Dear MVP, You’re Ice Cold (Seattle Havoc #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Scout

Taking a part-time gig as the Seattle Havoc's unofficial den mother means I know who's allergic to peanuts, who left their wallet in the weight room, and who needs new laces before warmups.

It also means I've learned the first rule of caring for professional hockey players: they're essentially very large, very expensive toddlers who lose everything and need it fixed yesterday.

I've been on the Havoc payroll for six months since my ex-husband Enzo decided to trade in our marriage for a carousel of Instagram models.

The one good thing he left me? This job.

And despite the fact that these overpaid man-children treat me like a combination personal assistant, fairy godmother, and emotional support human, I'm keeping it.

As I scroll through the messages, the clock mocks me. Jessa wants oat milk lattes from the café that's twenty minutes in the opposite direction. Juliet needs copies for some Very Important Meeting. A rookie lost his AirPods, which has somehow become my problem.

Juliet handles player relations, which means she puts out fires before the whole organization burns down.

PR crises, player meltdowns, media scandals.

When a Havoc player screws up, Juliet makes sure it doesn't end up on ESPN.

She's also part of the Coven, Jessa's nickname for a witchy little group of women who actually keep this team functional.

But back in reality, I’m a personal assistant, not a metal detector. Though at this point, I should probably add it to my resume. Scout Nash, Professional Stuff Finder.

I drag myself out of bed and into yesterday's jeans.

Since the divorce, I've been living with Jessa, who took pity on me when I showed up with two suitcases and the kind of desperation that says, this is my last option before I have to move in with my father.

Jessa is bubbly, brilliant, and has inexplicably decided I'm worth keeping around despite my tendency to sing to my houseplants and do yoga in the middle of the living room at odd hours of the day.

Every day, I try to prove she made the right call by bringing home flowers or making her favorite lemon bars. It's either that or actually talk about my feelings, and we both know that's not happening.

This is what I do. I keep things running smoothly. Someone has to make sure the world doesn't implode, and apparently that someone is me. It's easier this way. If I'm busy solving everyone else's problems, I don't have time to think about my own.

Win-win. I just need an attitude shift. I can make today a great one, as long as I’m willing to ignore the shitty Seattle winter and the heinously early start time.

Getting coffee and pastries at the café is a breeze.

Heading to the practice arena is pretty easy, although the traffic is already fairly hellish by the time I arrive.

My fingers are icy from the January cold and my phone won't stop pinging with new requests.

I distribute the lattes and pastries first, mostly because Jessa texted three crying emojis and I'm not heartless.

Then I head to the copy room with my list of tasks, ready to power through my never-ending list of to-do items until lunch.

The copy machine hums and spits out stack after stack of paper.

Media packets for tomorrow's press conference.

Practice schedules color coded by position.

Travel itineraries for next week's road trip.

I've highlighted each player's schedule in a different color because it makes things easier to read at a glance.

Yellow for forwards, blue for defense, green for goalies.

Nobody told me to do these errands. I’m doing them of my own volition to be helpful.

And because I was married to a hockey player for several years, I know as much as anybody that they work hard on the ice and then take a mental vacation when you hand them any kind of paperwork.

If you color-code things for athletes, the chances that they’ll actually read it and not just toss it are greatly increased.

I'm gathering the papers into neat stacks when Juliet appears in the doorway. She moves so quietly that I don't notice her until she's right there, watching me work.

"Scout," she says.

I jump, straightening up too fast, and the papers slide. They scatter across the floor in a rainbow of highlighted sheets. "Sorry, sorry." I drop to my knees and start gathering them.

Juliet crouches down beside me, her movements precise and efficient. She picks up a handful of schedules and studies them. "When did you do all this?"

"Last night." I reach under the table for a runaway packet. "It's not a big deal."

"It is a big deal." Her voice is gentle but firm.

"You're not paid to color code schedules at midnight.

The team has money. We can hire more help.

" She pauses, her dark eyes searching my face.

"I know we don't know each other that well, but I can see that you're smart.

Too smart to be running errands forever, Scout. "

Heat crawls up my throat. I try to laugh it off, make it sound light. "I didn't get a kinesiology degree to be a professional copy maker, but it pays the bills while I figure things out."

Juliet stills, her gaze on me. "Kinesiology?"

"From UW." I gather papers faster, not meeting her eyes. "I was pre-physical therapy track after..." I trail off because the end of that sentence is too complicated.

After my mom died, but before I married Enzo and let him convince me I didn't need a career. She doesn't need to know all of that. Juliet's extremely nice and a consummate professional. This is work, not a therapy session.

"That doesn't matter now," I say instead.

“Are you interested in working with the players?”

“I would love that.” I blush. “I mean, that’s what I studied in school. Soft tissue issues, mobility problems, recovery setbacks. I geek out on that stuff.”

“So why are you in the copy room? Why not apply to work with the trainers?”

“Oh, you know.” I wave away my embarrassment. “Life got in the way of getting my certifications. So for now, I’m just the team gopher. And I teach yoga classes here and there. Those are so much fun.”

Juliet purses her lips. “But you’re qualified to be helping injured athletes recover? That’s what you want to be doing?”

Is my face on fire? Sure feels like it. I look down at Juliet, the sassy brunette with a take-charge attitude I would kill for, and I swallow.

“Yeah. That’s my goal. Mobility work, basic athletic training, yoga certification. But I'm not a licensed PT. I didn't finish the program."

Juliet’s eyes narrow. She asks carefully, "Do you mind if I ask why not?"

The question lands like a punch. I sit back on my heels, still holding a crumpled schedule.

"Like I said, life happened. First my dad needed someone to stay with him after my mom died. And then my ex and I got married, and he didn’t want me to work.

" I shrug, trying to make years of regret sound casual.

"I left the work force before I ever really entered it. And now... I'm here."

“It sounds like you just need a little help getting to the right job.” She stacks the last of the papers and presses them into my hands, her grip firm. "Think about what you'd actually want to do here if you could use your training. We'll talk about it the next time I see you."

"Okay," I say quietly. "Thanks, Juliet."

“Of course. I love helping women reach their potential.” She gives me one more brief smile, something knowing and sad in her eyes, then walks out.

When she looks at me like that, is she seeing a young divorcée? A meandering soul? A lost little girl? It doesn't matter because I don't want to see myself from the outside.

I already know that my life is screwed up.

I stay on the floor for another minute, surrounded by highlighted schedules and half-formed dreams. Then I stand up, smooth my team polo, and get back to work. That's what I do. It's all I know how to do.

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of tasks. I find the rookie's AirPods in the locker room, reorganize Juliet's filing system because someone messed it up, answer countless emails and confirm reservations. When it gets near lunch time, I order lunch for a sponsor meeting.

By two o'clock, my feet hurt and my stomach is growling. I'm heading to the break room for a granola bar when I turn a corner and walk straight into a wall.

Except it's not a wall. It's Silas Huxley.

The papers in my arms jab into my ribs. I stumble back a step, looking up and up until I find his face.

He's massive. Six foot eight of muscle and silence, standing there in training gear that somehow looks both casual and severe.

His dirty blond hair falls past his chin.

His blue-gray eyes are both unfathomable and unreadable at once.

He’s the one hockey player on this team that I do have some history with. Unfortunately.

"Sorry," I blurt out, already moving to squeeze past him.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't move either. No, he just stares down at me with that blank expression that gives away nothing.

Is he angry? Annoyed? Even a little acknowledgment that I'm a human being standing in front of him would be a positive note at this point.

I edge sideways. My shoulder brushes his arm and something electric shoots through me, quick and unwelcome. I don't look back as I hurry down the hallway. My skin prickles like I've stepped from a sunbeam onto a vast, icy hockey rink.

I've worked for the Havoc for a while now.

Of all the players that I deal with on a daily basis, only Silas Huxley still unsettles me.

He's the team's star defender, quiet and intense.

The kind of player who racks up points without saying a word.

Off the ice, he's a ghost. He shows up, does his job, and disappears. No drama, jokes, or warmth.

Just cold, controlled silence.