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

Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

CARTER

T he sight of the familiar two-story colonial hits me like a sucker punch to the gut as I pull up to. How many times have I driven up this tree-lined street, my heart light and carefree?

Now, the weight in my chest threatens to crush me.

I kill the engine of my hire car, but don’t move. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles turn white, trying to figure out what the hell I’m doing here. The rational part of my brain knows why. We’ve just won a game not twenty miles from my hometown, now I have to make an appearance here.

I’m the local boy made good,

The prodigal son returning in triumph.

It’s what’s expected.

It’s what will keep up appearances.

Keep my cover – my dirty secret – intact.

I close my eyes, trying to center myself. But all I can see is Lily’s face, those green eyes of hers, sharp with curiosity as she watches me from the stands. She’s digging and digging deep, and I know that eventually she’ll find treasure.

And then there’s Isla. Christ. Talking to her always leaves me feeling raw, exposed. Seeing her today, hearing about Liam… it brings everything rushing back. The guilt, the shame, the overwhelming sense of responsibility.

I’d never wanted to leave her. The press of her body against mine brings back memories every time I see her. Of her warmth, her kindness… her body. But being with her after Sarah had died and the events that followed hadn’t been an option.

The stakes are too high, and I won’t let her go down with me if I’m exposed.

I rub a hand over my face, feeling the scratch of stubble against my palm. I’m tired. Of the lies and of pretending to be this unbreakable force on the ice when inside I feel like I’m constantly teetering on the edge of shattering.

A light flickers on in an upstairs window of the house. Mom knows I’m here. No more stalling. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. Time to be Carter Knox, dutiful son. Time to pay the tribute that the cover-up done on my behalf demands.

I exit the car, cross the street, and make my way to the front door. I don’t bother to knock, because I know it won’t be locked. I push open the front door, the familiar creak sending a shiver down my spine.

“Carter?” Mom’s voice drifts from the kitchen. “Is that you?”

“Yeah.” My voice sounds hollow, even to my ears.

I find her standing at the kitchen island, a glass of white wine in hand. Her eyes light up when she sees me. We embrace, a wooden and awkward hug, undertaken because duty demands it. As we do, I can’t help but notice how frail she feels in my arms. When had she gotten so thin?

“It’s good to see you, Mom,” I lie, pulling back from her. “You look wonderful.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, stop. I know I look a fright. But never mind that. How are you? How was the game?”

I shrug, falling into the familiar rhythm of meaningless small talk, the same sort of shit I give journalists. “It was a tough one, but we pulled it off.”

“That’s wonderful, dear.” She takes a sip of her wine. “I watched the whole game on television. You played well.”

The praise feels hollow, tainted by everything left unsaid between us. I glance around the kitchen, noting the pristine countertops, the gleaming appliances. Everything is exactly as it had always been, yet nothing feels the same.

“Are you hungry, Carter?” Mom asks, already moving towards the fridge. “I could whip something up?—”

“I’m fine, Mom.”

She pauses. For a moment, I see a flicker of disappointment cross her face before she masks it with a smile. “Of course. You probably ate with the team.”

We move to the dining room, settling into our usual seats. The table, the room – the whole house – seems ridiculously large for one person, but the shadows of those missing are heavy. My eyes are immediately drawn to the empty chairs across from me – Sarah’s chair, my dad’s chair.

“So,” Mom says, her gaze following mine. “Are you eating well? Getting enough rest?”

I nod, my responses automatic. “Yeah, Mom. Everything’s fine.”

Her eyes dart to the head of the table – Dad’s empty seat – before returning to me. “And the team?”

I think of Lily, her probing questions and sharp eyes. “It’s all good. No problems.”

Mom’s fingers tap against her wine glass, a nervous tic I remember from childhood. “I saw a story in the Star? Something about following the team?”

My jaw clenches involuntarily. “It’s nothing, Mom. Just PR stuff.”

She leans forward, concern etched on her face. “But they’re not… asking questions, are they? About?—”

“No,” I cut her off, perhaps too sharply. “It’s fine. I promise I’ve got it under control.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Mom’s eyes keep flicking between Sarah’s chair and mine, as if she can’t quite believe I’m there, and that Sarah isn’t. The weight of absence – Sarah’s, Dad’s – presses down on us like a physical force.

I watch as Mom takes another sip of wine, her hand trembling slightly. She looks small, lost in this big house that used to be full of life. A pang of guilt hits me, knowing I’m partly responsible for her loneliness, even though its implementation had been her husband’s – my father’s – idea.

My eyes are fixed on Sarah’s empty chair, memories flooding back with brutal clarity.

The screech of tires.

The sickening crunch of metal.

Sarah’s scream cut short.

My hands shake. I grip the edge of the table to steady myself, but it’s like trying to hold back a tidal wave. “Mom, I have to go.”

“Honey, please, stay for a while,” Mom pleads. “We should talk about everything that happened with?—”

“No.” The word comes out harsher than I intend, but I can’t stop it. “I can’t do this, Mom. I can’t sit here and pretend everything’s okay.”

Her face crumples. “But it’s been five years. We need to?—”

“Need to what?” I snap, finally meeting her gaze. “Forget? Move on? Like it never happened?”

The silence that follows is deafening. I can hear the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway, each second feeling like a hammer blow, or the pounding of a judge’s gavel. How many seconds has my father spent in prison, covering for me?

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Mom whispers.

But I’m already spiraling, lost in the memories I’ve tried so hard to bury.

The night of the accident.

Both of us drunk at a party.

Sarah insisting on driving us both.

Me, refusing, too wasted to be argued with, too arrogant to be denied.

Her, relenting, because she’d trusted me.

The deer in the headlights.

Swerving.

The guardrail giving way.

And then… chaos.

Sirens.

Flashing lights.

Dad’s face, ashen and grim as he arrived at the scene.

“We can fix this,” he’d said, his voice low and urgent. “But you can’t say a word, Carter. Do you understand? Not a damn word.”

I’d nodded, numb with shock and alcohol, unable to fully grasp what was happening, and then he’d fixed it. My Dad had always been my greatest fan, and I’d always been his biggest hope. Long training sessions, driving across the state… I’d been the pride of a down on their luck family.

And I’d screwed it up. And cost Sarah her life.

The next few days had been a blur. Dad claiming he’d been driving. The local cops, old friends of the family, nodding along. My agent, smoothing things over with carefully worded statements and sizeable donations. They’d concocted a story good enough to pass casual muster, fed it to the papers, and put just enough of a finger on the scales of justice to get the right outcome.

All to protect me.

To protect my future.

And bury Sarah, sheathed in a lie.

“Carter?” Mom’s voice snaps me back to the present. She’s stood up, reaching out as if to touch me, but I flinch away.

“I can’t be here,” I mutter, already backing towards the door. “I can’t breathe in this house.”

“Please, don’t go,” she begs. “Your father would want?—”

“Dad’s not here,” I cut her off. “He’s in prison because of me. Because of what I did.”

Tears well up in her eyes. “He did what he had to do. We all did. To protect you. Your career?—”

“I know, Mom,” I say, a long sigh threatening to turn into a sob. “I know, okay? And I live with it every day, even though it eats at me.”

“We all do, Carter.”

I nod. “See you soon, Mom.”

As I walk to my hire car, chased by demons, haunted by ghosts, the weight of the past presses down on me, threatening to crush what little composure I have left. As I fumble for the keys, my breath comes in ragged gasps in the cold night air, and a flicker of movement catches my eye.

Lily.

She’s on the other side of the street, her notepad clutched to her chest, her eyes wide with curiosity. For a moment, our gazes lock, and I know my usual walls are nowhere near high enough. My guilt is probably written all over my face, even as the gears in her mind turn.

Fuck.

I wrench open my hire car door, practically diving inside. The engine roars to life, and I pull out. My hands grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. How much has she heard? How much has she seen? Her first story had been surprisingly… decent. Nothing too probing, nothing that could hurt me.

But this? This is different.

The thought of Lily uncovering my family’s secrets, of her digging into the carefully constructed lie we’d built around Sarah’s death, sends a jolt of panic through me. I’ve worked so goddamn hard to keep it all buried, to focus on hockey, to be the star my father had always wanted me to be.

And now, because of one nosy reporter, it could all come crashing down.

Lily is sniffing around, asking questions, observing things she has no right to see, threatening to inflict untold damage on a dozen people who’d helped me stay free. A wave of anger washes over me, hot and familiar. It’s easier than the guilt, easier than the grief. I latch onto it, let it fuel me.

What right does she have to dig like this?

To make me feel like this?