes, but I’d been nowhere near it. A tragic loss for the Knox family, but one that wouldn’t derail the promising career of their star athlete son, the golden boy who could do no wrong.

“Think of your career,” my father had said, his voice cold and practical, even as my mother wept silently beside him. “Think of everything you’ve worked for.”

I’d accepted the deal with the devil, but nobody had warned me about the price.

Now?

Now, all I can think of is Sarah. All I can ever think of is Sarah. Her laugh. Her dreams. The way she’d always been my biggest fan, even when I didn’t deserve it.

And now she’s gone.

Because of me.

The guilt claws at my insides, threatening to tear me apart. I want to scream, to confess, to beg for forgiveness I know I don’t deserve, to reveal the cover-up that had let me keep living while she stayed buried.

Instead, I’ve locked it away deep inside. Channeled every ounce of pain and self-loathing into becoming the best damn hockey player I can be. As if, somehow, it could make up for what I’d done.

But no matter how many goals I score, no matter how many games I win, in college or the pros, it will never be enough. Sarah will still be dead, and it will still be my fault.

Slowly and agonizingly, the present begins to seep back in. The chill of the ice. The harsh glare of the arena lights. The ache in my muscles.

I suck in a ragged breath, then another, forcing air into lungs that feel like they’ve forgotten how to work. My legs tremble as I push myself upright, still leaning heavily on the boards for support, the weight of my guilt threatening to drag me back down.

I push off, my legs still shaky beneath me. The weight of my memories presses down on me like a physical force, but I force myself to stand tall. No one can see the cracks. No one can know how close I am to shattering.

It’s time to call it a day.

With slow, deliberate movements, I gather the pucks scattered across the ice. Each one feels like it weighs a ton, but I welcome the burn. Physical pain is easier to deal with than the emotional torment raging inside me, a temporary respite from the guilt that threatens to consume me.

As I skate towards the locker room, the sound of voices drifts from the stands. I tense, not expecting anyone else to be around this late. But it’s just the cleaning crew starting their nightly routine to keep the place in top shape.

“Did you hear about that journalist coming to do a big story on the team?” A woman’s excited voice carries across the empty arena.

I freeze, my hand on the gate.

“Oh yeah,” a man replies. “My niece works at the Star. Says it’s some hotshot young reporter. Supposed to be here all season, doing profiles on the players.”

My stomach twists into knots. A reporter? Digging into our lives? My life?

“Bet Knox will be first on her list,” the woman chuckles.

I grit my teeth, fighting the urge to slam my stick against the boards, which would scare them enough to put some new holes in the stadium roof. The familiar rage bubbles up inside me, threatening to spill over. Instead, I push through the gate, the scrape of my skates alerting them.

“Oh! Mr. Knox!” The woman’s eyes go wide. “We didn’t realize anyone was still here.”

I manage a tight nod, jaw clenched, struggling to keep my face neutral. “Just finished up,” I say. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Not at all, sir,” the man says, giving me a respectful nod. “Have a good night.”

I return the nod, my jaw clenched so tight it aches. As I stride towards the locker room, their voices fade behind me, but their words echo in my head. A journalist poking around, asking questions, digging into our pasts.

Into my past.

My hands shake as I reach for the locker room door. I’ve worked so hard to keep everything buried, to maintain the carefully crafted image of Carter Knox, star player, and not a damn thing more than that. But now it feels like the ground is shifting beneath my feet.

I step into the empty locker room, the familiar smell of sweat and stale equipment doing nothing to calm my racing heart. As I sink onto the bench in front of my stall, one thought plays on repeat in my mind: what the hell am I going to do?

I strip off my gear, tossing it into my stall. As I reach for my towel, a folded piece of paper flutters to the floor. Frowning, I bend to pick it up, recognizing the handwriting of Mark Turner, the team’s GM, then read it:

“Knox, you’re babysitting a journalist. She arrives tomorrow after practice. Her name is Lily Grant. Play nice.”

My stomach drops. Of course it’s me. Star player, face of the franchise – who else? I crumple the note in my fist, a humorless laugh escaping my lips.

Play nice? Yeah, that’d be a cakewalk.

I head for the showers, cranking the hot water as high as it will go. The scalding spray hits my skin, and I welcome the sting. Anything to distract from the dread coiling in my gut, a physical manifestation of the fear that has become my constant companion.

A whole damn year. Twelve months of some eager pup following me around, yapping questions, trying to dig beneath the surface. Trying to find my secrets, like I’m a bone to be slobbered over. Pissing here, shitting there, making a mess.

Well, good luck with that.

I brace my hands against the tile, letting the water cascade over my head and down my back. Steam fills the air, thick enough to choke on. Kind of like the panic threatening to claw its way up my throat.

I’ve spent years cultivating my image: cool, collected, unflappable. I’ve built walls so high and so thick, sometimes I’m not even sure what’s left on the other side anymore.

All to hide the truth.

To keep my secrets safe and my past buried.

And now this Lily Grant is going to try to tear it all down.

My fist connects with the tile, the dull ache in my knuckles a welcome distraction. I can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen. Whatever the cost, I’ll protect my secrets and keep my past hidden. Everything depends on it.

The water begins to cool, and I shut it off with more force than necessary. As I towel off, my mind races through contingency plans. I’ll have to be careful. Calculated. Give her enough to keep her satisfied without revealing anything real.

I can do that. I’ve been doing it for years. I’ll give her the Carter Knox the world expects to see – arrogant, cold, untouchable – and not a damn thing more than that.

My career, my reputation, my entire life depends on it, and I’ll be damned if I let some nosy reporter destroy everything I’ve sacrificed so much to protect.