Chapter 7
The team dinner was held at The Oak Room, a place with dark wood panels, leather booths, and steaks that cost more than my first pair of skates. It was a tradition after a three-game winning streak, a chance for the front office to show appreciation and for us to carbo-load without feeling guilty.
Usually, I loved these nights. The easy camaraderie, the shit-talking, the feeling of being part of a tribe. Tonight, every laugh was too loud, every clink of cutlery was a spike in my temple, and the air in the private dining room was thick enough to choke on.
Because Henry Emerson was holding court at the head of the long table.
He’d arrived after we were all seated, a ripple of expensive cologne and subdued power preceding him.
A murmur of “Mr. Emerson” had traveled down the table like a wave.
He’d just nodded, a faint, polite smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes, and taken the seat reserved for him between the GM and Coach.
And then he’d proceeded to ignore my existence for the past forty-five minutes.
It was a masterclass in psychological torture.
His voice, that calm, low baritone, was a constant hum in the room.
He asked the GM intelligent questions about league economics.
He listened intently as Coach explained a shift change.
He even drew Felix into a conversation about his hometown in Sweden, seeming genuinely interested.
His gaze swept the table constantly, making everyone feel seen. Everyone but me.
Every time his eyes traveled in my direction, my heart would perform a pathetic, hopeful lurch against my ribs.
And every time, his glance would slide over me as if I were a piece of the furniture, landing on Shay to my left or the rookie to my right.
It was deliberate. Calculated. A brutal extension of the whiplash I’d felt in the locker room.
“Good game today, Charlie.”
The words echoed in my head, taunting me. Was that all it was? A post-game review? Had what happened between us been just another transaction to him? A billionaire checking off a box on a bucket list? Fuck star hockey player: check.
I pushed my roasted vegetables around my plate, my appetite gone.
The memory of Friday was a fresh, raw wound.
The cold floor on my knees. The feel of him in my mouth.
The taste of him, clean and male, still seemed to linger on my tongue, a ghost that made a mockery of the expensive food.
The sound of his groan, the one piece of uncontrolled honesty I’d stolen from him, played on a loop in my mind.
And now, nothing. Radio silence for days, followed by this... this professional pleasantry. I felt like an idiot. I’d let myself believe, for a few reckless moments, that there was something more. That the hunger I’d seen in his eyes was for me, not just for the act.
“Earth to Holt.” Shay’s elbow connected sharply with my ribs, jolting me out of my spiral. “You gonna eat that or propose to it?”
I blinked. Shay was grinning at me, his face flushed from two beers and the general chaos of the evening. He’d been in a particularly boisterous mood since his assist in the last game.
“Not hungry,” I muttered, finally shoving my plate away.
“Your loss,” he said, spearing a piece of steak from his own plate.
“This is almost as good as my mom’s. Almost.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that was still loud enough for half the table to hear.
“So. Emerson. He’s kinda intense, huh? Has he, like, made eye contact with you yet?
I feel like if he looks at me directly, I might turn to stone. ”
A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. “He’s the owner, Shay. He’s not here to make eye contact with you.”
“Yeah, but you’re his favorite!” Shay said, slinging a heavy, familiar arm around my shoulders.
He smelled of beer, aftershave, and Shay.
“His star forward. His special project. He bought you cake! Did he give you a performance review? ‘Mr. Holt, your rating is exceptional, but your blowjob technique needs work’?”
I froze, my blood turning to ice. It was a joke. A stupid, typical, off-color Shay joke. He had no idea how close to the bone he was cutting. Laughter erupted from the guys within earshot. Felix snorted into his water glass.
And across the table, Henry’s conversation with the GM didn’t falter. He didn’t flinch. He took a sip of his red wine, his expression one of polite interest in whatever the GM was droning on about. But I saw it.
I saw the way his knuckles tightened, just for a microsecond, around the stem of his wine glass.
The way his jaw flexed, a tiny, almost imperceptible tic.
His gaze, for a fraction of a heartbeat at, flickered away from the GM’s face.
It didn’t land on me. It landed on Shay’s arm, draped so casually across my shoulders.
The look in his eyes was arctic. A flash of pure, undiluted possession that was there and gone so fast I would have missed it if I hadn’t been staring, desperate for any sign of life.
My own heart hammered, a frantic, triumphant drumbeat. He sees. He cares. He’s jealous.
Emboldened by that tiny crack in his armor, by the need to provoke him further, I did something stupid. I leaned into Shay’s side, relaxing under his arm. I forced a laugh, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near hysterical. “Shut up, Shay. You’re just jealous you didn’t get any cake.”
The guys laughed harder. Shay gave me a squeeze, ruffling my hair with his other hand. “Damn right I am! Next time, bring me back a doggy bag, you selfish bastard.”
The moment stretched. Shay’s arm stayed around me. I kept my eyes locked on Henry, daring him to look at me.
He didn’t.
He simply finished his conversation with the GM, nodded, and then turned to Coach, engaging him in a new topic. The moment was over. The shutters had come down. He hadn’t taken the bait. He’d seen Shay touching me, seen me allow it, and he’d simply... dismissed it. Dismissed me.
The triumph curdled in my stomach, replaced by a cold, sickening wave of humiliation. What had I expected? For him to vault across the table and declare his intentions? I was a fool.
Finally, Shay released me, reaching for another bread roll. The loss of contact felt like a condemnation. I sat there, adrift in a sea of noise and laughter, feeling more alone than I ever had in my life.
The dinner dragged on. Dessert menus appeared. Coffee was poured. I declined everything, my hands clenched under the table. I just wanted to escape. To go home and lick my wounds in private.
Henry stood up.
The table quieted down almost immediately.
He buttoned his suit jacket with a single, elegant motion.
“Gentlemen, thank you for a productive evening. And for the winning streak. Keep it up.” His gaze traveled around the table, a general, impersonal address.
“The bill is taken care of. Enjoy the rest of your night.”
A chorus of “Thank you, Mr. Emerson” and “Goodnight, sir” followed him. He gave a final, curt nod and turned to leave. He didn’t look at me. Not a glance. Not a flicker.
He walked out of the private room, and it felt like all the oxygen left with him.
The noise level instantly rose again, everyone relaxing now that the boss was gone. Shay was already planning the rest of the night. “Okay, who’s hitting the bars? Holt, you in? You look like you need a drink.”
“Nah,” I said, my voice sounding hollow. “I’m beat. Gonna head home.”
“You sure?” Felix asked, peering at me with a hint of concern. “You’ve been quiet all night.”
“Just tired,” I lied, forcing a smile. “Big game tomorrow.”
I made my excuses, weaving through the tables and out into the cool night air. The valet brought my car around. I slid into the driver’s seat, the silence of the interior pressing in on me.
I replayed the entire night in my head, over and over. The ignoring. The flash of jealousy. My pathetic attempt to provoke him. His ultimate, crushing dismissal.
My phone sat silent and dark in the passenger seat. He hadn’t texted. He wouldn’t.
I had gotten what I wanted. Proof that he felt something. But the victory was ashes in my mouth. Because the clearer it became that he felt, the clearer it became that he had no intention of acting on it. Not in any way that mattered to me.
He’d gotten what he wanted from me in the locker room. Now, he was back to being the owner. And I was just a player on his roster. One he was apparently done paying attention to.
The hollow feeling in my gut yawned wide open. I started the car and pulled out into the traffic, the bright lights of the city blurring into meaningless streaks.
This wasn’t a complication. This was heartache.