Chapter 2
The buzz in the locker room hadn't slowed since Henry Emerson’s departure. The guys were still dissecting him—the cut of his suit, the ice in his voice, the way he’d looked at us like we were both players and investment portfolios.
Shay flopped onto the bench beside me, still shirtless, his hair sticking up in sweaty spikes. "If I get traded because of that salute, I'm haunting your ass," he told Felix, pointing a finger.
Felix just shrugged, peeling off his chest protector. "Haunt me all you want. You'll be living rent-free, and we both know you can't afford that."
"Emerson could," Shay said, waggling his eyebrows. "Guy probably tips more than I make in a month."
I chuckled, tugging at the stubborn knot on my skate. The laughter was a good shield, but the knot in my stomach from Henry’s targeted look hadn’t loosened. There’d been something in it—a specific, focused interest that felt like being filed under ‘to be examined later.’
"Charlie."
The voice snapped me out of it. One of the rookies hovered in the doorway, clutching a clipboard like it might bite him. "Uh... GM wants to see you. In his office. Now."
A chorus of oooohs and whistles rose instantly.
"Holt's in trouble," Shay sang, banging his locker shut for emphasis. "What'd you do, steal Emerson's parking spot?"
"Maybe they're giving you a raise," Felix said, a smirk in his voice. "Owner's pet already."
"Shut up," I shot back, trying to sound bored, but my pulse had other ideas, kicking up a notch.
The walk to the GM's office felt about three miles longer than usual. The sterile hallway seemed to amplify every doubt. I knocked once and pushed the heavy door open.
The GM sat behind his massive desk, grinning the way he always did when he was about to sell someone a car they didn't need. And across from him—because apparently my day wasn’t stressful enough—sat Henry Emerson.
He leaned back in the leather guest chair, one ankle resting casually on his knee. The man looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine ad for controlled danger.
"Charlie," the GM said, too warmly. "Thanks for coming so quick." He gestured with his chin toward Henry. "Mr. Emerson wanted a word."
My throat went tight. "About...?" I asked, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.
"Nothing bad," the GM said, waving a dismissive hand. "Henry's just interested in getting to know our key players on a more personal level. Thought we'd start with our star forward."
Henry stood. He moved with an unnerving economy of motion, no energy wasted, every step measured. When he extended his hand, I hesitated for only a fraction of a second before taking it.
His grip was firm—all controlled strength, not the bone-crushing macho nonsense some guys pull. But there was something about the way his thumb rested against the sensitive skin of my inner wrist. Subtle. Deliberate. A spark of awareness shot straight up my arm before I could lock it down.
I cleared my throat, scrambling for a shred of levity. "Guess billionaires don't do casual handshakes, huh?"
The GM laughed, a little too quickly. "Henry is just... thorough."
Henry's mouth curved. It wasn't quite a smile; it was sharper, more knowing. "I find it's important to make a proper impression."
Yeah. Mission fucking accomplished.
He released my hand, but the sensation didn't fade. It didn’t feel like freedom—it felt like a tether, thin and invisible, stretching between us.
The GM launched into a spiel about new sponsorship opportunities and community outreach events. I nodded in what I hoped were the right places, but my focus was entirely on Henry. He didn't interrupt; he didn't need to. His presence alone filled the room like low, rolling thunder.
When the meeting finally wound down, Henry stepped closer. He didn't invade my space, but he closed the distance enough that I caught the faint, expensive scent of his cologne—something dark and complex with a trace of cedar.
"It was good to meet you properly, Charlie," he said, his voice as smooth and cool as polished steel. "I'll be watching your next game."
The words were simple. Standard, even. But the way he said them, the directness of his gaze, made them land like a personal challenge.
"Looking forward to it," I managed, hoping the ridiculous hammering of my heart wasn't audible.
The GM clapped me on the shoulder. "That's all, Holt. Go get some rest before practice tomorrow."
I escaped the office, only realizing I'd been holding my breath once the door shut behind me. I leaned against the cool wall for a second, dragging in air.
Back in the sanctuary of the locker room, Shay pounced the second I returned. "Well? Are we fired? Are you getting traded? Promoted to billionaire's personal bodyguard?"
"None of the above," I said, dumping my gear bag onto the bench with a thud. "It was just a meet and greet. Owner stuff."
"Uh-huh." He narrowed his eyes dramatically. "And the way you're blushing is because...?"
"I'm not—" I stopped dead when I saw Felix smirking at me from his stall.
"He's definitely blushing," Felix confirmed, nodding. "Congrats, Holt. You're officially the team crush."
"Shut up," I grumbled, grabbing a roll of tape and tossing it at him. It missed by a mile, which only made them both laugh harder.
But as I changed into my street clothes, I couldn't shake the lingering charge from Henry's handshake—the quiet, heavy weight behind his words. He hadn't said anything out of line. He hadn't done anything more than look, speak, and touch my wrist for half a second.
Yet, something undeniable had settled between us in that office, invisible and heavy as a lead blanket.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed out, telling myself it was nothing. Just a rich guy sizing up a new asset. A very hands-on owner checking out his investment.
The problem was, as I pushed out into the evening air, I didn't entirely believe it.