Chapter 3
Practice the next morning was a special kind of grind—the sort that left every muscle fiber screaming and every inhale tasting like cold, metallic iron.
Coach was in one of his moods where nothing was fast enough, sharp enough, or tough enough.
He barked orders, his voice hoarse, his face flushing the color of a penalty light.
"Again!" he snapped as we finished another brutal suicide drill, our breaths coming in ragged clouds. "You want top-line ice time? Earn it!"
I pushed off the goal line, my legs burning, lungs raw.
The puck felt like it was glued to my stick, a lead weight I had to force through the motions.
Hockey was about control—of the ice, the puck, your own body.
Today, I clung to that concept like a lifeline, hoping it would keep me from drowning in distraction.
Because on the other side of the glass, Henry Emerson was watching.
He stood near center ice, his suit immaculate, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other resting lightly on the boards.
The GM loitered a few feet behind him, pretending to check his phone but glancing at Henry every thirty seconds like a nervous intern.
Henry didn't acknowledge him. His attention was a laser, fixed on the ice.
On me.
I tried to funnel every ounce of focus into the drill—keeping my head up, my passes crisp—but every stride felt heavier under the weight of his gaze.
It wasn't obvious or intrusive; he wasn't staring holes through me.
It was quieter, more potent than that—a constant, humming awareness at the edge of my vision, impossible to ignore.
"Yo, Holt!" Shay yelled as he sped past me, breaking my concentration. "Eyes on the puck, not the billionaire!"
"Shut up!" I barked back, but a flush of heat crawled up my neck, betraying me.
We pushed through the rest of practice—line rushes, two-on-ones, a scrimmage that turned chippy when Felix decided to throw a borderline hit on a rookie.
The sounds were the same as always: the sharp scrape of skates cutting into fresh ice, the clack of sticks, the shouted curses and calls from the coaches.
It was the beautiful chaos I usually lived for.
Today, it was just white noise behind the steady, unnerving thrum of being watched.
When Coach finally blew the whistle and dismissed us to the showers, the locker room erupted with the usual end-of-practice racket. Someone cranked a speaker, blaring classic rock. Shay started mock-interviewing Felix about his "illegal hit," waving a water bottle like a microphone.
"Do you regret your actions?" Shay asked, pitching his voice into a news-anchor tenor.
Felix shrugged, playing along. "Only that I didn't make it harder."
The room cracked up. I laughed too, grateful for the break in the tension, even if it couldn't completely erase the image of Henry Emerson, cool and detached, leaning against the glass.
By the time I’d shed my soaked gear and wrapped a towel around my waist to head for the showers, I imagined Henry was gone. Or so I thought. A wave of relief washed through me, cold and clear.
It vanished the second I stepped into the hallway.
He was there.
Leaning casually against the wall, hands tucked in his pockets, as if the corridor had been personally designed just for him to occupy.
The air between us shifted, thickening, quieting everything else down to a dull hum.
For a wild heartbeat, I considered spinning on my heel and retreating back into the locker room.
But that felt too much like surrender, and I wasn't ready to give him that victory.
"Charlie," he said. His voice was low, a smooth baritone that seemed to slide right under my skin.
"Mr. Emerson," I answered, clutching my towel and gear bag like a flimsy shield.
"Henry," he corrected gently, pushing off the wall.
I swallowed. "I'll stick with Mr. Emerson." I’d meant it to sound like a joke, a deflection, but it came out rougher, more defensive than I’d intended.
A flicker of amusement touched the corner of his mouth. He took a step closer—not crowding me, but definitively closing the distance until I could smell the faint, expensive notes of his cologne again.
His gaze dipped briefly to the gear bag slung over my shoulder, then traveled back up to my eyes, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. "How long have you been with the team?"
"Second season," I said, my throat dry.
"Impressive." He nodded once, a slow, thoughtful gesture. "You carry yourself like someone who knows exactly where he's going."
The words shouldn't have meant anything. They were vague, the kind of thing people said. But from him, they felt like a key turning in a lock deep in my chest. My heart tightened.
Henry studied me for another long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he said, "I'd like to continue our conversation. Dinner. Tomorrow night. My driver can pick you up."
It wasn't a question. But it wasn't a command, either. It was an offer laid carefully on the table, a door held open. The power to walk through it was mine.
I hesitated. Every logical reason to say no flashed through my mind: professionalism, team rules, potential headlines, my own sanity. And yet... a sharp, coiling curiosity low in my stomach tugged harder than caution.
"That's... not exactly standard player-owner protocol," I said, aiming for a wry tone but landing somewhere near breathless.
A slow, sure smile curved his lips. "Neither am I."
Silence stretched between us, charged but not heavy. I realized then that he hadn't boxed me in. He hadn't blocked the hall or leaned into my space. He was giving me room, even while pulling me inexorably toward him.
I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder, the towel feeling suddenly very loose. "I'll think about it."
His smile deepened, a flash of genuine approval in his eyes. "That's all I ask."
He stepped aside, granting me a clear path down the hall. As I moved past him, our shoulders brushed—a fleeting, electric contact, light as static. My pulse jumped wildly.
I walked away, forcing myself not to look back, not to give him the satisfaction, until I reached the heavy door leading to the parking lot.
When I finally risked a glance over my shoulder, Henry was still there, watching me.
His expression was still unreadable, his posture easy, as if patience was a language he spoke fluently.
Outside, I leaned against the sun-warmed hood of my car and dragged in a shaky breath.
The evening sun was low, spilling liquid gold across the asphalt, but my thoughts were trapped back in that quiet, charged hallway.
In the way Henry had looked at me—not like a piece of property, not like a project.
It felt like... possibility.
Dangerous, complicated, probably reckless.
But possibility all the same.
Shay's voice snapped me out of it as he strolled past, tossing his sticks into the bed of his beat-up truck. "Earth to Holt. You good? You look like you've seen a ghost. A really hot, rich ghost."
"Yeah," I said, straightening up and trying to pull my face into a normal expression. "Just tired. Practice was a killer."
Shay squinted at me, not buying it for a second. "You're a terrible liar, man."
"Go home, Shay."
He laughed, climbing into his truck. "Fine, fine. But if you show up tomorrow with a mysterious hickey, I'm demanding full details."
I flipped him off, but couldn't stop the grin from tugging at my mouth.
Sliding into my car, I sat for a long moment in the silence before starting the engine. Dinner tomorrow. The idea lingered, sparking a dozen questions I wasn't ready to answer.
I’d come here to play hockey. To win. To keep my head down and my focus clear.
But Henry Emerson wasn't a man you ignored.
And maybe—I admitted to myself as I pulled out of the lot—I didn't really want to.