13. Sophie
Chapter 13
Sophie
" O kay, run this by me one more time," Cynthia says, pulling the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream carton from my death grip. "But with less dramatic sighing this time."
I'm sprawled on our couch in my comfiest pajamas (which may or may not be another stolen Blades practice shirt and hockey-puck-printed flannel pants), trying to explain how my life imploded in the span of twenty-four hours.
"I told you. Evan went all Ice Man on me because some ex-teammate was being sketchy, and when I tried to understand why, he basically told me to mind my own business."
I make grabby hands at the ice cream but she doesn’t give it back. "That’s what I get after the kitchen make out session, two family dinners, dozens of practice sessions, and one very promising almost-moment in the equipment room."
"Almost-moment?"
"He was helping me with a part of Ryland’s feature and our hands touched and he got this look in his eyes like…" I stop at her raised eyebrow. "Not the point."
"Right. The point is he freaked out when his past came up."
"Exactly! Which I get, sort of. I mean, everyone knows about the messy divorce, but..." I trail off, thinking about the way Evan had looked at Clark. Like he wanted to commit murder. "There's obviously more to it."
"And your reporter instincts are tingling."
"No! Well, maybe a little. But not because I want to write about it!" I finally snatch the ice cream back. "I just...I want him to trust me enough to tell me."
"Even though you're literally writing a story about his family?"
"That's different! That's about Ryland and hockey and..." I groan, shoving a spoonful of cookie dough in my mouth. "God, this is so messed up."
"Is it though?" Cynthia settles onto the couch beside me. "Messed up, I mean?"
"What do you call falling for your story subject’s uncle while also maybe crossing ethical boundaries and definitely mixing professional and personal lines?"
"I call it being human." She steals the carton again. "Also, you said 'falling for’."
"I did not."
"Did too. Just now. 'What do you call falling for your story subject’s uncle’?" She mimics my voice badly. "Finally, she admits it!"
"I admit nothing." I burrow deeper into my blanket fortress. "And even if I did—which I'm not—it doesn't matter now. He made it pretty clear today that there are lines I'm not supposed to cross."
"Evan, talk to me," I'd pleaded, reaching for him. "What's really going on?"
The look he'd given me—like he was seeing someone else, someone who'd hurt him—made my chest ache.
"Drop it, Sophie."
"No." My reporter instincts had kicked in, unable to ignore the story unfolding in front of me. "There's clearly history there. Something about 'ambitious women' and…"
"I said drop it!"
“Hey, let’s focus back in on reality…” Cynthia waves the spoon in front of my face. "You're spiraling again.”
“I’m not…spiraling.” I pause. “Am I?”
“You sure are. You spiral when you’re replaying conversations in your head—trying to figure out where you went wrong."
"I do not…" I stop at her knowing look. "Okay, fine. Maybe I do. I just can’t stop thinking about it and wondering what would have happened if I said something different."
"Want to know what I think?"
"Will it involve more ice cream?"
"Obviously." She hands the carton back. "I think you're both idiots."
I choke on my bite. "Excuse you?"
"You heard me. He's an idiot for pushing away someone who clearly cares about him and his family. And you're an idiot for letting him."
"I'm not letting him! He's the one who…"
"Who what? Got scared? Put up walls? Acted like the grumpy person everyone knows him to be?"
"Well, when you put it like that..."
"Sophie." Her voice softens. "Tell me about him. Not the Ice Man. Not the story. Just...him."
I poke at my ice cream, thinking.
"He cuts Natalia's peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into tiny bites for her," I say finally. "Even when he's running late for practice. Says it's tradition."
"What else?"
"And?"
"And he has this laugh—this real laugh, not the polite one he uses for media—that makes his whole face light up. I've only heard it a few times, but..." I trail off, remembering the kitchen, the way he'd laughed when I got chocolate sauce on his shirt. "It makes him look younger. Lighter."
"Sounds like he started to let you in."
"I thought he did." I set aside the ice cream, suddenly not craving it anymore. "But today, after the Clark thing and he was so angry...it was like looking at a stranger."
"Or maybe," Cynthia says gently, "it was like looking at someone who's been hurt before. Someone who's afraid of being hurt again."
I think about that day in the archives, researching for my feature. About the headlines I'd found:
BLADES STAR GOALIE DIVORCE SCANDAL
ICE MAN'S MARRIAGE MELTS DOWN
DANIELS DRAMA: INSIDE THE SPLIT
"He's been through a lot," I admit. "The divorce was...very public. Very messy."
"And now he's letting someone in again. Someone who writes for a living."
"Oh." The realization hits like a slap shot to the chest. "Oh shit."
"There it is."
"But I would never…" I start to protest, then remember how I'd pushed today. How I'd let my reporter instincts override my personal ones. "Fuck."
"Language!" Cynthia throws a pillow at me. "But also, yes. Fuck indeed."
"What do I do?"
"Well, first, you're going to help me finish this ice cream because I have work in an hour and I refuse to leave you alone with the rest of this pint."
"Hey!"
"Then," she continues, ignoring my protest, "you're going to put on one of those terrible horror movies you love…"
"They're not terrible! They're classics!"
"…and think about what you really want here. The story? Or him?"
I open my mouth to answer, but she cuts me off. "And before you say 'both’, really think about whether that's possible. And if it is, how you're going to prove it to him."
She's right. Of course she's right.
But before I can respond, my phone buzzes.
Evan: I still have your pen. I’d like to give it back to you.
My heart clenches. That pen—a graduation gift from my dad, engraved with "For Stories That Matter"—never leaves my side during important assignments.
"Okay, now you're spiraling again," Cynthia observes. "What did he say?"
I show her the text.
"Well, that's sweet."
"Says the woman who just called us both idiots."
"Because you are!" She stands up, gathering her things for work. "You're both so busy protecting yourselves that you're missing what's right in front of you."
"Which is?"
"A really good story." At my look, she clarifies: "Not the one you're writing. The one you're living."
With that, she heads for the door.
"Wait! What does that even mean?"
"Figure it out!" She pauses in the doorway. "Oh, and Sophie?"
"Yeah?"
"Maybe consider that some stories are worth telling, even if they're hard to hear. Even if they hurt." She grins. "Also, you might want to change out of his practice shirt before making any grand declarations."
And then she's gone, leaving me with melting ice cream and too many thoughts.
Thirty minutes later, I’m still moping around the kitchen and living room, schlepping my semi-depressed ass around…
Until my phone buzzes again. Another text from Evan:
Evan: Can we talk?
Followed immediately by:
Evan: I'm outside your building.
Holy…
Oh shit.
I look down at my Blades shirt and my pajama pants, and my general dishevelment.
Perfect. Just perfect.
Another text:
Evan: Please.
And that's the thing about Evan Daniels—he never says please. Never asks for anything. Just gives and gives and hopes no one notices.
I take a deep breath and type:
Me: Come up. 4B. Fair warning: I'm in pajamas and there's ice cream involved.
His response makes my heart flip.
Evan: As long as you’ve got caramel sauce.
Despite everything, I laugh. Because maybe Cynthia's right. Maybe this is a story worth telling. Even if it's not the one I thought I was writing.