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

Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

LILY

T he first part of finding out is watching him play with my own eyes.

As I settle into my seat in the press box of Baxter Arena, notepad in hand, I survey the scene. The place is packed, a sea of blue and white jerseys as far as the eye can see. The energy is electric, fans buzzing with anticipation for the face-off against the Kansas City Mavericks. The familiar scent of popcorn and beer wafts through the air, mingling with the crisp chill from the ice below.

As the teams take to the ice, my eyes immediately find Knox. Even in warm-ups, he stands out – tall, broad-shouldered, radiating an intensity that is palpable even from a distance. His presence commands attention, and I am eager to see him in action.

The game starts, and within minutes, it is clear something is off with Knox. The Mavericks are an expansion team – terrible, poorly coached, filled with aging castoffs from other teams. Yet, against a team that should be easy prey, I watch Knox constantly fumble passes, miss shots, and seem a moment behind the play.

Throughout the first period, the crowd’s excitement slowly morphs into concern, then palpable frustration. It seems like there is tension among the Frost Giants players as well, with sideways glances, hands thrown into the air when a mistake is made, and audible cursing. And it seems like much of the fan and player frustration is directed at Knox and his mistakes.

“Come on, Knox!” a fan near the press box shouts. “Get in the game!”

I scribble notes furiously, trying to make sense of what I am witnessing. This isn’t the star player whose highlight reels I’ve watched countless times. Yet even as he struggles, I can’t take my eyes off him. There is something captivating about watching him fight through his difficulties, a raw determination, an unstoppable power.

At the first period break, as he leaves the ice, Knox takes off his helmet, and I can see his jaw is set in determination. Sweat glistens on his forehead as his chest heaves from exertion, and I find myself admiring the way his uniform clings to his body, outlining his broad chest and–

Jesus, Lily, get it together, I chide myself, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. You’re here to work, not ogle the eye candy.

I shake my head, trying to clear the distracting thoughts and focus only on the game. But as the second period starts, I find it harder than I expected, my eyes continually drawn back to Knox’s impressive form. He is mesmerizing on the ice, all raw power and skill, and I hold my breath every time he touches the puck.

Shame he’s such an asshole , I think.

Midway through the third period, with the Frost Giants down by two, Knox lines up for a face-off in the offensive zone. As he crouches down, ready for the puck drop, his eyes suddenly flick up to the stands. Our gazes lock for a moment, and I feel an unexpected jolt run through me.

It is as if time stands still, the roar of the crowd fading to a distant hum.

Knox’s eyes widen slightly, a flicker of recognition crossing his face. Then the puck drops, and he is off like a shot. For a moment, I could have sworn I saw a new fire in his movements, a renewed determination in his play.

But it is too little, too late. The final buzzer sounds, and the Frost Giants have lost 3-1. The crowd’s disappointed groans fill the arena as people file out. I feel a strange mix of emotions – surprise at the unexpected loss, curiosity about Knox’s struggles, and an unexpected twinge of sympathy for the defeated star.

I stay in my seat, watching as Knox skates off the ice, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Despite the loss, I can’t shake the image of him in action –the grace, the power, the sheer athleticism. It is a far cry from the closed-off man I’d interviewed. I wonder about the weight he carries off the ice, which seems to lift off him when he is on skates. At least until I’d started getting under his skin, anyway.

“Time to find some answers,” I whisper to myself.

I gather my things and make my way down to the locker room, my heart racing with anticipation. Taking full advantage of my press pass, I follow the hallways leading to the players’ area, a stark contrast to the bustling arena concourses. As I approach the locker room, the unmistakable scent of sweat permeates the air, growing stronger with each step.

I flash my press pass to the security guard, a burly man with a no-nonsense expression. He scrutinizes it for a moment before nodding and stepping aside to let me through. And as I push the locker room door open, a wall of noise and odor hits me. The sharp tang of exertion mixes with the artificial freshness of deodorant spray. Players’ voices echo off the tiled walls – some angry, some dejected, all exhausted.

My eyes immediately find Knox. He is sitting in his stall, head bowed, wearing only his underwear. As I walk past, his head snaps up, eyes locking onto mine. I can see the expectation in his gaze, the slight tensing of his shoulders as if bracing for an onslaught of questions.

But I keep walking.

Despite my passing glance, I can’t help but notice his muscular frame, live and in person rather than in pictures and my imagination. My gaze inadvertently drops lower, and I feel my cheeks flush as I glimpse his… well, let’s just say the tight underwear leaves little to the imagination.

Shaking off the large… distraction and reminding myself of my purpose, I make my way to Travis “Tank” Thompson’s stall. The veteran player is removing his gear, his massive frame dwarfing the bench he sits on.

“Hey, Tank,” I say, putting on my most charming smile. “Could I ask you some questions?”

He looks up, surprise clear on his rugged features. He looks exhausted, but his friendliness is an oasis in a desert compared to Knox’s attitude towards me. “Sure thing, sweetheart,” he says.

I ignore the pet name, focusing on my goal. “I was hoping you could tell me a bit about Knox. You’ve played with him for a while now, right?”

Tank’s eyes narrow slightly, flicking over to where Knox sits, suddenly cautious. “I have. Why the interest?”

“Just trying to understand him better for the series I’m working on,” I say casually. “He’s not exactly forthcoming in interviews.”

Tank laughs, a deep rumbling sound. “That’s Knox alright. Man of few words, unless he’s on the ice.”

I lean in, lowering my voice. “I’ve noticed his play style is pretty intense. Has he always been like that?”

Tank pauses, a thoughtful look crossing his face. “You know, it’s funny you should ask that. Knox wasn’t always the player you see now. He changed, and I mean dramatically, just before he was drafted.”

My pulse quickens. This is exactly the kind of information I am after. It might be nothing, but it might also lead to a story more interesting than anything Knox had given me. “Changed how?”

“He became more aggressive, more focused,” Tank explains, his voice taking on a nostalgic tone. “But also… harder somehow. It was like, overnight, he went from this carefree kid who danced on the ice like a ballerina and handled a puck like an artist to a man with nothing but power and aggression and anger. Now he’s an absolute sledgehammer out there.”

I can’t hide my intrigue. “Any idea what caused the change?”

“His sister died,” Tank shrugs. “I guess that’ll change anyone, but it honestly feels like more than that, and your guess is as good as mine, sweetheart. But whatever the reason, it seemed to light a fire under him. He’s a hell of a player, but he’s not the same player I saw playing for his college team.”

I nod, jotting down notes. As I look up, I catch Tank eyeing me with a mix of amusement and something else I can’t quite place.

“You know,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, “if you want my advice, stop wasting your time trying to crack Knox. He’s a closed book.” He winks at me. “I think you’ll find I’m much more… accommodating.”

I thank Tank for his time, brushing off his obvious interest. Over the next hour, I get moments with a few of the other players: “Mack” McAllister, barely a bench warmer at the positively ancient age of 34; the team’s pair of dour first line defencemen, Kurt Dawson, and Ethan “Echo” Hale; and even a few minutes of the coach’s time.

The story is the same: Knox is a brick wall off the ice, all business, and on it, he is a force of nature. They all speak of him with a mix of awe for his abilities and frustration at his attitude, and I sense a constant tension and a curiosity as strong as mine among many of his teammates. It leaves me feeling glad I’m not the only one who has tried Knox on for size and bounced off.

Exhausted, long after almost everyone else has cleared out, I step out into the cool night air. As I walk down the concrete steps, my mind still buzzing as I approach the near-empty parking lot, I hear raised voices coming from around a corner.

“I don’t get it, Tom,” a male voice says. “What the hell happened out there tonight? Laura wants my head on a platter. She told us if things don’t improve, there’s not going to be a large enough broom.”

I freeze, recognizing the gruff voice of Mark Turner, the Frost Giants’ team manager, and the woman’s name as that of Laura Kane, the team’s owner. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I creep closer, pressing my back against the wall.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Mark,” Coach Carson replies, his tone laced with frustration. “We were turning the season around, then bam. It’s like someone flipped a switch. The entire team’s energy is off.”

“It’s not the team,” Mark growls. “It’s Knox. He was holding our season together with his bare hands. Now he’s playing like he’s got concrete in his skates. He was terrible tonight.”

I hold my breath, straining to catch every word.

“I know, I know,” Coach Carson sighs. “He’s still got the anger and the fire, but it’s like he’s lost his focus. I can’t figure out why.”

“Well, you better figure it out fast,” Mark snaps. “We’ve got disgruntled fans and sponsors breathing down our necks. We need Knox in form.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Coach Carson promises. “Maybe there’s something going on off the ice that’s affecting his game.”

“Well, it’ll start affecting jobs if we’re not careful,” Mark says. “Whatever the problem, it needs to be fixed.”

Their voices fade as they walk away, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I lean against the wall, my heart racing. This is it – the story behind the story. The team’s shining star is suddenly dimming, and nobody knows why.

But I do. Or, at least, I have a pretty good idea.

As I make my way to my car, my mind whirls with possibilities. Knox’s performance has tanked right as I’d started getting under his skin and digging into his past. It can’t be a coincidence. Whatever secret he is hiding, it is impacting him on the ice.

I think back to what Tank had told me earlier. Knox had changed dramatically just before he was drafted – going from a carefree kid to a man fueled by aggression and anger. What in the hell could have caused such a drastic shift?

Unlocking my car, I slide into the driver’s seat and just sit there for a moment, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. I’ve only scratched the surface so far, but I’m onto something big. I can feel it in my bones. It has to do with Minnesota. His hometown. His family. His past.

One thing is obvious: Carter Knox is hiding something, and it is eating him alive – both on and off the ice.