Chapter 4
TORI
Ahormonal glitch.
Strictly physiological. A temperature shift beneath the skin, nothing more.
I discreetly pull my blouse away from my chest, fanning myself with one hand.
This reaction makes zero sense, considering I’m sitting in an icy arena watching hockey players chase a puck around.
One hockey player, in particular.
At least he’s delivering. Daddy will be happy about that.
And if I were into hockey players — which I’m not — I might find his skill, confidence, and speed a massive turn-on.
Because as aggravating as Bennett is, I have to admit he’s good at the game.
Better than good.
On the ice, he’s unstoppable.
Focused.
Not that I’ll ever say that out loud. Especially not to him.
I pull my phone out, half-hiding my flushed cheeks behind emails, keeping my posture straight and my face straighter.
This whole handler situation is beyond inconvenient. I need to keep it professional, but Bennett Steele’s making that very hard, goading me every chance he gets.
“Mind if I sit?” A woman in a dark blazer and slacks motions at the seat next to mine. She’s put together, professional, a team lanyard around her neck.
“No problem.” I slide my bag out of the way and she unfolds the dark blue arena seat.
“I’m Leighton Sparks, the team psychologist. I don’t believe we’ve met yet.” She offers her hand to me and I shake it, noting how warm her fingers are. She must have just come in.
“Tori Prince. Max Prince’s daughter, here in an unofficial capacity.”
Dr. Sparks sizes me up through the lenses of her dark-rimmed glasses, then glances out at the ice. “He’s having a good practice.”
I nod and force my voice to stay neutral. “He is.”
“It must be tough juggling your career with all this.” She gestures at the ice, and my chest squeezes.
“It’s not easy. But I can make it work for a bit. It’s a temporary arrangement.”
“Not the easiest of positions.”
My gut twists at the truth of her words.
“Certainly not. But I owe my dad a lot.”
“Family responsibilities can be heavy. Especially on daughters.”
Truth.
“I’m making the best of it.” A tiny pang of guilt pings through me, flashing back to the bodyguards I hired.
My phone buzzes in my hand and I hold up a finger to Dr. Sparks. “Excuse me one sec.”
Daddy: Season ticket-holder meet and greet today. Bring Steele
Tori: The Captain, right? Weston?
Surely he’s not talking about Bennett. He’s suspended. Putting him in front of fans is a huge risk. And if there’s one thing the Prince family knows, it’s hedging risk.
Daddy: No. Bennett. They specifically asked for him
I stifle a groan. Why? Why him, of all the players?
Sure, he’s good. And I suppose some people might call him charming. Especially if they’ve never interacted with the man-child before.
Tori: He’s practicing right now
Daddy: As soon as he’s done, have him shower and change. Meet in Founders Lounge. Tell him to act presentable. No freestyling
Way easier said than done.
Tori: I’ll let him know
Daddy: See you in 30
Of course my father expects me to attend.
Never mind the mountain of work piling up with each passing second. Now I have to go supervise the cocky asshole in front of people who matter.
I slip my phone into my bag and glance over at Dr. Sparks. “Duty calls.”
“It always does.” She smiles at me knowingly, like she gets it. “Good luck, Tori.”
With a quick wave, I hustle over to the gate and wait for practice to end. The players stand in a circle, raptly listening to Coach Keller. Even Bennett seems to be paying attention.
Finally, the team huddles and shouts ‘Crushers!’ before peeling out and skating off the ice. Bennett glides in my direction, a broad smile on his face.
“Did you like that?” He leans against his stick, satisfied, sandy curls falling over his forehead.
“Good practice. Daddy needs you for a ticket holder meet-and-greet. In thirty.” I keep my voice flat and business-like. His smile fades a touch but doesn’t slide away.
“A meet and greet, huh? You sure you trust me?”
Pursing my lips, I assess him. “Not at all. But it wasn’t my call.”
A quick flash of hurt dances across his face and I almost feel bad.
Almost.
“And here I thought I was winning you over. I even got a clap out of you.”
“Don’t overanalyze, Steele.”
“That’s your job, right?” He steps off the ice, brushing past me, and I’m chilly again.
“Figured you’d keep me on a tight leash.” He glances back at me. “Especially when Daddy’s watching.”
“See you in the hallway,” I call after him. He shoots me a two-fingered salute, not bothering to slow down.
Touche.
If we weren’t in front of the team, I’d flick him off. Instead, I give him a tight smile and tap my watch.
“Hustle.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m pacing outside the locker room waiting on Bennett. Every second ticking by pisses me off more than the last.
Events like this are the reason I hired the bodyguards. I have a hedge fund to run, a market to watch.
Instead, I’m monitoring an overgrown frat bro who can’t keep his hands — or opinions — to himself.
“Ready, Sunshine?” Bennett swings out of the locker room, the loud din of male voices filtering into the hallway.
He’s dressed in joggers and a navy-blue team hoodie, freshly showered with still-damp hair.
I’m close enough to catch a hint of his cologne, brisk and clean — and I hate that I notice his scent at all.
“Yes. And stop calling me that.” I press my lips into a thin, tight line and spin toward the Founders Lounge.
“Would you prefer warden?” He falls into step with me, taking long, easy strides.
“No, I would not. How about Tori? Or better yet, nothing at all?”
“Geez. Killjoy.” He swivels his head around. “Where are the boys, Knox and Bishop?” You call them off or what?”
My shoulders tighten, hands clenching at the mention of the bodyguards. “They’ll be outside the event. It’s best if they blend in.”
“Oh.” Bennett pauses mid-step, his face breaking into a slow grin. “You didn’t tell daddy about that, did you?”
My gut churns, anxiety a sick swirl in my stomach. I don’t enjoy losing the upper hand, and somehow, Bennett knowing the truth feels a lot like a checkmate.
“My father doesn’t need to know all the minor day-to-day details. He gave me a task and I’m getting it done. On my terms.”
“Hmm…” He nods, his eyebrows knit together. “Got it. So he’d be cool with you outsourcing me? The asset?”
“Listen, Puck boy—I’m dealing with it. Right now, all you need to do is walk into this meet-and-greet, smile, and look pretty. Don’t say anything stupid, and for the love of all things holy, keep your fists to yourself.”
“Relax, Sunshine. I only hit people who deserve it.” He gives me an exaggerated wink and I debate using my own fists — on him.
Instead, I take a deep, cleansing breath.
I can do hard things.
“Don’t kick up extra paperwork for me,” I deadpan, then forge ahead with the plan. “We go in, you sign some autographs, snap a few photos, and we leave. Got it?”
The corners of Bennett’s eyes crinkle as he mulls over my little pep talk.
“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m a pro.”
Without hesitation, he steps into the Founders Lounge, leaving me in the dust.
This gig’s turning out to be more annoying than anticipated.
And it’s Day One.
The Founders Lounge is dim and intimate, all dark wood and leather.
A bar takes up the left side of the room and club chairs, sofas, and coffee tables fill the rest of the space.
A large television hangs on the wall, with hockey coverage playing on repeat.
About a dozen or so people mingle, chatting and drinking.
A few waiters circulate with canapes and Bennett snags a wonton off a tray as he beelines toward my father.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I hurry across the room to intercept him and at least appear as if I have him under control.
“Mr. Prince.” Bennett grabs for my dad’s hand, pumping it once, twice.
“Good to see you this afternoon. And these must be the guests of honor.” Bennett greets the couple speaking with my father, a man and woman in their early forties.
Standing quietly next to them is a blonde-haired girl in a Coastal Crushers jersey, probably about five years old.
She gazes up at Bennett in awe, like she’s seeing Santa Claus or something.
I expect the typical long-winded convo about hockey and how great of a player Bennett is among the adults. But Bennett notices the little girl and drops down to his knees so the two of them are eye-level. “And you must be the VIP.”
She smiles shyly at him.
“You brought Lil Rip with you.” He points at the cute shark stuffed animal she’s clinging, the Coastal Crushers mascot. Then he leans in closer to the girl, stage-whispering. “He’s my favorite, too. Don’t tell Riptide.”
Well, that was surprising.
She beams at Bennett and now I know why he’s the Steele the ticket holders wanted to see today. Obviously, their little girl is a huge Bennett fan.
That makes one of us.
“And this is my daughter, Tori. She’s helping manage the team through the transition.” My father motions at me, bringing me into the conversation.
I step forward, giving the couple a tight smile. “Good to see you. Thanks for supporting the team. We’re looking forward to a great season!”
As long as I can keep Bennett on the rails for a few more weeks.
“We adore hockey,” the woman says, cutting her eyes at Bennett and her daughter. I practically see the hearts bouncing in her gaze.
Good grief. I didn’t know I was attending a Bennett Fan Club meeting.
“It’s a great sport,” Dad says. “The best.”
“We’re thrilled about the team’s move down to Florida. Nothing beats the beach and hockey, am I right?” The man elbows my dad and I nod, playing along.
“For sure,” I say.
Personally, I was a fan of the big city, but none of the recent decisions concerning the team have been about me. As long as the family’s investment is protected, that’s what matters.
“We’re huge fans of the Steele brothers.” The man whips out a glossy media photo of the triplets on the ice. “Would you mind signing this?” He shoves the picture at Bennett and Bennett smiles, producing a Sharpie from the pocket of his joggers.
The man brought a Sharpie with him.
I hold my eye roll in check as Bennett signs the photo, glad-handing the ticket holders. I signal to a waiter for a drink and he brings two water bottles over, one for me, one for Bennett. I hold the plastic bottles and fume silently while Bennett makes small talk.
A photographer spots Bennett, and he hovers nearby in anticipation of a shot. My father catches sight of the camera, sensing a PR opportunity.
“Photo op!” Dad says, bringing the couple in close to Bennett and stepping aside.
“No, no. We need you in the picture!” the man protests, waving my father back over. “You too, Tori.”
Begrudgingly, I inch my way into the group.
My dad’s to the left of the couple, with Bennett in the middle and the little girl in front.
I move toward my father, but the photographer catches my elbow, steering me over to Bennett.
I feel Bennett’s gaze on me, the side of my face burning as his cologne fills my nostrils.
Whatever you do, avoid eye contact.
“There. Better symmetry.” He tilts his head side to side, satisfied, then takes a few steps back.
The photographer lifts his camera and Bennett’s arm instinctively winds around me. His hand’s wholly appropriate, resting at the small of my back, but I still stiffen under the weight of his huge palm. Heat permeates through the silky fabric of my blouse, directly beneath his fingers.
Flash, flash, flash.
I force a smile, muscles tense.
Act natural. It’s just for optics.
As soon as the lens lowers, Bennett drops his hand. He maneuvers out of my space so quickly, I wonder if I imagined it being there at all.
I wait for relief to wash over me. But it doesn’t come.
Instead, there’s only a hint of irritation and the lingering whisper of his thumb resting near my spine.
The rest of the meet-and-greet goes smoothly. Bennett manages not to say anything dumb or damning, and we make it out of the lounge unscathed.
“How’d I do?” he asks the moment we’re out of earshot.
I shrug. “Fine.”
“Fine?” His mouth turns down, a deep V between his brows. “Fine? I made those people’s day!”
“Wow — really full of yourself, aren’t you?” I pull my phone out as I walk, scrolling through my many missed messages. “You did your job. Kudos. You want a gold star?”
Bennett stops in the hall, folding his arms across his broad chest.
“Would it kill you to admit I did something right?”
Irritated, I spin around and lock eyes with him.
“Maybe. Because while you were in there grinning and making new friends, I was getting more and more behind in my real job. This —” I throw my arm out, gesturing at the arena, at him — “isn’t my deal.
Never has been. I didn’t ask for trouble. You just barreled your way in.”
“Whoa, there, Sunshine. None of this was my idea. You think I like being handled by the owner’s daughter like a damn toddler?”
He has a point.
But I’m in no mood to concede anything right now.
“Maybe? I think you love the attention. Thrive on it, positive or negative.” I fiddle with my necklace, aggravation zipping through me.
He takes a step closer to me, and now we’re only inches apart, the light scruff on his face visible.
“Untrue.” His ocean-blue eyes flicker, jaw tense.
My breath catches in my throat, my mind whirling. I refuse to step back and Bennett stands his ground, too. He stares at me for a long minute, our shallow breathing the only sound in the empty hallway.
I tip my chin up, locking eyes with him. “Then stop performing like you need an audience.”
He steps back, hands at his sides and jaw ticking. “Congrats. You’re the only person I know who turns a Good Job into a Do Better.”
With that, he walks away without a second glance. I take a step after him, then freeze, swallowing hard over the lump in my throat.
I’m pissed off at him — but also myself.