Chapter 29
TORI
Iavoid Bennett all day.
Don’t text him, call him. Skip breakfast and lunch for fear of running into him.
I’m cutting exposure, limiting contact before I do something I can’t unwind.
Now my head’s pounding, and I don’t know if it’s from hunger, tension, or an aching need I don’t dare admit out loud.
I want him.
Every reckless, gorgeous inch — and that thought scares me more than a run on the fund. Because once it starts, you can’t stop it.
And there’s no way we’re going to work.
One slip and he’s benched — and I’m suddenly the liability.
But I can’t let him go.
He’s taken control of me, mind and body.
I flash my badge at the arena door, the security guard stepping aside and waving me through.
I shouldn’t go near him. Not before the game.
Instead of making the left toward the players’ area, I take the stairs and head straight to the rink.
The corridor’s packed as I shove my way through the crush of people and make my way into the owner’s suite.
Warmups have started, players out on the ice.
I scan for Bennett, immediately spotting him as he stretches.
“Tori — how’s the intervention plan going?” My dad slides up next to me, drink in hand. He’s watching every movement, silently calculating each player’s worth.
Fizzy nervousness bubbles up and I grab a glass of champagne from the server as she passes.
“Good.” One word, clipped and flat. Careful not to give anything away.
“Is Steele under control? I need sponsors to see that in New York.”
My heart sinks.
New York.
Our next stop is the world’s biggest fishbowl. Nowhere to hide and all eyes will be on the team in our former hometown. Most of whom are probably still pissed we left.
I tip the flute back, slugging down half the champagne before nodding.
“Yeah. He’s good.”
I glance out at the ice, catch Bennett mid-hip opener. His hand on the dasher, sinking down and rolling his hips forward in short, deliberate pulses. Controlled, shameless. Like he’s humping the ice on purpose.
My entire body heats, flashing back to last night. Those same thrusts, different location.
“Tori — you’re set for the donor cocktail hour tomorrow, right?” My dad’s deep voice cuts through my Bennett-fueled fantasy.
I clear my throat, take the last swig of my champagne and nod. “Yes. I’ll be there.”
“With Steele.”
Perfect.
“You got it.”
I swallow down my sigh, a mix of emotions rushing through me. I’m too close to this whole mess, but it’s too late — I can’t cut and run now.
I’m in way too deep.
The lights flash and the stadium rumbles as the players clear the ice, ready for the game. Our team’s introduced and then Chicago takes the ice, the crowd getting exponentially louder.
The national anthem plays, then the team captains come to the dot. The puck drops and it’s on.
We win the opening draw and carry it over the line. Morrison drops the puck back to Weston, then Weston slides it back to Bennett. He drives the net and my pulse kicks up as he cuts toward the crease, moving so fast he’s a blue blur. He snaps a quick shot that forces their goalie to cover.
No goal.
Just a warning shot, letting Chicago know Bennett Steele came to win.
The rest of the first period grinds on, playing like a balance sheet. Small wins, small losses, nothing decisive. Bennett keeps it clean. No shoves, no stupid penalties. Lots of pressure and speed.
His restraint should calm me down.
It doesn’t.
My body’s on edge, waiting for him to lose control.
“Tori.” My dad taps my shoulder, breaking the spell. “Suites are for sponsors. Glass is for accountability. Let’s go.”
He strides out of the box without waiting for my answer. My stomach sinks while my body lights up, the crowd’s roar only making it worse.
I hate myself for both.
Trailing behind my father, I grip the strap of my bag tight to keep my hand from shaking.
The lanyard around my neck smacks against my chest with each step, right above my racing heart.
We file into the VIP seats directly behind the glass and Bennett’s suddenly only inches away.
My treacherous body hums with the knowledge, warmth spreading through me despite the chill in the rink.
My father settles into his seat, leaning in. “Keep your eyes on Steele.”
As if they’d be anywhere else.
Bennett Steele is my personal market crash — and I can’t look away.
The second period starts with a whistle and a faceoff at center ice.
This time, Chicago wins the draw and kicks the puck back to their defense.
A quick dump-in, and they’re already on the attack.
Bennett wheels back, chasing the puck into the corner.
But Chicago finishes the hit, driving him into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass.
My chest squeezes and I hold my breath, silently begging him not to be hurt. To stay in control.
He pushes off the boards, shoulders squared and jaw tight, and for one terrifying second I know he’s going to fight.
Then he doesn’t.
Bennett exhales, shoves once — hard enough to make his point — and skates away.
As he passes the glass, his gaze lifts and finds mine. He holds for a beat before his mouth tips, the slightest hint of a smile ghosting his lips.
The pressure in my ribs releases and I finally breathe.
Both teams trade chances, then goals. One each, fast and hard. The score’s tied going into the third period and my father’s on edge, his eyes flicking to the board every thirty seconds, like he can will it into our favor.
The third period starts mean and tense, both teams skating like the next mistake could cost them the game.
Each hit gets harder, tempers shorter. Morrison’s in the penalty box after hooking a Chicago forward to stop a break.
Chicago goes on a power play, my father practically pressing against the glass.
Callum makes a save and I pump my fist in the air as my father sits back, faking confidence.
“Good save.” He props his foot up on his knee, relaxed.
“Great save.”
Three minutes left in the period and the score’s still 1-1.
Bennett’s locked in, planted at the top of the crease.
Chicago hacks at him, but he doesn’t budge.
Just takes the hits, absorbing them. Waiting for his break.
Weston winds up from the point and rips a shot through traffic, hard and low.
Bennett angles his blade, tipping on instinct, and the puck skips into the net.
Goal.
I’m on my feet with the crowd, hands in the air. Bennett spins and locks his eyes on mine through the glass.
My heart kicks up, knees weak as I subconsciously lean forward. As if I could reach out and touch him.
He holds my gaze and my mind flips to the realization.
He didn’t score that one for the team at all.
He scored it for me.
I’m already moving, slipping out of the row, heart in my throat. Heading toward the tunnel before I can stop myself.