13. Sophie
CHAPTER 13
SOPHIE
T hirty minutes until show time. Gabe thought it would be a good idea if I took some pictures of the players before they head out to the ice. Derek ushered me in with the reassurance that the guys were presentable. Still, I entered with caution and eyes averted to be sure. And I held my breath, just in case.
Except for gloves and helmets, they’re geared up and gathered around as the coaches give them some final instructions and a healthy dose of encouragement. Coach Gabe may be on the younger side as far as coaches go, but he has an age and wisdom about him that I’ve watched influence these guys for the better. They’re looking more like a team than just a bunch of hockey players.
And I’m pretty sure Luke deserves some, if not most, of the credit. I’ve caught moments of him talking to the players during practices, watching through my photo lens. I couldn’t always hear what he was saying, but I know how to read body language enough to understand the guys respond well to him. Even Jayce seems more open to his input of late.
Almost makes me reconsider my opinion of him .
I move to the other side of the locker room to take more shots of the players as they listen to the coaches’ last words.
Coach Markelson takes a few steps forward until he’s standing on the Icemen logo in the middle of the floor. “And remember—a team above all. Above all, a team, right?”
“Yes, Coach!” The guys agree in unison.
Luke’s intense expression makes me pause when I snap a shot of him. He looks like he’s ready to kick butts and take names, but the strain around his lips is the same as yesterday before he got on the bus. I could sense his anxiety then, and I suspect it’s back.
First game jitters, maybe? I wanted to ask him about it after we finished his interview, but by then, he appeared more relaxed and settled, so I didn’t want to poke the bear.
The players head toward the tunnel to start warm-ups on the ice.
I catch Luke near the end of the line. With his skates on, he towers over me. “You okay?”
“Are you asking for my benefit or yours?” He stops and stares down at me, mild suspicion sitting in his eyes.
If he wasn’t wearing all that gear, I think I’d gut-punch him. I lower my voice to a harsh whisper. “Yours, of course. You look like you’re about to murder anything that gets in your way.”
The entire terrain of his face changes. I can only describe it as somewhere between surprise and curiosity, as if he’s caught off guard by my concern.
One side of his mouth twitches, and his glare warms to something almost flirtatious. “Are you worried about me?”
“You’re delusional.” I shove his arm, which doesn’t affect him at all. The man is a wall of muscle wound tight for the game. Now I kind of wish I’d caught him with his shirt off so I could see what’s under his jersey.
The realization hits me that he’s not saying anything. His eyes, on the other hand, are telling me an entire story. He’s looking at me, but I don’t think he’s really seeing me, if you know what I mean. Could be pregame jitters, but this seems like more than that.
I tug the bottom of his jersey. “You’ve got this, Captain.”
His gaze clears as he takes a deep breath. His exhale is shaky at first, then smooths out. “Thanks.”
The appreciative smile he leaves me with sends an unexpected warmth through me. But before I can even consider what it means, a woman with blonde curls dressed in a staff uniform catches my eye. I don’t recall seeing her at practices, but I heard they hired a new massage therapist for the team. No better time than the present to get the story.
I follow her into the treatment room where she sits down, watching the game on the provided screen. “Are you the new massage therapist?”
Her subtle frown reminds me she probably has no idea who I am.
“Sorry. I’m Sophie Adams. I’m the journalist assigned to the team for the season.”
Her expression shifts to a smile. “No, I’m just filling in for Angela tonight since she’s sick. I usually handle their physical therapy treatments. I’m Hannah, by the way. Hannah Lawless.”
“Oh, I was hoping I’d get a chance to interview you as part of the series. You treat animals, too, right?”
Her curls bob around her face when she nods. “Yes, I do.”
“Mind if I ask you some questions?”
“Not at all. I’m not going anywhere.”
I drag a chair over to sit near her. “So, what animal would you compare to treating hockey players?”
She does a snort-slash-laugh combo. “I didn’t see that question coming.”
I shrug. “Just thought it would add a little humor to the interview.”
“Nice. I like it.” She rolls her lips in as she thinks. “Let’s see. I would compare treating a hockey player to…” Her studious expression transforms into delight, “a turtle!”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “I’m guessing Nick inspired that one.”
“How do you know Nick?” A mix of curiosity and suspicion tinges her tone.
I give her a sheepish look. “I did the article about the mysterious philanthropist who funded the Turtle Patrol program.”
Hannah lets out a soft gasp. “Oh, I loved that article. Nick really appreciated you keeping his identity out of it.”
“I totally understood. So, back to the turtle analogy, please. I can’t wait to hear this one.” I sit with my pen poised, ready to capture the meaning behind her intriguing comparison.
She giggles, then lifts a shoulder. “Yeah, they wear all that gear for protection, but underneath, they’re as squishy as the rest of us.”
“But with muscles.” I laugh.
“I’m speaking metaphorically. They’re tough on the ice, but in life, they’re some of the sweetest guys I’ve ever met.”
Of course, my thoughts flit to Luke. Anytime I’ve managed to get past his protective walls, I’ve caught glimpses of a guy willing to make great sacrifices for those he loves, like leaving hockey to take care of his sister.
I hold up my camera. “Do you mind?”
“No, not at all.” She pushes a rogue curl out of her face.
After taking a few shots of Hannah, I pull out my notebook again to jot down her answers as I question her about her return to Sarabella and starting her own practice. “When I get done with this assignment, I’d love to write a follow-up piece on you and Nick for a column I’m hoping to write for the paper. Would you be interested?”
She tugs a card holder out of her pocket and pulls out a card. “Sure. Give me a call when you’re ready.”
I slip her business card into my bag, then slip it over my shoulder with the intent to go out to the game. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
Before Hannah can reply, she’s on her feet, studying the screen as the ref extends a fisted hand out to his side to signal roughing.
I step closer to get a better look. One of the players is down on the ice, holding his knee. My heart thumps to my feet when I recognize the jersey number…twenty-four.
The ref and several teammates surround him until the team doctor comes on the scene with his team. Hannah and I continue to watch as they help him up and lead him off the ice.
Hannah turns to me. “Time to get to work.”
I clutch my bag closer. “Mind if I stay? What goes on behind the scenes is just as important.”
She pauses as if in thought. “I don’t see why not. Just stay out of the way.”
“Sure thing.” I pick a spot in the back corner as the doctor and one of the trainers help Luke to a treatment table. His glance skims across the room but stops when he notices me. And I think he might have smiled. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking on my part, and he’s just grimacing because of his knee.
Hannah elevates the head of the table so Luke’s sitting up while the doctor removes his sock and shin guard. “Could be a sprained MCL, but let’s get some ice on it and give it a few minutes.”
While Hannah retrieves an ice pack and lays it over Luke’s knee, Payton waddles in next with a bloody cheek and perches on the second treatment table.
Luke frowns at him. “What did you do, Pay?”
Payton shrugs. “Got into a bit of a scrum with the idiot that roughed you up.”
With a smirk, Luke fist-bumps him. “Thanks, man.”
I move closer to stand near his head. “You okay?”
He stares at me for a good five seconds, then faces Hannah. “What do you think, Doc?”
She snorts. “Not a doc, and you’ll live. Second period ends in three minutes. That should give you a good twenty to ice, and the doctor can reassess whether you can play the last one.”
“Thanks.” Luke gives her a tentative smile, then lays his head back.
Now that there’s room, I creep away from my corner and stand at his side. “Okay if I stay?”
He grins, bringing that dimple of his out to play. Maybe he’s happy to see me after all.
“That depends? Are you here as the press?” Luke raises a single brow with his question, but his tone turns soft…teasing.
I push my bag behind me. “As a friend.”
“A friend, huh?”
Is he flirting with me, or did they give him something for the pain? And is it weird that I’m drawn to a simple dent in his face? I squelch the temptation to touch it. “What? I’m not here to interview you, so that seems the logical choice.”
“So, we’re friends now?” He lifts his head, his gaze challenging me to explain further while the guttural tone of his voice sends waves of heat through me. There’s no mistaking the shift in the mood between us, like a static charge about to ignite. And the question in his eyes has nothing to do with friendship.
Maybe because we’re in an unfamiliar place or because he seems vulnerable, I’m tempted to throw caution to the wind and explore his unspoken invitation. But what if I do, and it turns into another heartbreak?
I glance away. “Sure, why not?”
He grunts, then lays back down on the table. “Guess one can never have too many friends.”
I manage a tight smile while I mentally kick myself for being a coward—more like my own personal civil war raging between my heart and my mind. My heart’s clamoring that Luke isn’t like the other goons I dated while my head says I probably dodged another disastrous romance bullet.
But I’m not sure which side I want to win.
I returned to my corner of the room while the medic finished cleaning up Payton’s cheek—he didn’t seem to mind when the doctor said he’d likely wind up with a scar marring his pretty face—and did another assessment of Luke’s knee. Most of the team straggled in to check on Luke at the end of the second period, which seemed to surprise him that his fellow teammates wanted to make sure he was okay.
The moment felt significant like one of those times a journalist knows will be remembered as the start of something bigger—something stronger and unexpected. I stayed inconspicuous as I took some shots of the guys surrounding Luke, capturing their concern, smiles, and jovial reassurances that they would not let their captain down since he’d be sitting out the rest of the game—doctor’s orders.
That and their win tonight by one point will make this article more than just a report on the events of a hockey game. And I suspect it will go a long way in overcoming the lingering controversy shrouding the team from last season.
My fingers are itching to get back to my hotel room and hammer out a first draft of the article formulating in my head—and my heart—about what I see and sense happening with this team. I may have started this assignment with reservations, but I’m getting sucked into this unfolding story I get to share with the rest of the fans out there.
I laugh to myself—guess that makes me a fan, too.
When I get back to my hotel room, I set up my laptop on the desk, connect my camera to upload the images, and start writing. I told Marty I’d finish and upload the piece tonight so it could run in tomorrow’s edition.
Judging by the shouts and laughter coming from next door, the guys must be celebrating with Luke. I’m so tempted to knock and see what that looks like, but this article won’t write itself.
Just as I’m hitting my rhythm and the words are flowing, a loud bang on the connecting door makes me jump in my seat. I shake my hands out and pick up where I left off, but another knock stops my progress.
A muffled voice comes through the adjoining door. “Open up, Sophie.”
Sounds like Wade, but I’m not sure. I unlock my side and yank it open. “What?”
He does a pretend tip of a nonexistent cowboy hat. “Come join the celebration, pretty lady.”
I do a scan of the situation. The guys must have come straight from the bus to Luke’s room because they’re still in their suits, though most have shed their jackets. I feel like I just opened the door on a GQ spread featuring hunky athletes at their finest, with their shirts unbuttoned at the top and their sleeves rolled up. If I inhale any more testosterone, I might pass out.
But I’ll play along for now. Leaning against the doorway, I cross my arms. “I don’t think there’s room for one more.”
I’m teasing, of course, but not by much. I’ve never seen a hotel room appear so inadequate and small. Six of them are sitting on the empty bed, two have claimed the armchair and footstool, another is in the desk chair, and the rest are either standing around in whatever space is left or out in the hall. All of them are holding either a beer or soda bottle.
Clearly, the party has started.
Luke’s on the other bed with pillows behind him against the headboard and one under his injured leg. Ethan walks over with a bag of ice, which he places on the towel draped over Luke’s knee.
When he notices me, I lift my chin as a gesture toward his leg. “How’s the knee? ”
Ethan answers for him. “He’s fine. Just needs to rest it for a few days.”
I pin him with a mild glare. “Thank you, Luke.”
The rest of the guys let out hoots and groans at my comment.
Mathéo says something in French, and when we look at him for the translation, he shrugs. “Translated simply, she burned him.”
That brings more laughter and ribbing around the room.
I bring my fingers to my mouth and reveal my one trick—I can whistle with the best of them. All of them stare at me with eyes as big as that puck they like to swat around. “Listen, guys, I have a deadline to meet. Enjoy your celebration, but leave my door out of it.” I finish with a short laugh so they know there are no hard feelings.
The rest of my article flows easily, and I manage to complete the rough draft about the same time I hear the guys leaving Luke’s room. I’m in need of a good stretch and a soda from down the hall, so I open the connecting door to check on Luke’s ice situation.
Ethan and Payton are sitting on the bed opposite Luke, but the rest of the guys are already gone. Ethan dons a smirk. “I swear I was being quiet.”
Payton’s expression turns sheepish. “Did you make your deadline?”
“Almost.” I shift my gaze to Luke. “I’m headed to the soda machine. Need anything?”
For some reason, this causes Ethan and Payton to glance at each other in silent communication. They jump up and express hurried goodbyes to Luke.
I wait until they leave. “What was that about?”
Luke smirks. “Just ignore them.”
“No, seriously, what are they up to?” I take a step closer to his bed.
He rubs a hand over his mouth. “Nothing you need to know.”
And here I thought we were making progress in the trust department, especially after yesterday. He did let me fall asleep against his arm on the bus ride up. And the way he took my camera and took pictures of me felt like more than just two people hanging out.
Okay, maybe not. I lift my hands from my sides, then drop them. “Fine. Forget I asked. Do you need ice or a soda or something?”
He pins me with that penetrating stare of his again. “Ice would be appreciated.” He lifts the bag of ice that’s now melted off his leg and holds it out to me.
“No problem.” I step into the bathroom to empty the bag in the sink, stopping to notice his toiletries arranged around the sink. His spicy sandalwood scent lingers in the air. Before I’m tempted to do something stupid like touch the strands of hair in his brush or sniff his towel hanging over the shower, I grab the ice bucket and head back to my room to grab my key.
When I return, Luke appears to have dozed off. I can only imagine how exhausted these guys are after a game. I leave the bucket holding the bag of ice on his nightstand.
Sleep has relaxed his features, giving him a peaceful appearance. I follow the line of his jaw to his chin and up to those beautiful lips of his. Then up the sweep of his nose to the smooth arch of his dark brows.
He’s on top of the covers, so I tug the comforter off the neighboring bed and drape it over him. As I’m about to turn off the nightstand light, he reaches up and grabs my wrist. The warmth of his hand on my skin sends a thrill through me that’s exciting and comforting all at once.
His eyes open a crack, and his voice sounds sleepy. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” I whisper.
His hold loosens, and his hand slides down to rest on his stomach. I wait a moment to see if he says anything else, but his breathing continues to slow. I turn out the light and head back to my room.
But I can’t bring myself to close the connecting doors and decide to leave them cracked in case Luke needs help during the night.
Once I complete a read-through and edit of the article for Marty, I drag the document and the accompanying images into the folder on the newspaper database.
Before I crawl into bed, I shoot Marty a text to let him know the article is ready for him so he can take a look and let me know if I need to tweak anything. About five minutes later, he replies.
MARTY: Great job, kiddo! I think this is one of your best pieces.
SOPHIE: Thanks. It was an epic game.
MARTY: I knew you’d score on this piece (pun intended).
I let out a soft laugh and shoot back a barfing emoji, then turn out my light. However, my last thoughts are not of the spread in tomorrow’s paper, featuring the Sun Kings and their first victory.
Instead, it’s a sleepy pair of eyes and the lingering sensation of his touch that make me smile as I drift off to sleep.