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

Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

CARTER

I walk into the arena, my steps heavy and deliberate. The usual buzz of pre-practice chatter dies down as soon as I push through the doors, replaced by a tense silence that makes my skin crawl. Every eye in the place seems to be on me, burning with curiosity, but I keep my head down, making a beeline for my locker.

As I move through the room, I can feel the weight of unasked questions hanging in the air. It’s suffocating. The article had aired out my dirty laundry for the world to see, and now everyone wants a piece of me.

I yank open my locker, the metal clanging loudly in the quiet room. A few of the guys clear their throats, clearly uncomfortable and waiting for something from me. They’re used to me being distant and angry. But they aren’t used to this.

"Hey, Knox," Tank’s deep voice breaks the silence. "How are you holding up?"

I grunt in response, not bothering to turn around as I start changing into my practice gear. I don’t want their pity or their questions. I don’t care about how uncomfortable paid professionals are feeling. I just want to get on the ice and forget about everything else for a while.

Tank starts again. "Listen, if you need anything?—

"I’m fine," I snap, my voice harsher than I’d intended.

I can practically feel Tank recoil, and a pang of guilt hits me. He’s just trying to help, the guy who’d drawn the short straw to check in with me, and I’d been an asshole. But I can’t deal with it right now. Not with any of it.

The locker room remains uncomfortably quiet as I finish gearing up. I can hear hushed whispers behind me, no doubt speculating about the article, about my past, about my sister. The thought makes my stomach churn.

As I lace up my skates, I catch snippets of their conversations.

"Did you read that part about?—

"I can’t believe he never said anything?—

"Poor bastard, no wonder he’s always so?—

I slam my locker shut, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot. The whispers stop abruptly, and suddenly every pair of eyes in the place is boring into me, asking a million silent questions and wondering if they’ll get an answer.

"You got something to say?" I growl, turning to face my teammates. "Then say it to my face."

They all stare back at me, a mix of concern and wariness in their eyes. No one speaks up.

"That’s what I thought," I mutter, grabbing my stick and heading for the ice.

When I hit the ice, I skate hard. For a few blissful moments, there’s nothing but hockey – the puck, ice, and goals. Slowly, my teammates join me, and the session turns into a full scrimmage at the order of Coach Carson.

I’m flying on autopilot at first, but the longer the scrimmage goes on, the more I feel the need to get involved. I spot an opening and call for the puck, desperate for it, for control of it. It’s a small thing that suddenly feels a whole lot bigger.

Our rookie second line center, Tony Caputo, has the puck. He looks up, sees me, and winds up for the pass. It should have been easy – a simple cross-ice feed to set up a scoring chance, with me burying the puck in the back of the goals.

But then the puck leaves his stick, wobbling through the air like a wounded duck. It sails wide, missing me by a good three feet and clanging off the boards. It’s completely useless, denying me the release I desperately sought.

"What the hell was that?" I roar, rounding on Tony, something inside me snapping. The kid’s eyes go wide, and he takes an involuntary step back. "Are you blind?"

The words pour out of me, harsh and biting. All the frustration, all the anger I’d been holding in since the story in the Star had broken comes rushing out like a burst dam. Tony isn’t responsible, but he’s my target.

Tony’s face crumples, a mix of shock and hurt etched across his features. He’s a kid, new to the team and trying to find his way, but I can’t stop. It’s like I’m outside my body, watching myself tear into this kid who doesn’t deserve it.

"If you can’t make a simple pass, what good are you to this team? Maybe you should go back to college and learn how to play hockey!"

The rink has fallen deathly silent. I can feel every eye on me – my teammates, the coaches, even the equipment managers who’ve stopped to watch the conflict. The only sound is my own ragged breathing, harsh in the stillness. And then, like a splash of cold water to the face, reality crashes back.

What the hell am I doing?

The same damn thing you did with Indiana, my mind scalds me. Trying to escape your guilt and your fear by taking it out on someone else.

I look at Tony again, really look at him this time. The kid is practically shaking, his eyes glistening. He looks so young, and I’d just verbally torn him to shreds over a missed pass in a goddamn scrimmage.

"Tony, I— I start, but the words dry up in my throat. What could I possibly say to make this right? "I?—

Before I can figure it out, Coach Carson’s whistle cuts through the air like a knife. "Knox!" His bellow roars across the ice. "My office. Now."

I skate off the ice, feeling the weight of everyone’s stares. As I pass Tony, I want to say something, anything, to take back what I’d said. But the damage is done. His confidence is shot, and so is my reputation and standing with the team.

I trudge behind Coach Carson, my skates feeling heavier with each step. I can feel the heat radiating off him, which had been building since the incident with Frosty, and the silence between us is deafening. Suddenly, it feels like my position on the team is in real jeopardy, star player or not.

As we reach his office, Coach jerks his head towards the door. "Wait in there, Knox. I’m getting Mark."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I head inside, and the door clicks shut behind me, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the overwhelming smell of stale coffee and dry-erase markers. Careers are ended in this office – guys cut, coaches fired, veterans told they’re too old – and I wonder if I’m done.

My eyes land on the small locker mirror. Christ, is that really me? The guy staring back looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes, a clenched jaw that looks ready to snap…

I barely recognize myself.

I run a hand through my sweat-damp hair, tugging at the roots. This is spiraling out of control, fast. A second later, the door opens, and Coach Carson walks in, followed closely by Mark. Their faces are grim, and I brace myself for the lecture I know is coming. And if that’s it, I can count myself lucky.

"Knox," Coach starts, his voice low and measured. "What happened out there?—

"I know," I cut him off, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. "I messed up. Bad."

Mark raises an eyebrow, clearly not expecting me to admit it so readily.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "I need to get ahead of this. All of it."

Coach and Mark exchange a look.

"What are you thinking?" Mark asks cautiously.

I meet his gaze, my resolve hardening. "I want you to set up a press conference. Today, if possible."

Mark’s eyes widen slightly. "Carter, are you sure that’s?—

"Yes," I say firmly. "I’m sick and tired of the secrets and the whispers."

Coach Carson leans back against his desk, arms folded across his chest. "You realize once you do this, there’s no going back? Everything will be out there."

I nod, feeling a strange mix of terror and relief at the thought. "I know. But it’s better coming from me than letting everyone else tell my story."

Mark pulls out his phone, already tapping away. "I’ll get it organized. Give me an hour to get all the reporters here."

As Mark leaves the room to make calls, Coach fixes me with a stern look. "This doesn’t excuse what happened on the ice, Knox."

"I know, Coach," I say, my shoulders sagging. "I’ll apologize to Tony and the entire team. I was out of line."

Coach nods, his expression softening slightly. "Good. Now go hit the showers and get your head on straight. You’ve got a big afternoon ahead of you."