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

Chapter 37

CHAPTER 37

LILY

T he cursor blinks steadily, taunting me with its rhythm as I sit at my desk, staring at the blank document on my laptop screen. I flex my fingers, hovering over the keys, feeling the weight of my decision pressing down on my shoulders.

This is it. The moment of truth.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I’m about to do. The story of Carter Knox needs to be told – the real story, not the sensationalized garbage Frank has been peddling. And I’m the one who has to tell it. My fingers begin to move, hesitantly at first, then with growing confidence as the words flow.

"Expose on the Ice: The Real Carter Knox."

I pause, considering the title. It feels right. This will not be a hatchet job or a puff piece. This is about peeling back the layers, showing the world who Carter really is – flaws, struggles, and all. And then letting the readers choose their view of the man.

As I have.

The words pour out of me. I start at the beginning. Carter’s guarded expression the first time we met. The fight we’d had. The force field around himself, refusing to let anyone in. Being forced to spend weeks on the road with him with no chance of finding anything real.

The memory of how infuriated I’d been brings a smile to my lips.

I detail how I’d gone around him. Gotten to know members of the team, followed him and eavesdropped through moments of kindness and spied on moments of pain, all things he wanted to keep from me, from everyone else, and from the public.

But the more I write, the more I draw connections.

About the man.

About his past.

About the stakes of keeping his secrets.

And the crushing blow the failure to do so has caused him.

I recall – and write – everything I know about the accident, his culpability, and the cover-up that had allowed him to continue on the trajectory of professional hockey. The sacrifices others had made, and the secrets they’d sworn to take to the grave.

But instead of the sensationalist trash Frank had posted, I put it all in a new light. I write about a boy who’d made a mistake, been scared, and been swept along in the moment. I write about parents desperate to protect their son, making an impossible choice, sacrificing their future so their son could still have one.

I tell of a young man shouldering a burden no one should have to bear. Of a boy who’d become a man filled with regrets and with guilt, a virtual hermit despite being a hero to millions and having the wealth most people could only dream of.

My fingers fly across the keyboard as I delve into the mental demons Carter battles every day. The guilt that eats at him, the pressure to be perfect, the fear of letting everyone down. I write about the late practices, the punishing workouts – not just to hone his skills, but to quiet the voices in his head.

The thought brings a tear to my eye, but I keep going.

I include everything. All my research, burned in my notepad, but also burned in my brain. It’s the best job I can do, with all the information I have. Everything I know, everything he’s told me, and everything I suspect he feels. I hold nothing back.

Me included.

I throw it all in there. My gradual attraction to him. The false starts we’d had. The whirlwind of romance. And then the loss of it. Frank, the villain of the story, is given no respite, the executioner who’d cleaved the link between us, due to a threat to cause yet more damage.

As I type, I feel a lump forming in my throat. God, we’d put him through hell, hadn’t we?

The media.

The fans

Even me.

We’d all wanted our pound of flesh, never stopping to consider the man behind the headlines. I’m just as guilty as the rest, if not more so, and it wracks me with guilt. In my relentless pursuit of the story, I’d forgotten that Carter was more than just a subject – he was a person with feelings, fears, and a haunting past.

We’d all been so caught up in the thrill of the chase, the excitement of uncovering the next big scoop, that we’d failed to see the toll it was taking on him. The media circus, the constant scrutiny, the whispers and rumors – Carter had been trapped at the center of it all.

I pause, my vision blurring slightly as I reread what I’ve written. It isn’t perfect – far from it. But it’s honest. Real. It’s every word of the truth as I know it, and what I think is the real story Carter deserves to have told.

My phone buzzes, startling me out of my focus. A text from Jess:

"Are you okay, babe? Need anything?"

I smile, grateful for her support. I type back quickly:

"I’m good. Just writing. The real story this time."

I turn back to my laptop, determination renewed. There’s still so much to say, so many misconceptions to correct. I crack my knuckles and dive back in, the words flowing faster now.

This is more than just a story. It’s a reckoning, a chance to set things right. For Carter, for me, for everyone who’s been caught up in this mess. It might not repair us, but it will finally tell the whole truth.

As I write, I feel a spark of the old passion that had drawn me to journalism. But I have no idea how Carter will react when he reads this. Will he be angry? Hurt? Relieved? There’s only one way to find out.

I keep writing, pouring everything I have onto the page.

Until it’s done.

Hours later, I stare at my laptop screen, my finger hovering over the ‘Publish’ button. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. This is it. The moment of truth. The story that could make or break everything.

My career.

My relationship with Carter.

Maybe even his future.

With a trembling hand, I click ‘Publish.’

The article goes live, and I feel a rush of adrenaline course through my body. It’s done. No turning back now. I lean back in my chair, running my hands through my hair.

The weight of what I’ve just done hits me like a ton of bricks. I’ve laid it all out there – Carter’s past, the accident, the cover-up, my role in this mess. Everything.

Is it a mistake?

Have I made things worse?

My phone buzzes, startling me. It’s a text from Jess:

"Holy shit, Lil. Just read your piece. Are you okay?"

I smile weakly, typing back:

"I think so. No idea what happens next."

I glance around my apartment, taking in the half-packed boxes scattered everywhere. It’s like my life is suspended between two possible futures – one where I’d rush to Carter’s side, and another where I’d leave this all behind.

My eyes fall on a framed photo of Carter and me, taken at that charity event that feels like a lifetime ago. We looked so happy, so carefree. God, I miss him. I pick up my phone again, my thumb hovering over Carter’s contact. Should I call him? Text him? Or wait for him to reach out? I decide I have to let it go, for now.

He has to come to the story on his own.

And decide how he wants to react.

Over the next few hours, my phone explodes with notifications. Emails, texts, social media alerts – all reacting to my article. I see Frank’s name pop up and quickly dismiss it. Whatever vitriol he has for me can wait.

In publishing the truth, all of it, I’ve defanged him and his threat.

I take a deep breath and start reading the responses. Some are supportive, praising the honesty and depth of the piece. Others are critical, accusing me of betraying journalistic ethics or sensationalizing Carter’s story.

But the one response I’m desperate for, the only one that really matters, is nowhere to be found. I refresh my email, then check my socials, then check my phone for the hundredth time, hoping to see his name.

Nothing.

The silence is deafening.

What if I’ve made a terrible mistake?

What if, instead of re-uniting us, I’ve pushed him away for good?

I stand up, needing to move, to do something. I walk over to the window, looking out at the city lights. It brings back a flash of a memory, to looking out the window of his apartment at the city lights, in his arms…

Moments before we’d screwed like rabbits.

God , I miss him , I think.

Somewhere out there is Carter.

Is he reading the article right now? What’s going through his mind?

CARTER

Another loss.

I step out of the shower, my muscles aching from the brutal game we’ve just lost. Another one. Coach Carson had reamed us out in the locker room, his face purple with rage. I can’t blame him. We’re playing like shit, and I’m the worst offender.

As I wrap a towel around my waist, I finally go to my locker and check my phone. Lately, I’ve made a habit of leaving it alone for large chunks of the day, the volume of attention on me – emails, messages, social media, calls – utterly overwhelming.

When I turn it on, I realize there’s even more than usual.

"What now?" I sigh.

Frowning, I pick it up, expecting more bad news. Instead, I’m hit with a barrage of supportive messages from other players around the league, a few reporters I’ve come to know over the years. There are messages from family members.

What the hell?

I check social media. Even the fans are all over me. But, unlike most of the last few weeks, where many of the messages had been terrible and distressing, now they’re mostly positive. I scroll through the notifications, my confusion growing.

Then I see it.

A link to an article,

I click on it, and Lily’s name jumps out at me from the byline.

For a moment, I can’t breathe.

What has she done?

I start reading, my hands shaking. As I delve deeper into the article, I feel like I’m being stripped bare, all my defenses crumbling. Lily has laid out everything – the accident, Sarah’s death, the cover-up, the guilt I’ve carried for years. But it isn’t just a recitation of facts. She’s captured the essence of who I am, the struggles I’ve faced, and the person I’m trying to become.

I sink onto the bench, overwhelmed by the depth of understanding in her words. She writes about my dedication to the sport, my loyalty to my teammates, and the walls I’ve built to protect myself. But she also highlights the moments of vulnerability, the times I’d let her in, the wonderful times we’d shared, however briefly.

As I read, I realize she isn’t just telling my story. She’s telling ours. The gradual building of trust, the stolen moments of connection, the passion that had flared between us. She holds nothing back, laying bare her feelings and mistakes alongside mine.

And then I read about Frank’s threat.

The thing that had kept her away.

And my heart sinks.

I reach the end of the article, my heart pounding.

The last paragraph hits me like a punch to the gut:

"Carter Knox is more than just a hockey player with a troubled past. He’s a man of depth, courage, and untapped potential. In learning and telling his story, I’ve come to understand not just the athlete, but the person behind the headlines. And in doing so, I’ve realized something profound about myself as well. This journey has changed us both, for better or worse. Where we go from here is uncertain, but one thing is clear: the real story of Carter Knox is far from over. And if he’ll have me, I’d like to be there to see how it unfolds. That’s the full expose, like it or not."

I stare at those last words, reading them over and over.

If he’ll have me.

The vulnerability in that simple phrase knocks the wind out of me more than a hard check against the boards. After everything that has happened, after she’d pushed me away, after I’d given up on her and the idea of us, she’s reaching out.

The question now is: what am I going to do about it?