6. Evan
Chapter 6
Evan
Y ou invited a reporter to our Saturday game?" Mike Callahan, my longtime friend and fellow Blades defenseman, looks at me like I've lost my mind. "You? Mr. 'The-Media-Is-The-Devil' Daniels?"
"She's not..." I trail off, watching Sophie attempt to load her clubs onto a golf cart without dropping them.
She's muttering to herself—something that sounds suspiciously like "stick-soccer"—and I have to bite back a smile. "It's complicated."
"Oh, it's something all right." Mike grins. "Need help over there, Bennett?"
"Nope!" Her voice has that overly bright tone she used to put on during press conferences when she was nervous but trying to hide it. "All good! Just...physics!"
I remember the first time I heard that tone—her first day as the Blades' intern, when she'd somehow managed to memorize every player's coffee order but couldn't remember which locker room was which.
She'd walked into the coaches' room three times before someone took pity on her.
At least she's wearing proper golf attire so we’ve got that going for us.
The fitted navy polo and white skort are clearly high-end, though something about the way she keeps tugging at the back of the skort suggests they don’t belong to her.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she's got a visor on.
Too bad she's holding her driver like it might bite her.
"She doesn't golf, does she?" Mike asks quietly.
"Not even a little."
"And you're letting her play anyway?"
I shrug, trying to seem more nonchalant than I feel. "She wants to talk about the feature she's doing on Ryland."
"Right. The feature." Mike's knowing look makes me want to check him into the boards, even though we're nowhere near ice. "That's why you keep staring at her legs."
"I'm not…" I stop as Sophie bends over to pick up a dropped tee, the skort rising just enough to reveal more of her toned thighs. I can't help but imagine how they would feel wrapped around me. "Shut up, Callahan."
"You know," he continues, clearly enjoying this, "this is the first time I've seen you look at someone like that since…"
"Don't."
His expression softens. "It's been three years since Chelsea, Evan. Don’t you think…”
"We're not having this conversation." I grab my clubs. "Especially not here."
"Fine, fine." His laugh follows me as I head over to help Sophie before she hurts herself or my equipment. "But for what it's worth? The Sophie I remember from her internship isn't anything like Chelsea."
He's right, of course.
Where Chelsea was calculated ambition wrapped in designer clothes, Sophie is genuine enthusiasm in borrowed golf gear. Where Chelsea saw my career as a stepping stone, Sophie...
Well, I'm not sure what Sophie sees. And that's part of the problem.
"Here," I say, reaching around her to adjust her grip on the club. "Thumb goes here, other hand overlaps like this."
She freezes at my proximity, and I suddenly realize how this must look—me practically pressed against her back, my hands covering hers on the club.
She's small enough that I could rest my chin on her head if I wanted to.
Not that I want to.
"Right," she squeaks. "Thanks. I knew that. Totally knew that."
"Sophie." I step back, running a hand through my hair. "You don't actually golf, do you?"
Her shoulders slump. "Is it that obvious?"
"You were holding the club upside down."
"Oh God." She turns to face me, cheeks pink. "I'm sorry. I just...I really wanted to talk about the feature, and when you mentioned golf, I panicked and…"
"Decided to fake your way through eighteen holes?"
"More like hoped to survive eighteen holes without maiming anyone." She offers a sheepish smile that reminds me of the way she used to look after accidentally sending me another player’s game stats. "How bad is it going to be?"
I should be annoyed. Should tell her to go home, that lying about golf isn't exactly building trust for this feature she wants to do.
Instead, I find myself saying, "Depends. How fast can you learn?"
Her whole face lights up, and for a moment I'm transported back to the first time she saw me make a particularly difficult save during practice.
She'd bounced on her toes just like this, rattling off statistics about reaction times and angles until Coach made her go organize equipment.
"Really? You'll teach me?"
"Basic safety, at least. I value my life too much to let you loose with those clubs otherwise."
"I'll be the best student ever!" She bounces on her toes, then immediately tries to look serious. "I mean...I appreciate the opportunity, Mr. Daniels."
"Evan."
"What?"
"If we're doing this, call me Evan. 'Mr. Daniels' makes me feel old."
Her smile turns teasing. "Well, you are kind of…"
"Don't finish that sentence if you want golf lessons."
She mimics zipping her lips, but her eyes are dancing with suppressed laughter. It's a look I remember well—it’s the same one she wore when Natalia used to sneak into her office for contraband candy during practices.
The next hour is...interesting.
Sophie approaches golf like she approaches everything else—with endless enthusiasm and absolutely no natural talent. She listens intently to my instructions, asks smart questions, and then proceeds to completely butcher every swing.
"Keep your head down," I remind her for the tenth time. "And stop closing your eyes when you hit."
"But what if I hit it wrong and it comes back to kill me?"
"That's...not how physics works."
"Tell that to the ball I somehow managed to hit backwards five minutes ago!"
She has a point there. I'm still not sure how she managed that one. It was almost impressive, in a deeply concerning way.
Mike and our other regular Saturday players have gone ahead, throwing amused looks over their shoulders as I try to teach Sophie the basics. I can hear their laughter carrying across the course, probably betting on how long it'll take before one of us gives up.
I pretend not to hear them, focusing instead on Sophie's latest attempt to defy the laws of physics with a golf ball.
"Okay," I say, moving behind her again. "Let's try this one more time. Feet shoulder-width apart..."
"Check."
"Knees slightly bent..."
"Check. Though I don't understand why my knees care where the ball goes."
I bite back a laugh. "Club face square to the ball..."
"Whatever that means, check. You know, in hockey, we just hit things and hope for the best."
"Is that your strategy here too?"
"Maybe." She grins over her shoulder. "Is it working?"
"If by 'working' you mean 'terrorizing local wildlife’, then yes."
She laughs, and something in my chest tightens.
When was the last time I joked around like this? When was the last time I let myself just...enjoy someone's company? Shit, am I actually enjoying this? That makes no sense.
"Here." I wrap my arms around her, adjusting her stance. "Like this."
She goes very still, and I suddenly become aware of several things at once.
First, she smells amazing—like vanilla and coffee beans.
Second, she fits perfectly against me, her back to my chest, her ass pressing against my groin, stirring something primal within me.
And third, this was a terrible idea.
"Um," she says softly, "is this part of proper golf form?"
No. This is part of me losing my mind.
I clear my throat and step back. "Try it now."
She takes a swing. The ball actually goes forward this time, rolling a respectable distance down the fairway.
"I did it!" She spins around and throws her arms around my neck before either of us can think better of it. "Did you see that? It went straight and everything!"
For a moment, I let myself enjoy it—the feel of her pressed against me, the way her excitement is contagious, the simple pleasure of teaching someone something new.
She's warm and soft and real, and I suddenly remember what it feels like to hold a woman in my arms. Then I remember who we are. What we're doing here.
I step back, immediately missing her warmth. "Not bad. Ready to try the next hole?"
The rest of the morning passes in a blur of golf tips and getting-to-know-you conversations.
I learn that Sophie's from Michigan originally, that she has three younger siblings, that she worked multiple jobs through college to get herself through.
"Dad got sick my sophomore year. Pancreatic cancer,” she explains as we walk to the next tee. "Mom had to quit her job to take care of him. So, I picked up extra shifts, and started coaching youth hockey on weekends."
"That couldn't have been easy."
"It wasn't. But you do what you have to for family, right?" She glances at me. "Like you with Natalia."
Something warm unfurls in my chest. "Yeah. Like that."
"Can I ask you something?" She lines up her shot, tongue poking out in concentration. "Why did you really agree to teach me today? After everything you said about reporters..."
I watch her swing (terrible) and the ball's trajectory (worse) while I consider my answer.
"Because," I finally say, "you helped my daughter with her math homework using hockey scores."
She looks surprised. "That's it?"
"That's it." I hand her another ball. "Chelsea—my ex—she never had time for things like that. Never wanted to mix family with hockey. But you..." I shake my head. "You make everything about family, don't you?"
"Is that a bad thing?"
"No." I help her adjust her stance again, trying to ignore how right it feels. "It's just different."
By the time we reach the final holes, I have to admit—I'm impressed.
Not by her golf game, which remains horrifically bad, but by her determination. Her willingness to laugh at herself. Her genuine interest in getting things right.
"One more lesson?" she asks at the eighteenth tee, giving me those big brown eyes that are becoming increasingly hard to resist.
"Fine. But this is the last one."
I position myself behind her again, telling myself it's purely instructional. That I'm not noticing how her ponytail brushes my neck, or how her breath catches when I adjust her grip.
"Eyes on the ball," I say, my voice rougher than intended.
She turns her head slightly, and suddenly we're face to face, barely inches apart.
Her eyes drop to my mouth, then back up, and I wonder what it would feel like to kiss her.
"Evan..."
I should step back and think all the reasons this is a bad idea. Professional boundaries, a huge age difference and she’s a damn reporter.
Instead, I find myself leaning closer, drawn in by the way she says my name. Her lips part slightly, and I can feel her breath on my mouth. I'm so close I can almost taste her.
A golf cart whizzes by, breaking the moment. I jump back like I've been burned, but not before feeling a distinct tightness in my pants. Sophie's club goes flying, and she looks as flustered as I feel.
"I should..." She's blushing furiously. "Bathroom! I need to...yeah."
She practically runs toward the clubhouse, leaving me standing there with a racing heart and a lot of questions I don't want to answer.
"Smooth," Mike calls from the next hole. "Real smooth, Ice Man."
I flip him off without looking, then grab my water bottle and head for the men's room myself.
I push open the door, thankful it's empty.
Splashing some water on my face, I try to cool down, but it's no use. I'm burning up, and the only cure is to take matters into my own hands.
I lock the door and lean against it, unzipping my pants. I'm already hard, my cock straining against my boxer briefs. I wrap my hand around my length, letting out a low groan as I stroke myself.
I close my eyes, and all I can see is Sophie.
Her smile, her laugh, her ass pressing against me. I imagine her here with me, her small hand wrapped around me instead of my own.
I picture her looking up at me with those gorgeous blue eyes, her lips parted and ready.
I stroke faster, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I'm close, so close. I imagine Sophie on her knees in front of me, her tongue darting out to taste me.
It's enough to send me over the edge. I come hard, my body shaking with the force of my release.
I lean against the door, panting, as I come down from my high. It's not enough.
I still want her.
But for now, it'll have to do.
I clean up quickly, washing my hands and adjusting my clothes. I check my reflection in the mirror, making sure I look presentable.
But even that minute—or ten—to get my head (both the one on my neck and the one in my pants) straight isn’t exactly successful.
Getting involved with a journalist intern—especially this intern—is the worst possible idea.
Even if she does have the most fabulous smile I've ever seen.
Even if she did spend all morning making me laugh for the first time in...I can't remember how long.
Even if she is quickly becoming the most dangerous person I've ever met.
Because Sophie Bennett doesn't just want to tell Ryland's story.
She's starting to make me want to tell her mine.