4. Evan
Chapter 4
Evan
T here are few things more humbling than having your nineteen-year-old nephew score on you. Especially when it's because you're too distracted by a certain coffee-wielding reporter-slash-intern to properly defend your net.
"That's three!" Ryland shouts, doing a victory lap around the ice. "Getting slow in your old age, Uncle Evan?"
I flip up my mask to glare at him. "Again."
"Seriously?" He's practically bouncing with energy, clearly enjoying this far too much. "Don't you think we should talk about…"
"Again."
He sighs but takes his position. Smart kid. He knows when to push and when to shut up.
Unlike some people.
I definitely don't glance up at the media box where Sophie Bennett has been watching practice for the last two hours. And I absolutely don't notice how she's changed into what appears to be Blades merchandise—probably left over from her internship days.
The oversized hoodie makes her look smaller somehow, more vulnerable.
Not that I'm looking.
"Ready?" Ryland calls out.
I snap my focus back to him. To the puck. To the one thing in my life that still makes perfect sense.
"Show me what you've got, kid."
This time when he comes at me, I'm ready. Block the shot. Clear the rebound. Simple. Clean. The way it should be.
"There's the Ice Man we all know and fear," Coach Martinez says as he skates past. "Good to have you back from whatever planet you were on earlier."
I grunt in response.
Coach doesn't need to know I was mentally replaying this morning's disaster with Sophie. Or thinking about the hurt in her eyes when I accused her of…
Focus, Daniels.
"All right, wrap it up!" Coach blows his whistle. "Good practice, everyone. Ryland, nice work on those shots. Even if your uncle was taking it easy on you."
"Was not," I mutter, but no one's listening.
The team files off the ice, but Ryland lingers.
I know that look. It's the same one he wore when he was seven and broke my favorite hockey stick trying to recreate a slapshot he'd seen on TV.
"Whatever you're about to say," I warn, "the answer is no."
"You don't even know what I was going to say!"
"You want to talk about the feature."
"Okay, fine." He helps me gather the pucks, because he's a good kid despite his currently questionable judgment. "But come on, Uncle Evan. It's Sophie. You know her. You trust her."
"Trusted," I correct. "Past tense. She works for them now."
"'Them' being legitimate sports journalists? Not exactly the devil incarnate."
I straighten up, fixing him with my best stare. "You're too young to remember what the media did to this family."
"Actually, I do remember." His voice hardens. "I remember because I was there, watching my favorite uncle go through hell. But Sophie isn't those reporters. She's not looking for scandal or drama. She just wants to tell my story."
"There's no such thing as 'just' telling a story in journalism." The words come out bitter, waking up old wounds. "Everything gets twisted. Everything gets used."
"Maybe." He shrugs. "Or maybe you're so busy protecting everyone else, you can't see when something might actually be good for us."
Sometimes I forget he's not a kid anymore. When he says something like that, I see glimpses of the man he's becoming. Doesn't mean he's right, though.
"I'm picking up Natalia from your mom's," I say instead of arguing further. "We'll discuss this later."
"Sure." He starts skating backward toward the exit, grinning. "Fair warning: Sophie's probably already talked to Mom about it."
I freeze. "What?"
"Oh yeah, she mentioned stopping by there after practice. Something about wanting to be transparent with the whole family." His grin widens. "Good luck with that!"
Son of a…
I'm off the ice and through the locker room in record time, not even bothering to shower.
Julia is the weak link in all this. Always has been where Ryland's concerned.
If Sophie gets her on board...
The drive to my sister's house is a blur of Chicago traffic and muttered curses.
I try calling twice, but it goes straight to voicemail. Typical Julia. She almost always has her ringer off.
Finally, I pull into her driveway, noticing with growing dread the unfamiliar Honda parked out front.
Please don't be...
The front door opens before I can even knock, revealing Julia's amused face. "Well, well. If it isn't my favorite grumpy brother."
"Where is she?"
"Who?" Julia blinks innocently. "Natalia? She's doing homework with…"
"You know who."
"Oh, you mean Sophie?" Her smile widens. "The lovely young reporter who brought cookies and actually listened to my thoughts about Ryland's career? That Sophie?"
"Jules..."
"She's in the kitchen," my traitor of a sister says cheerfully. "Helping Natalia with her math homework. Because apparently, she minored in math along with getting a major in journalism. Did you know that?"
I did not know that. Nor do I fucking care.
"Also," Julia continues, following me as I stalk toward the kitchen, "did you know she has three younger siblings? And that she put herself through college by working with youth hockey? Or that she…"
"Stop." I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. "Just...stop. I don't need her life story."
"No, what you need is to stop being a stubborn ass and…"
We round the corner into the kitchen, and the words die in my throat.
Sophie's sitting at the counter, still wearing that oversized Blades hoodie, her dark, silky hair pulled up in a messy bun. She's bent over a worksheet with Natalia, pointing at something with a pencil while my daughter nods seriously.
"So, if you think about it like a hockey score," Sophie's saying, "it makes more sense. If you have three goals in the first period and multiply that by two periods..."
"Six goals total!" Natalia's face lights up. "Oh! And if you divide those six goals between two teams..."
"Each team scores..."
"Three goals each!" Natalia pumps her fist. "I get it now!"
"See? Math is just sports with extra numbers." Sophie high-fives her, then freezes as she spots us in the doorway.
For a moment, no one moves.
Then Natalia breaks the silence. "Dad! Sophie's helping me with my multiplication! Did you know she knows how to explain everything using hockey?"
"Does she now?" I manage to sound normal, though the tightness in my chest makes it difficult.
"Uh-huh! Can she help me with homework more often? Please?"
Sophie starts gathering her things, cheeks pink. "Actually, I should get going. I have to transcribe my notes from earlier and…"
"Nonsense," Julia cuts in. "Stay for dinner. We're having lasagna, and I always make too much."
"Oh, I couldn't…"
"Please?" Natalia turns those deadly puppy eyes on her. "You haven't even seen my new hockey cards yet!"
I watch Sophie's resolve crumble in real time. "I...maybe just for a little while?"
"Perfect!" Julia claps her hands. "Evan, why don't you help me in the kitchen while the girls finish up here?"
I know my sister well enough to know that this is not a request. I follow my sister to the other side of the kitchen, though not far enough that I can't hear Natalia chattering away about her card collection.
"Before you start," Julia says quietly, pulling ingredients from the fridge, "just listen."
"Jules…"
"No, really listen." She turns to face me, all traces of teasing gone. "That girl in there? She spent an hour explaining why she wants to do this feature. Not for clicks, not for scandal, but because she genuinely believes Ryland's story could inspire other kids. She wants to show how having a supportive family can make all the difference in an athlete's development."
"And you believe her?"
"Yes." Julia starts chopping onions with perhaps more force than necessary. "Because unlike some people, I actually gave her a chance to explain herself."
"I gave her a chance," I protest. "This morning, when she…"
"When she what? Accidentally spilled coffee on you? Yeah, Ryland told me about that. And about how you practically accused her of being a vulture."
Put like that, it does sound bad.
"You can't protect everyone forever, Evan." Julia's voice softens. "At some point, you have to trust that not everyone is out to hurt us."
From the other room, I hear Natalia laugh at something Sophie's said. It's her real laugh—the one she doesn't use with strangers or people she's unsure about.
"Look," Julia continues, "I'm not saying you have to like it. But Ryland wants this. I want this for Ryland. And Sophie...well, just watch her with Natalia for five minutes and tell me she's anything like those reporters from before."
I risk another glance at the counter. Sophie's now fully invested in Natalia's card collection, asking questions and seeming genuinely interested in my daughter's detailed explanation of why certain players are better than others.
"Fine," I find myself saying. "But I have conditions."
Julia's eyes light up. "Like what?"
"Like I get final approval on anything that involves Natalia. Like there are clear boundaries about what's off limits. Like…"
"Dad!" Natalia calls out. "Sophie says she used to play hockey too! Can she come to my game on Saturday?"
Sophie looks horrified. "Oh, I didn't mean to invite myself! I was just telling her about…"
"Please?" Natalia adds, going full force with those puppy eyes again. "She says she can help me with my butterfly technique!"
I look at my daughter's hopeful face. At Sophie's embarrassed one. At Julia's smugly expectant expression.
"We'll see," I say finally, which makes Natalia cheer because she knows that's dad-code for yes.
"Excellent!" Julia starts pulling plates from the cabinet. "Now, Sophie, tell me more about this mathematical approach to sports. I've been trying to get Natalia interested in math for ages..."
I watch as Sophie launches into an explanation, her hands moving animatedly as she speaks. And as my sister nods along, clearly impressed. And as my daughter hangs on every word like Sophie's sharing the secrets of the universe.
And I realize, with a sinking feeling, that I'm completely outnumbered.
What’s worse? A small part of me might be okay with that.