12. Evan
Chapter 12
Evan
T here’s nothing worse than being distracted during practice. Well, actually, I guess it’s worse if it’s during a game. My position requires focus, though. One hundred percent focus. And I’m far from that today.
"Your glove side's a little slow today," she calls from her usual spot in the stands. "Everything okay?"
I resist the urge to flip her off, mostly because Natalia's watching from the bench. Instead, I focus on the next shot coming my way, trying not to think about how Sophie's been a constant presence in my mind since that night in my kitchen.
"Dad?" Natalia had asked at breakfast this morning. "Is Sophie your girlfriend now?"
I'd nearly choked on my coffee. "What? No. She's just...she's working on the story about Ry."
"But you smile more when she's around." She'd given me that too-perceptive look she definitely got from her aunt. " And she’s at the rink all the time."
"That's for work."
"Is that why you were kissing her in the kitchen?"
This time I did choke. "You...what?"
"I came down for water last night. You looked happy." She'd shrugged, going back to her cereal. "I like when you're happy, Dad."
“Um, Evan?” Sophie's voice breaks through the memory.
I cough lightly. “Yeah?”
“Uh oh. It’s happening, isn’t it?”
“What? What’s happening?”
"That brooding-goalie athlete voodoo magic where you get lost in your head." She sets down her notebook. "Want to clue the rest of the class in? Or…”
I can’t say the answer I want to. The “fuck no” that’s on the tip of my tongue.
Because there’s no way to adequately convey that she has completely upended my carefully ordered world. That she makes me want things I'd sworn off years ago.
That she scares the hell out of me because she makes me feel safe.
"My glove side is fine," I say instead.
She gives me a look that says she knows I'm deflecting but will let it slide. For now.
That's another thing about Sophie—she knows when to push and when to back off. It's what makes her such a good reporter.
It's what makes her so dangerous to my peace of mind.
"Uncle Evan's just distracted," Ryland pipes up, grinning. "Wonder why?"
I shoot him a look that would make most players skate away quickly. He just laughs.
Because apparently, kissing Sophie Bennett once (okay, maybe more than once) in my kitchen has completely destroyed my intimidation factor.
"You're thinking too loud," Sophie had murmured against my lips last night, her fingers tangled in my shirt.
"Am not."
"Are too. I can practically hear you analyzing angles and trajectories."
"I do not…"
"Evan." She'd pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. "Stop overthinking and kiss me again."
"Again," I tell Ryland, resetting my stance. "And this time, no commentary from the peanut gallery."
Sophie makes a show of zipping her lips, but her eyes are dancing with amusement. She's wearing another one of those oversized Blades hoodies—this one definitely stolen from my locker during her internship days—and somehow managing to make practice gear look good.
Not that I'm noticing.
Much.
The next shot comes in hard, and this time I snag it clean.
"Better," Sophie says approvingly. "See what happens when you focus?"
"I liked you better when you were afraid of me."
"No, you didn't."
No, I didn't.
"Mr. Daniels?" A nervous Sophie had approached me during her first week as the Blades' intern. "I have those save percentage analytics you asked for."
I'd barely looked up from my gear. "Just leave them."
"Actually..." She'd shifted from foot to foot but stood her ground. "I noticed something in the third-period stats that might interest you."
"Did you?"
"Your save percentage drops three-point-two percent when defending your glove side in the final five minutes. But only in home games."
That had gotten my attention. "How did you…"
"I cross-referenced the data with arena lighting positions." She'd thrust a color-coded spreadsheet at me. "The sunset hits the west windows at exactly six forty-seven p.m. during winter games. It's creating a glare that…"
"That affects my depth perception." I'd stared at her analysis, impressed despite myself. "No one's caught that before."
"Well," she'd grinned, already backing away, "most people are too scared to tell the Ice Man he has a weakness."
"And you're not?"
"Oh, I'm terrified. But I figure good data beats fear any day."
"Incoming!" Ryland's shout snaps me back to attention just in time to catch another puck. "Maybe we should call it a day, Uncle Evan. Before you take one to the mask."
He's right. I'm too distracted to be effective, and the last thing we need is me getting injured because I can't stop thinking about how Sophie felt pressed against me by my kitchen counter. Or how she's somehow become such a fixture in our lives that even Natalia begs for her to show up to things.
"Hit the showers," I tell him. "Good work today."
"Thanks!" He starts skating off, then pauses. "Oh, hey, Sophie? Mom wants to know if you're coming to family dinner Sunday. Says she's making that pasta thing you liked last time."
I nearly drop my water bottle.
Family dinner?
When did that become a thing?
"She's good for you," Julia had said last week, watching Sophie teach Natalia how to calculate shot trajectories using her hockey stats.
"She's doing her job."
"Face it, little brother. She's not just here for the story anymore."
"It's complicated."
"Only because you make it complicated." She'd nudged my shoulder. "Not everyone is Chelsea, you know."
The name had hit like a check to the boards. "This isn't about…"
"Isn't it?" Julia's voice had softened. "At some point, you have to let yourself trust again."
"Wouldn't miss it," Sophie calls back to Ryland. "Tell her I'll bring dessert!"
"Cool! See you then!" He disappears into the locker room, leaving me to stare at Sophie.
"What?" She starts gathering her things, not meeting my eyes. "Your sister makes good pasta."
"You've been going to family dinners?"
"Just one. Julia insisted after I helped Natalia with that science project about ice density." She finally looks at me, biting her lip. "Is that...is that okay?"
And that's the thing about Sophie Bennett—she fits so seamlessly into my life that sometimes I forget to be scared of it. She's just...there. Like she belongs.
"Yeah," I hear myself say. "That's okay."
Her smile could power the whole arena.
"Good. Because I promised Natalia I'd teach her how to make my mom's famous chocolate lava cakes, and…"
"Well, if it isn't my favorite reporter!"
Every muscle in my body tenses at that voice. At the way Sophie's smile fades slightly.
Clark fucking Ellis.
He's standing at the boards, wearing another one of his too-expensive suits and that pasted-on smile I remember all too well. The same smile he wore when he…
No. Don't go there.
"Mr. Ellis." Sophie's tone is polished and cool. "Practice is over."
"Oh, I know. Just thought we could chat about that article you're working on." He leans against the boards like he belongs there. Like he has any right to be here. "Got some interesting stories about the Daniels family that might spice things up a bit."
I start skating over, but Sophie responds before I get there.
"I appreciate the offer," she says firmly, "but I've got all the material I need."
"You sure about that, sweetheart? Because I've got some real insights into team dynamics that might interest you. About how certain people handle...personal relationships."
My mind travels back in time:
"It's just life, Evan," Clark had said that day, straightening his tie with that same smug expression. "Nothing personal."
As if sleeping with my wife had been a professional decision.
As if destroying my family had been a career move.
The insinuation in his tone makes my blood boil. Before I can say anything, Sophie speaks up again. "Mr. Ellis, I'm going to be very clear. I'm not interested in whatever story you're trying to sell. My feature is about Ryland's journey, not about stirring up drama."
She stands her ground, chin lifted, notebook clutched to her chest like a shield. Protecting my family's privacy. Protecting me.
It makes me want to protect her right back.
"Come on, Sophie. We both know every story needs a little conflict. A little scandal. And I bet your editors would love…"
"Is there a problem here?"
I'm at the boards now, still on the ice, but close enough to see Clark's smile turn sharp.
"Just having a friendly chat with Ms. Bennett here." He straightens his tie—still that same nervous tell. "Reminiscing about old times."
"She said she's not interested."
"Did she? Or are you just afraid of what she might find out?"
Sophie steps between us, probably sensing my rising anger. "I think we're done here."
"You know," Clark continues like she hasn't spoken, "it's interesting how history repeats itself. You always did have a thing for ambitious women who…"
I'm over the boards before I realize I'm moving, years of buried rage surging to the surface.
"Evan!" Sophie's hand on my chest is the only thing that stops me from doing something career-ending. "He's not worth it."
Her touch grounds me, but it also reminds me of everything I have to lose. Everything that could be destroyed. Again.
Clark backs up, hands raised but smirking. "Just trying to help, old friend. But if you want to keep playing happy family, that's your business. For now."
The threat in those last words is clear.
He walks away, leaving me shaking with rage.
Sophie looks confused. "What was that about?" she asks softly.
"Nothing. Just Clark being Clark."
"Didn't seem like nothing." She touches my arm. "Evan, talk to me. What's really going on?"
"Drop it, Sophie."
"No." Her reporter instincts are clearly kicking in, and suddenly all I can see is another ambitious woman trying to dig up my past. "There's clearly history there. Something about 'ambitious women' and…"
"I said drop it!"
She flinches at my tone, and immediately I hate myself a little.
Because this is Sophie—who always looks at me like I'm worth knowing. Not just like I'm some story to crack.
"Sophie…"
"No, you're right." Her voice is carefully neutral now. The way it was when she first started shadowing practices. "It's none of my business. I should go transcribe my notes anyway."
"Wait." I reach for her, but she steps back, and the distance feels like miles. "Let me explain."
"Explain what? You've made it pretty clear there are lines I'm not supposed to cross." She gathers her things quickly, movements sharp with hurt. "Don't worry, I won't put any of this in the article. Wouldn't want to damage your image."
"That's not…"
"I'll see you at practice tomorrow. From a proper distance. And I’ll keep my mouth shut."
She's gone before I can stop her, leaving me standing there like an idiot in my gear, wondering how everything went sideways so fast.
My phone buzzes.
Julia: Just saw Sophie leaving. She looked upset. What did you do?
Followed immediately by: Fix it, E. Before you ruin the best thing that's happened to you in years.
I sink onto the nearest bench, fisting a hand into my own sweaty hair.
Because that's the thing about Sophie Bennett—she makes me feel alive again.
She makes me feel everything.
Including fear.
My mind flashes back to the conversation I had with Natalie a couple nights ago.
"I like her," Natalia had said, licking ice cream from her spoon. "Sophie, I mean."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. She doesn't look at us like we're broken. Like we need fixing." She'd given me that too-wise look. "She just looks at us like we're...us."
My phone buzzes one more time.
Sophie: For what it's worth, I never wanted your secrets. Just you.
Well, fuck. Now what?
Because here's the thing about falling for someone who sees right through your walls…sometimes they see things you're not ready to show them.
Sometimes they make you want to be brave enough to show them anyway.
And sometimes, if you're really stupid, you push them away before they have the chance.
I look at the pen Sophie left on the bench—one of those fancy ones with "For Stories That Matter" engraved on the side. The one I've seen her clutching during late practices, chewing on the end of it when she's thinking hard about something. The one she uses to write about my family like we're something precious instead of just another story.
Like we matter. Like I matter.
"Fuck," I mutter again, picking up the pen.
Maybe Julia's right. Maybe not every woman is Chelsea. Maybe some people just want to know you, scars and all.
My fingers hover over my phone, trying to find the right words.
How do you tell someone you're sorry for pushing them away when you're terrified of letting them get close?
How do you explain that they make you want to be brave when being brave is what got you hurt last time?
How do you say, "I think I'm falling for you", without saying, "please don't fucking break me"?
I start typing, delete the message, then start again.
Me: You forgot your pen. The one for important stories.
Sophie: Keep it. Seems I read this one wrong.
Dammit. I’ve really stepped in it this time.
Now, how the hell am I going to get myself out of this mess?