15. Sophie
Chapter 15
Sophie
T hree days, fourteen hours, and approximately twenty-seven minutes.
That's how long it's been since Evan Daniels fell asleep on my couch watching terrible horror movies. Since I woke up with his arms around me and his heart beating steadily under my cheek. Since he kissed me goodbye at my door like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Not that I'm counting.
“I can hear you mooning from here!” Brad calls from his cubicle.
“Oh my freaking—you cannot!”
“Yes, I cannnn,” he sing-songs. “You’re the only person I know that sighs while staring at game footage."
I minimize the video of Evan's latest practice save. "I'm analyzing technique!"
"Sure." His head pops up over our shared wall. "That's why you've rewound the same clip twelve times."
"It's a complicated save!"
"It's not the save you're studying."
He's right, of course. But I can't exactly tell him that I'm replaying the footage because it shows Evan the way I see him—focused, powerful, completely in his element. The way he huffs and double downs on his focus when Ryland scores on him. The way he automatically checks on Natalia in the stands every few minutes.
The way he sometimes looks directly at the camera like he knows I'm watching.
"Earth to Sophie!" Brad waves a hand in front of my face. "Lexi's looking for you. Something about the feature?"
My stomach drops. Right. The feature. The actual reason I'm supposed to be studying these videos.
The thing I'm trying very hard not to complicate with feelings and couch make outs and endless fantasies about what it would be like to be his girlfriend or even...
"Thanks," I mutter, gathering my notes. "How's my hair?"
"Like someone who's been running their hands through it stress-writing for six hours."
"Perfect."
Lexi's office is exactly as intimidating as the first time I walked in here many months ago, but now there's an added layer of guilt to deal with. Because spread across her desk are drafts of my feature—drafts that paint an intimate portrait of the Daniels family through eyes that might be a little too adoring.
"Sophie!" She looks up with a smile that makes me nervous. "Just the person I wanted to see. Have a seat."
I perch on the edge of the chair, trying not to fidget. "Is something wrong with the drafts?"
"Wrong? No, these are...these are incredible." She shuffles through the pages. "The access you've gotten, the details...it's like being right there with them."
My chest tightens. "Really?"
"Absolutely. The way you describe Evan with Natalia and Ryland...it's so personal. So real." She leans forward. "How did you get him to open up like this?"
How did I get him to open up?
Well, Lexi, funny story—it might have something to do with the late-night horror movie sessions, or the stolen kisses between practices, or the way he looks at me when he thinks no one's watching...
"Just...good journalism?" I offer weakly.
"It's more than that." She picks up one particular page. "Like this, 'Some call Evan Daniels the Ice Man, but they've never seen him teach his daughter to butterfly slide across their kitchen floor in sock feet. They’ve never witnessed the quiet moments where being icy means having a foundation strong enough to hold everyone else up...'"
Oh God. I wrote that the night of our couch session, still warm from his kisses and drunk on possibility.
"That's, um, very preliminary," I stammer. "First draft stuff. Very rough."
"It's beautiful." She sets it down carefully. "And exactly what we need. This human side of the Ice Man...it's gold, Sophie."
The praise should make me happy. Instead, it makes me feel slightly sick.
"You don't think it's too...personal?"
"Personal is what sells! People want to know the man behind the mask." She starts making notes. "We could expand this angle. Maybe do a series on hockey's most notorious loner becoming a family man..."
"I don't know if that's…"
"Trust me, this is exactly what your career needs. What the site needs." She looks up with that sharp smile. "In fact, I'm thinking we move up the publication date. Strike while the iron's hot."
My heart stops. "Move it up? But I promised Evan…"
"That you'd run everything by him first? Of course." She waves a hand dismissively. "Send him the draft. I'm sure he'll love it."
Will he though?
Will he love seeing our private moments turned into copy? Our quiet conversations transformed into pull quotes?
Will he love discovering that every time he let his guard down, I was taking notes?
"Sophie?" Lexi's voice breaks through my spiral. "Everything okay?"
"Fine!" My voice comes out too high. "Just...thinking about edits."
"Perfect. Polish it up and have it on my desk Monday?" She's already moving on to other articles. "Oh, and Sophie?"
"Yes?"
"Really excellent work. Keep this up, and we might be talking about a permanent position."
I flee her office before she can see me cry.
Back at my desk, I stare at my computer screen, at all the words I've written about a man I’ve fallen for. About his family that's somehow become mine too.
About moments that felt sacred until I turned them into content.
"Rough meeting?" Brad asks softly.
"She loves it."
"Ah." He wheels his chair over. "And that's...bad?"
"She loves it because it's personal. Because it shows the real them." I start gathering papers almost frantically. "Because I took their trust and turned it into…"
"Into a story that shows them as human? As a loving family? As people worth knowing? You know," Brad says, rolling his chair over for the fourth time in an hour, "most people would be thrilled to have their boss love their work this much."
"Most people aren't writing about..." I wave my hands vaguely.
"About the guy they're dating?"
"We're not dating!"
"Right." He picks up one of my draft pages. "'His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs, a rare sight that transforms his whole face into something softer, something real...' Totally professional observation there."
I snatch the page back. "That's not going in the final draft."
"No?" He grabs another sheet. "'The way he teaches both Ryland and Natalia speaks to a patience few would expect from the infamous Ice Man. Each correction comes with encouragement, each victory shared as if it were his own...'"
"That's different! That's about his coaching style!"
“Of course it is.” Another page. "'In quiet moments between drills…'"
"Okay!" I crumple up a sticky note and throw it at him. "I get it. I'm too close to the story."
"You're not too close to the story," he says more gently. "You're too afraid to admit there are two stories here."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning maybe the story you're writing for the paper isn't the only story that matters."
"To whom?"
"To all of them." He gives me a knowing look. "To a certain grumpy goalie who maybe isn't so grumpy anymore." He grabs another page. “In case you haven’t noticed, my dear amiga…this isn't some tabloid exposé. This is a love letter."
My throat tightens, the hair on the back of my neck standing on edge as the words ‘love letter” wash over me.
But before I can respond, my phone buzzes. Speaking of grumpy goalies...
Evan: Still at the office?
Me: Yeah. Late night editing.
Evan: Can I stop by? Need to talk about something.
Oh God.
Sure , I type back, trying to ignore my racing heart. I'll be here for a while.
"Lover boy coming to visit?" Brad asks, reading over my shoulder shamelessly.
"Don't you have anywhere else to be?"
"Nope! But I do have a date, so I'll leave you to your crisis." He starts gathering his things. "Just...read what you actually wrote before you panic, okay?"
Once he's gone, I force myself to look at my drafts. Really look at them.
And maybe Brad's right. Because these words...they're not exposing secrets or digging up dirt. They're celebrating small moments. Quiet strength. The kind of love that shows up every day in hockey practices and homework help and chocolate chip pancakes.
My phone buzzes again:
Evan: Be there in an hour. Bringing coffee.
I smile despite myself. Why does this guy with a permanent frown make me so giddy? What the hell is wrong with me anyway?
Somehow Evan Daniels has gone from being my story to being my...what exactly?
That's the question, isn't it?
The one I need to answer before he gets here. Before I have to decide if I'm a journalist or...something else.
Something more.
I look at my laptop screen, at the words I've written about his family. About him.
Then I look at my phone background—a picture Natalia took of us at her last game, both of us wearing matching team shirts, both of us laughing at something I can't even remember.
Both of us looking at each other like...
Shit.
Shitshitshitshit.
That’s the problem. Right there. Because that's not how a reporter looks at her subjects. That's how someone looks when they're...
The security desk calls up: "Ms. Bennett? Evan Daniels is here to see you."
Right. Okay.
Time to be professional. Time to set boundaries. Time to remember why I'm here.
Time to stop falling for the story.
Even if the story has somehow become the best part of my life.