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

Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

LILY

A s I make my way through the bullpen in the Star office, my stomach churning with a mix of anger and determination, memories of my first day here flood back. I’d been so green, so full of hope and ambition. I remember clutching my notepad like a lifeline, ready to take on the world of journalism.

God, I’d been naive.

I catch sight of my reflection. The eager-eyed rookie is gone, replaced by a woman with a steely gaze and a chip on her shoulder. The irony isn’t lost on me – I’ve finally gotten my big break, but at what cost?

Whispers follow me as I stride past the cubicles. I can feel the weight of my colleagues’ stares, their hushed conversations falling silent as I pass. I keep my chin up, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.

"Did you hear about her and that hockey player?"

"I can’t believe she’d sleep with a source."

"Frank’s going to eat her alive."

I clench my jaw, letting their words roll off me like water off a duck’s back. They don’t know the half of it. They don’t know what Frank has done, nor would they care, and they definitely don’t know how much I’ve grown.

At the same time, I can’t help but notice how empty the newsroom feels. Desks that had once been occupied by familiar faces now sit bare, the newsroom’s usual vibrancy replaced by a funereal vibe. The stark reality of the industry’s decline hits me harder than ever.

I pause outside Frank’s door, my hand hovering over the knob. Through the frosted glass, I can see his silhouette hunched over his desk. My mentor. My betrayer. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself for the confrontation ahead. It’s time for answers.

I knock once, sharply, then push the door open without waiting for a response. Even doing that is a small part of reclaiming my power, my story, because Frank is known to bite off the head of anyone who interrupts him.

Frank looks up, his eyes widening slightly as he registers my presence. "Lily," he says, leaning back in his chair. "I was wondering when you’d show up."

I shut the door behind me, my voice low and controlled. "We need to talk, Frank, and I don’t really care if you’ve got time for me or not."

He gestures to the chair across from his desk, although his eyes narrow. "By all means, take a load off."

I remain standing, my hands balled into fists at my sides. "You stole my notes. You published a story under someone else’s name using my work. Why?"

Frank’s expression hardens. "It’s not that simple, Lily. You weren’t delivering. The paper needed that story."

"Bullshit," I spit. "You could have given me more time. You could have talked to me. Instead, you went behind my back and betrayed my trust."

He leans forward, his voice taking on an edge. "This isn’t some college newspaper, kid, or a movie in which a wonderful benefactor comes along to save us because they recognize the importance of journalism. We’re fighting for survival. Every day, we’re hemorrhaging money, readers, advertisers, staff. I did what I had to do to keep this paper afloat. The story about Knox was a smash hit and the next will be even bigger."

I laugh bitterly. "Half the newsroom is empty. You’re burning bridges with your reporters. Is this really the legacy you want to leave?"

Frank leans back in his chair, his eyes never leaving mine. "Lily, this is journalism. It’s not personal, it’s business. It’s how it is done. I don’t love the role I sometimes have to play, but like the surgeon amputating an arm or the general ordering a missile strike, I do what’s necessary. And, let’s be honest, you weren’t exactly rushing to write that story, were you? Too busy getting cozy with Knox?"

The insinuation in his tone makes my cheeks burn. "That’s not fair, and you know it. I was building trust, getting to the heart of the story."

"Heart. Sure." He scoffs.

"You’re wrong, Frank," I say, my voice steady now. "What you did… it’s not journalism. It’s exploitation. You’re no better than the tabloids, chasing sensationalism at the expense of the truth."

He leans forward, his face flushing with anger. "Don’t you dare lecture me about journalism, you naive little girl. I’ve been in this game longer than you’ve been alive. I know what it takes to keep a paper afloat in these times. Your morals would see you starving and leave the industry without a single goddamn journalist to tell a single goddamn story."

"And what about integrity?" I shoot back. "What about the trust we’re supposed to build with our sources and our readers? You don’t think you’ve burned all of that to the ground?"

Frank’s laugh is cold and humorless. "Integrity doesn’t pay the bills, Lily. And you want to talk about trust? How about the trust our readers put in us to deliver the news, no matter what?"

I shake my head, disgust rising in my throat. "You’re unbelievable. You really think you’re the hero in this story, don’t you?"

"I’m the one doing what needs to be done," he says, his voice hard. "If you can’t handle that, maybe you’re in the wrong profession."

The words hit me like a slap in the face. I take a step back, my mind reeling. Is he right? Is this what journalism has become? Is there no place for me in it? Does a successful career in journalism require me to leave my conscience at the door?

"You’re wrong, Frank," I say, my voice quiet but firm, refusing to believe that his way is the only way. "And I’m going to prove it."

"Do whatever you want, kid, you don’t work here anymore," he says. "Shame. I liked you. And I always thought you had a nice ass."

"Go to hell," I say.

"Go to hell?" He laughs. "I’ll see you and your lover boy there, because my next story is going to send Knox to the depths."

I whirl around, ready to unleash a tirade of expletives when Frank’s phone rings. It’s an alien sound penetrating the bubble of our conflict. With a sigh, he glances at the caller ID, and then raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Well, well," he drawls, a smug smile spreading across his face. "Mark Turner, general manager of the Frost Giants."

What does he want? I think. Is Mark leaking against Carter as well?

Frank hits the speakerphone button, his eyes never leaving mine. "Mark! To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Frank," Mark’s voice crackles through the speaker, sounding tense. "We need to talk about the Knox story."

Frank leans back in his chair, looking like the cat that got the cream. "Oh? And what about it? I hope you’re not calling to threaten legal action. You know as well as I do that everything we printed was true."

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. "It’s not about what you’ve already printed, Frank. It’s about what you’re planning to print next."

I feel a small smile forming at the corners of my mouth. Clearly, Carter has told Mark, and if the team’s boss is now calling Frank, there might be a chance something could be done about the story before it reaches print.

Frank’s eyes narrow. "I’m listening."

"We have a proposition for you," Mark says, his voice steady. "One that I think you’ll find interesting."

Frank glances at me, then back at the phone. "Go on."

I stand there, frozen, as Mark’s voice crackles through the speakerphone. My heart races, a mix of shock and hope coursing through my veins.

"It’s simple," Mark says, his tone firm, "If you publish any further leaks about Carter Knox or his past, our players will start a boycott of the Star and all its sister papers, networks, radio stations, and podcasts."

Frank’s face contorts, his smug expression morphing into one of disbelief and anger. "What the hell are you talking about, Mark? You can’t do that!"

"Oh, but we can," Mark replies. "And it’s not just us. Teams across the league, and in other leagues, are joining in. No interviews, no press conferences, no locker room access. Nothing."

Frank’s face is turning an alarming shade of red. "This is blackmail! You can’t strong-arm the press like this!"

"It’s not blackmail, Frank," Mark says calmly. "It’s a choice. You can choose to do the right thing, or you can choose to lose access to every major sports team in the region. Our players – and, frankly, everyone – have reached the end of the road with tolerating your constant digging into their private lives, and we also know the value sports coverage has to you and your organization."

Frank’s eyes dart to me, narrowing with barely contained fury. I keep my face as neutral as possible, but inside, I’m beaming. "Go to hell," I whisper.

Frank leans back in his chair, running a hand through his thinning hair. "You’re bluffing. There’s no way you could organize something like this so quickly."

"Try us," Mark says, his voice steely. "Publish that story, and watch how fast your sports section becomes irrelevant. How long do you think your paper will last without sports coverage?"

The silence that follows is deafening. I can almost see the gears turning in Frank’s head as he weighs his options. Everyone knows that sports coverage is a massive driver of clicks, eyeballs, and advertiser spend. Without it, the paper would hollow out even faster.

Frank’s eyes flick to me again, filled with a mixture of anger and resignation. "Fine," he finally growls. "What are your exact terms?"

"It’s simple," Mark replies. "You bury any further stories about Carter Knox’s past, and you provide Lily Grant with a severance package commensurate with her years of service and the work you stole from her."

Frank’s jaw clenches, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of his desk. "And if I refuse?"

"Then I hope you enjoy covering high school badminton tournaments, because that’s about all the sports access you’ll have left," Mark says, a hint of amusement in his voice.

I hold my breath, watching Frank’s internal struggle play out across his face. It’s a delicious turning of the tables on him after he’d caused so much damage to Carter and me. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he lets out a long, defeated sigh.

"Alright," he mutters. "You win. We’ll bury the story about Knox and sort out a severance package for Grant."