Page 85 of Expose on the Ice

This is my world now – our world.

The constant scrutiny, the invasive questions, the loss of privacy.

It’s a far cry from my days of chasing stories.

And it confirms the germ of an idea that’s already in my head.

"Carter," I whisper as we make our way to his car, "I think I know what I want to write about next."

He raises an eyebrow, curiosity replacing the annoyance on his face. "Yeah?"

I nod, excitement building in my chest. "What if I wrote about this? About what it’s really like for a professional athlete? And their partner? The good, the bad, the ugly – all of it."

Carter’s steps slow as he considers my words. "You mean, like, tell our story?"

"Not just ours," I explain, the idea taking shape in my mind. "But yeah, that would be part of it. I could interview other couples, explore the challenges and joys of this lifestyle. Give people a proper look."

As we reach his car, Carter turns to face me, his eyes searching mine. "It would mean putting our relationship out there for everyone to see."

I take a deep breath, realizing the weight of what I’m proposing. But the familiar itch to write, to tell a story that matters, is impossible to ignore. The pull is as irresistible as he is, and I’m warming to the idea more with each passing second.

"I’m sure if you are," I say softly. "What do you think?"

"I’m game if you are, Lil," he says. "Let’s do it."

"Thanks for your support, Carter," I say, leaning in to kiss him. "Now you better get to the game…"

CARTER

The adrenaline from our win courses through my veins as I step into the locker room. We’d played lesser competition, but we’d dominated. Yet as I pull off my jersey, I notice my phone lighting up like a Christmas tree, and suddenly all thoughts of the win recede.

My stomach drops.

This can’t be good.

With shaking hands, I pick up my phone. The screen is flooded with notifications – missed calls, text messages, and news alerts. My thumb hovers over the first one, dread settling in my gut like a lead weight. I tap the screen, and my world implodes.

"CARTER KNOX IMPLICATED IN FATAL ACCIDENT COVER-UP."

The words blur as I scroll through the article, my heart pounding hard in my chest. Every detail, every secret I’d tried so hard to bury, is laid bare for the world to see. The drunk driving, the switch, the lies – all of it.

"Shit," I mutter, running a hand through my sweat-soaked hair. "Shit, shit, shit."

I need to talk to someone, anyone. My fingers fumble as I try to call my agent. Straight to voicemail. Fuck. I try Lily next, but it just rings and rings. I slump onto the bench, my head in my hands. The bustling sounds of my teammates celebrating our win seem to fade away, replaced by a dull roar in my ears.

"Knox?"

I look up to see Mark in the doorway, his face grim.

"We need to talk," he says.

I follow him out of the locker room, my legs feeling like lead, and know it has nothing to do with exhaustion from the game. As we walk, Mark fills me in on the shitstorm that’s brewing, and it’s abigone.

"Lily’s former editor, Frank, outmaneuvered us," he says, his voice tight with anger. "He went over our heads to the league and told the commissioner about the boycott we’d threatened him and his paper with. The league took his side, saying all players are contractually obligated to cooperate with the media. If we don’t comply, there’ll be hell to pay."

I feel like I’m going to be sick. "What does that mean for me?"

Mark’s expression softens slightly. "It means you’re going to have to face this head-on, Carter."