Ice Foxes proving they can win without Tremayne…
Tyler Reed stepping into the role…
What’s the future of the captaincy if Tremayne can’t return by the Final?
Even with my agent in my ear and headlines in my face, it’s Charlie who won’t leave my head.
The way her mouth tasted this morning, the quick, breathless laugh she let out when we almost got caught, the heat that’s still under my skin.
I can’t stop thinking about her. She makes everything else feel lighter, and I can’t help but want more of that.
More of her.
Even hours later, sitting across from Sophie at dinner, the thought won’t leave me.
Sophie’s twirling pasta on her fork, half-focused on her plate, humming little pieces of her musical under her breath.
Then she looks up, sudden and bright.
“Mom said she’s gonna bring me the lip gloss for the show this week. She promised.”
Her voice has that edge of hope that guts me every time.
I nod, careful. “That’ll be good. You’ll look great up there.”
She grins and goes back to her pasta like it’s settled. But my chest stays tight. Because I’ve heard those words—she promised—too many times.
If Vanessa comes through, Sophie will light up. If she doesn’t… there’s not a damn thing I can do to protect her from the drop.
I take a sip of water, forcing my face steady. “You’re ready either way, Sophie. Lip gloss or no lip gloss, you’ll steal the show.”
She rolls her eyes like I’m being cheesy again, but her smile lingers.
And I sit there, pride and dread knotted tight, already bracing for what happens if the promise falls through.
With Charlie, I don’t picture this tightrope. I picture Sophie laughing—relaxed, easy, unguarded. I imagine not waiting forthe other shoe to drop. Charlie listens, shows up, remembers. Simple. Steady. Different.
I catch myself thinking how much I want Sophie to have more of that in her life. How much I want more of it too.
The thought blindsides me, and I feel that pull again.
I want to spend more time with Charlie.
After we’re done eating, Sophie’s already packing her overnight bag. Erin’s swinging by to scoop her up—girls’ night with Maya, school carpool in the morning. Sophie hums her lines as she zips the bag, light as air.
Once she’s out the door, the house goes quiet—too quiet. By the time I pull on my suit jacket and grab my crutch for the game, the silence is heavy enough that I almost miss the chaos of the rink.
Tonight’s Game 3 of Round 1. The arena hums the way only the Playoffs can. Even tucked up in the press box, I feel it. The towels, the chants, the kind of crackling noise that gets in your bones. It should be me out there feeding off it. Instead, I’m stuck on the sidelines in a suit, knee braced and stiff.
The game is a grind. Physical, nasty, the kind that takes years off your life just watching. I track every shift, every read, like my body still thinks I’ll be called over the boards. Tyler’s loud, rallying on the bench. Torres crashes the net with that fearlessrookie hunger. The boys dig in, and the building shakes when we pot one late in the second.
I clap my crutch against the floor, the sound too small, too sharp. I’m not with them, not really.
The commentators’ chatter filters in from the next row of media: “Reed stepping into Tremayne’s shoes nicely.”
My jaw clenches.
Third period, tied 2–2. Wranglers hammer us in the zone, but we break out clean, and Tyler finishes it—hard wrister, bar-down, crowd exploding. The guys bang sticks on the boards, McCarthy clapping behind them, and I can almost feel it. Almost.
