24. Sophie
Chapter 24
Sophie
" Y ou look like hell," Brad announces as I drag myself into the office the next morning.
"Thanks. That's exactly what I needed to hear."
"Just being honest." He wheels his chair over to my cubicle. "Though not as honest as that new draft you submitted."
I wince. "You read it?"
"Everyone read it. It has zero heart."
"It wasn't that bad."
"Sophie." He picks up a printout. "'Ryland Daniels demonstrates adequate skill development under the mentorship of his uncle, Chicago Blades goaltender Evan Daniels’. Adequate? Really?"
"It's neutral."
"It's soulless." He throws the paper down. "What happened to the real story? The one about family and second chances and—"
"That story's dead." I start up my computer, avoiding his eyes. "This is better."
"Better for whom?"
"Why does everyone keep asking that?"
"Because we all read the original draft. The real one." He leans forward. "The one that made me actually care about hockey."
"Well, this one's more objective."
"This one's garbag and you know it."
My phone buzzes—probably another concerned text from Julia or Cynthia or...
I turn it face down without looking.
"Lexi wants to see you," Brad says after a moment. "About the new draft."
"Great." I stand on shaky legs. "Perfect. Just what I need today."
"Sophie…"
"Don't." I gather my notes. "Just...don't."
Lexi's office feels colder than usual, or maybe that's just me. She's sitting behind her desk, surrounded by both versions of my feature—the original one full of heart and family moments, and the new version I finished at three a.m. last night after I couldn’t sleep.
"Sit," she says without looking up.
I perch on the edge of the chair, trying not to fidget.
"So," she finally looks at me, "want to tell me what this is?"
She holds up the new draft.
"It's more objective," I say for what feels like the hundredth time today. "More professional."
"It's trash."
"I—what?"
"You heard me." She tosses it aside. "This isn't journalism, Sophie. This is you hiding."
"I'm not hiding. I'm being…"
"Professional? Please." She picks up the original draft. "This is incredible. This is real journalism. Showing the human side of sports, making people care about more than just stats and scores."
"That version was too personal."
"That version was perfect." She studies me carefully. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Really? So this has nothing to do with what happened at Giovanni's last night?"
I freeze. "How did you…"
"Please. Half the restaurant's staff live-tweeted it." She pulls up her phone. "'Ice Man lives up to name, decks sleazy agent.' 'Hockey drama at Giovanni's’. My personal favorite, 'Best dinner theater ever, five stars’."
"Oh God."
"Indeed." She sets her phone down. "Want to tell me the real story?"
"Not really."
"Too bad." She leans forward. "Because right now, I have two options in front of me. One is this brilliant feature that makes me actually care about hockey players as people. The other is...whatever this soulless thing is that you sent me at three a.m."
"The second one is more…"
"If you say professional one more time, I'm going to scream." She stands up, moving to sit on the edge of her desk. "Can I tell you a story?"
"Do I have a choice?" I know I sound like a smartass, but I can’t help myself. I’ve been through the wringer and don’t have anything left in me to deal with this.
"Not really." She smiles slightly. "You know I'm married to Gio DeLuca, right?"
"Of course.” Everyone knows that. It was the wedding of the century.
"I was a young, ambitious reporter determined to make a name for myself..."
"Lexi…"
"I got too close to my story with him. Everyone told me it was unprofessional. That I was compromising my integrity. That I couldn't possibly be objective." She picks up my original draft again. "Know what I learned?"
"What?"
"That sometimes the best stories come from the heart. From really knowing your subject. From caring enough to tell the truth, not just the facts."
I stare at the draft in her hands—at all the moments I captured because I was there, because I cared, because I...
Because I loved him. Because I loved all of them.
"I can't," I whisper.
"Can't what?"
"Can't write that version. Not anymore. Not after..."
"After Evan pushed you away?"
I look up sharply. "How did you…"
"Please. Everyone knows at this point." She hands me both drafts. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, are you going to let him dictate your story? Let fear win? Or..." She taps the original draft. "Are you going to tell the truth? All of it?"
"Even if it hurts?"
“That’s when it’s most important to lean in.” She moves back behind her desk. "Because here's the thing about truth, Sophie—it doesn't care about boundaries. About what's safe or easy. It just is."
"Like falling in love with your story subject?" The words slip out before I can stop them.
"Exactly like that." She smiles. "Now, what are you going to do about it?"
I look down at the drafts in my hands. At the difference between what's safe and what's real. What's professional and what's true.
"I don't know," I admit.
"Yes, you do." She starts gathering papers. "You're just afraid to admit it."
My phone buzzes again. This time I look:
Natalia: Dad keeps staring at your lucky pen. The one for important stories. Please come home.
Home…when did the Daniels house become home? The moment I felt all the love there, that’s when.
"Take the rest of the day," Lexi says softly. "Figure out what story you really want to tell."
"And if it's not the revised one?"
"Then make sure it's worth the risk." She pauses. "For what it's worth? The best stories usually are."
I leave her office in a daze, clutching both drafts to my chest.
Brad's waiting at my desk. "So?" he asks. "How bad was it?"
"She told me about how she and Gio got together."
"Ah." He nods sagely. "I’ve heard that one."
"You knew?"
"Everyone knows. It's like, office legend." He steals my coffee. "The hard-hitting reporter who fell for her subject. Who chose love over professional distance."
I look at the drafts again. At my phone full of messages from people who became more than just subjects. Who became family.
"I don't know," I say again.
But maybe I do. Maybe I've known since that first day, when Evan brought me coffee exactly how I liked it. Since Natalia asked for help with math. Since Julia started saving me a place at family dinners.
Since...since I fell in love with more than just the story.
I stay at my desk, alternating between reviewing the two versions of the feature and staring out the window, lost in thoughts of Evan and the Daniels family. The hours tick by, and I find myself both dreading and anticipating the end of the work day.
As the sun starts to set, casting an orange glow over the city skyline, Brad reappears at my cubicle.
"Still moping?" he asks, leaning against the divider.
I sigh. "I'm not moping."
"Could have fooled me." He narrows his eyes. "You still haven’t heard from Evan?"
I bite my lip, unable to meet his gaze. "It's complicated."
"Complicated, huh?" He pulls up a chair and sits down. "Well, lucky for you, I've got time."
I hesitate, then decide that talking to Brad might actually help. He's been a good friend and confidante throughout this whole mess.
"I just...I thought if I could understand what happened with Evan and Chelsea, I could help him trust me. Trust us," I admit quietly. "I know it was a mistake, but I was hurt and confused and…"
"And you thought Clark Ellis might have the answers," Brad finishes for me.
I nod miserably. "I know it was wrong, but…"
"Hey, I get it." He places a hand on my arm. "You were trying to help. Trying to fix things. I can't fault you for that."
"But?" I can hear the resignation in my own voice.
"But you know as well as I do that Clark Ellis isn't exactly a reliable source. Especially when it comes to the Daniels family."
I sigh heavily. "I know. I just...I wanted to understand, you know? Why Evan is so scared to let anyone in. Why he keeps pushing me away."
Brad studies me for a long moment. "You miss him, don't you?"
I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. "I...I think I might be falling in love with him." I know I actually am in love with him, no question in my mind, but I’m not ready to admit it.
The words hang in the air, weighted with the implication of what that could mean for my career, my ethics, my future.
Brad nods slowly. "Then you need to ask yourself—is a story worth risking that?"
I open my mouth to respond, but the buzzing of my cell phone interrupts. I glance at the caller ID and feel my stomach twist.
Ryland: For what it's worth? The real story isn't about hockey. It's about family. About love. About second chances.
I start crying right there at my desk. Because he's right. The real story was never about hockey. It was about them. About us. About everything we could be if we were brave enough to try.
Too bad some stories don't get happy endings. Even if they deserve them. Even if they could have been everything.