Chapter 17
A fter a long day at the office, I head to the Mavericks game. I’ve missed the past few while I was away, and tonight seems as good as any to check in with the guys. Being part owner of the team means I enjoy the perks of their success without dealing with the majority of the responsibilities that come with managing the players and staff. I get VIP access to all games, private events, and post-game parties, though I rarely attend anything other than the games themselves unless it’s a fundraiser.
I have an office at the arena and stop by at least one night a week to review financials, meet with management, and review upcoming events. It’s helped me reclaim a piece of what I lost when my hockey career was cut short. While I don’t regret stepping away to work for my dad, it made me realize how deeply the game shaped who I am and how much I still needed hockey in my life, even if in a different capacity.
I yank my tie loose around my neck and recline in the back seat of the car service that’s taking me to the game.
Irritation prickles under my skin at the thought of Fallon on a date. How dare she mention it casually like it wasn’t a big deal. My jaw tightens as I run a hand through my hair. On second thought, it would be better if she was dating. Maybe then I could stop fixating on that smug smile of hers or the desire to draw her close and brush my nose along her neck as she watches me with lust in her eyes. But damn, just picturing another man with his hands on her makes my blood boil, jealousy burning hot through my veins.
Before I can spiral further, my phone buzzes.
Mom Want’s More Grandkids
Mom: Harrison, are you okay? You haven’t checked in.
Mom: We miss you.
Presley: I’m changing my vote to Harrison for Mom’s favorite kid.
Cash: Me too. What the heck, Mom? He’s the one who left early.
Harrison: For the record, she practically shoved me out the door on my way out.
Mom: Yes, you all abandoned me and your father tonight to play games at Dylan’s.
Dylan: We asked you to come.
Mom: Who schedules game night for 8pm? That’s too late.
Cash: Hey I shoveled the driveway this morning. That should earn me a ‘Get out of Jail Free’ card.
Mom: That was very kind of you. You’re forgiven.
Cash hearts message
Presley: And just like that Cash is the favorite again.
Dylan: How come no one ever thinks I’m the favorite?
Cash: Two words. Middle child. It’s a tough gig.
Dylan: Like you would know. Mom treats you and Presley like the babies of the family.
Mom: For the last time. I. Don’t. Have. Favorites.
Presley: I think we broke Mom.
Cash has renamed the group chat “Mom Doesn’t Have Favorites”
Harrison: Are you all texting in the same room?
Dylan: Yes. I better go. Marlow’s giving me the side eye.
Mom: Don’t stay up too late. Love you all very much.
Harrison: Love you too, Mom.
I tuck my phone into my pocket as the town car pulls up to the arena, and I breathe a sigh of relief. This place has become like a second home, a refuge from the constant demands of running Stafford Holdings.
When I returned to Aspen Grove after my dad’s heart attack, I immediately stepped in as his intern. With Mom keeping him sidelined, I stayed by his side, learning everything about the business. It wasn’t long before I realized just how much he had on his plate, so I made the difficult choice to step away from playing professional hockey and go all in at Stafford Holdings. It was a responsibility I’d been putting off, but it was time to accept the role I’d always known was mine, whether I was ready or not.
Before I became CEO three years ago, I held various other roles across the company, gaining firsthand experience in every department. My dad made sure I earned the title of CEO and was capable of handling its demands when the time came. Early on, I took on as many responsibilities as I could to ease his burden and reduce his stress. After everything he’s done for my siblings and me, it was the least I could do.
There was no chance I was going to let one of my siblings take over when they all had their own dreams. Dylan would have stepped in if he’d been asked, but he’d never shied away from wanting a family. When Lola came along, she became his priority.
My toxic trait is putting everyone else’s happiness first, even if it means sacrificing my own. Not that I would change it. My family is my world, and I’d do anything for them. Hockey has always been my personal escape, and I’m fortunate to still be able to have it in my life in some form.
When I get to the players’ lounge, Ryan greets me with a clap on the back. “Hey, man, I didn’t think you could make it tonight.”
Ryan Hicks is the head coach for the Mavericks, and someone I consider a good friend of mine. We both played for the Huskies, and he went on to have an incredible career as an elite goalie, posting record-breaking save percentages, and led his team to three championship trophies. After retiring from pro hockey, he went on to coach in the American Hockey League before being brought on to coach for the Mavericks.
“I had a change of plans and came home early,” I say.
He crosses his arms across his chest. “Your mom let you do that? I thought she had you on a tight leash.” Ryan has met her several times, so he understands how intense she can be.
“She’s convinced that my private chef is about to become my new wife, so she was quick to rush me home,” I mumble.
He chuckles. “Speaking of private chefs, I had the guys’ pre-game meal catered tonight. With everyone taking some time off for the holidays, I want to make sure they returned ready to hit the ground running and perform their best.”
I nod. “Good idea. Did you go with Central Park Catering again?” The last time they mixed up all the dietary requests, and a few of the guys weren’t thrilled they had to go without their usual meals.
Ryan shakes his head. “Nah, I went to a holiday party last week at a friend’s house, and they hired a private chef. She made the best mini crab cakes, and I was shocked to learn later on they were gluten-free. So, I figured if we hired her, you could eat something.”
The team is aware that I have celiac disease and they go out of their way when they know I’ll be at an event to make sure the food is safe for me to eat.
There’s a low buzzing in my ears when I register what Ryan said.
Holiday party. Gluten-free. Her.
There’s got to be other private chefs in the city who are women, catered holiday parties last week, and specialize in allergy-friendly food, right? There’s no way he’s talking about Fallon.
As my eyes drift across the room, a jolt of recognition sends my heart racing when I spot her near the table of food, replenishing a bowl of fruit. Her movements are smooth and controlled, her ponytail bouncing with each motion. She carries herself with a quiet confidence, shoulders straight, proving that she’s comfortable in her own skin, even surrounded by a rowdy bunch of hungry athletes.
My frown deepens when Aleksandr, the team captain, comes to stand next to Fallon. He offers her an easy smile as he fills his bowl with what appears to be a second helping of pasta. He’s only twenty-seven, but I’m certain he wouldn’t be fazed by Fallon being five years older. She’s strikingly beautiful, commanding attention without lifting a finger.
A red haze clouds my vision, and my jaw twitches when he leans in to whisper in her ear, and she laughs. I rarely hear the musical sound, and it’s like a drug, drawing me closer.
“I’ll talk to you later,” I tell Ryan, not bothering to elaborate.
I move across the room with determination, oblivious to the players and staff who give me a wide berth as I pass. When I get closer, I can hear Fallon talking. “Everything to your liking?”
“Amazing. This pasta and turkey meatballs are diabolical.” Aleksandr grins, taking another bite. “I never thought I’d be a fan of gluten-free food, but I’m pretty sure you’re a magician because this food is damn good.”
Fallon’s cheeks flush, and my gaze moves to her shirt… no, not her shirt, a jersey. She’s wearing Aleksandr’s damn jersey.
Why the hell is she wearing that? Better question: Why does she look happy about it? Could they be dating? Puck bunnies flock to Aleksandr in droves, swooning over his thick beard, chiseled jaw, wavy blond hair that falls past the nape of his neck, and broad shoulders, which hint at a powerful presence on and off the ice.
Damn, I like the kid, and we have a solid rivalry during workouts. But now I’m starting to think of ways to get him booted off the team if he’s with Fallon.
“Thanks for the compliment,” she says, flashing him a smile. “It’s rare to hear someone appreciate my cooking.”
What does that mean?
I compliment her cooking all the time… don’t I? Now that I think about it, we’re usually bickering when we’re in the same room, but she has to know I like it. After all, I did text her about how much I liked her quiche. And I’ve kept her around even after she redecorated the apartment, bedazzled my hockey stick, and insisted we keep a feral cat that’s out to get us. That counts for something.
“Your cooking is as irresistible as you are,” Aleksandr says, his green eyes gleaming with a playful edge. “Can I see you after the game?”
“To get your jersey back?” Fallon asks. “Thanks again for letting me use it. I’m never this clumsy on the job, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.” She lets out a nervous laugh.
“It’s no problem,” he says, resting his hand on her arm. “Glad I had it in my bag. You can keep the jersey if you want. I’d actually like to take you—”
Hell no.
“Aleksandr, don’t you have to get to the locker room to change into your uniform? Warmups are starting soon,” I cut in, my tone cold.
Fallon’s eyes widen with recognition at the sound of my voice, and her gaze shifts in my direction.
“Harrison?” she says with confusion.
Aleksandr glances between us, taking a step back when he senses the heated tension between us. “I better go get changed. It was nice meeting you, Fallon, hopefully I’ll see you after the game,” he says with a smug grin.
Not if I can help it.
“Yeah, of course. Thanks again for this.” She tugs at the jersey, causing me to grind my molars.
“My pleasure,” he answers. “Enjoy the game, old man,” he says, shooting me a cocky grin as he passes, earning him a glare.
As soon as we’re alone, I turn to Fallon. “I thought you had a date tonight,” I whisper-shout.
Fallon fixes me with a dagger-like stare. “What are you doing here?” she asks, sidestepping my question.
“I’m part owner of the Mavericks.”
Her lips part in a silent, “Oh.”
“And no, I wasn’t involved in hiring you for the event. The head coach was at a party you catered last week and was impressed.”
I don’t know why I felt it was important to clarify, but the look of relief on her face tells me it means more to her than she’d admit.
“Is there a particular reason you’re wearing Aleksandr’s jersey?” I question.
I’m not about to admit I overheard most of her conversation earlier.
Fallon smooths a hand over the jersey with an exaggerated flourish. “Oh, this? I spilled sauce on my shirt, and he graciously offered to let me borrow it. He’s such a gentleman, right?”
I shouldn’t have overplayed my hand and let her see how much it bothers me. Naturally, she’s milking this for all it’s worth.
“Are you still wearing your shirt underneath?” I motion to her, keeping my tone even.
She nods slowly, suspicion flickering in her eyes.
“Good. Take it off.”
Fallon lets out a bitter laugh. “I don’t know…” she muses, toying with me. “I think it looks great, and I do love the number ten.”
“The only jersey you’ll be wearing in the future is mine,” I state, moving closer. “Don’t make me ask again, trouble. Take. Off. His. Jersey.”
Thankfully, the room has cleared out, aside from a few staff members to witness my unhinged reaction, but I couldn’t care less what they think. My sole focus is getting that damn jersey off Fallon, even if I have to take it off myself.
Fallon’s gaze sharpens, sizing me up. Whatever she reads in my expression must convince her I’m not playing around because she sighs in annoyance and yanks off her apron, dropping it on the table. However, she takes her sweet time with the jersey, slowly taking it off to reveal a tight white T-shirt that does little to hide the curves of her body.
She holds out the jersey for me. “Happy?” she deadpans.
My mouth falls open as I take her in, but I quickly snap it shut and say, “On second thought, you should put it back on.”
Fallon shakes her head. “After the fuss you just made? No, you should take it, I insist.” She pushes the jersey against my chest, and I begrudgingly accept it, unable to pull my gaze from her lithe body.
I wonder if Aleksandr would be pissed if I set his jersey on fire. At the very least, it’s getting washed twice before he gets it back. No way is he putting it on with Fallon’s scent clinging to the fabric.
The sight of her in another man’s clothing is grating on my nerves, and all I can think about is the night she wore mine. I remember the way it hung low on her frame, the fabric reaching mid-thigh. She was effortlessly sexy, her long slender legs on display, like she was ready to walk down a runway.
It occurs to me that I’m acting like an overprotective boyfriend, which is ironic considering Fallon and I can barely tolerate each other. Or at least, that used to be the case. But standing here, staring into her piercing blue eyes, I can’t deny that something has shifted for me.
When I glance at Fallon again, I frown, not wanting her to walk around in that fitted T-shirt with a red stain on the front. I take out a black button-up from my backpack. It’s not my jersey, but it’ll do for tonight. I’ll just have to find an excuse for her to wear my one of my jersey’s another time.
I like the sound of that .
“Here. Wear this.” I put the shirt in her hands. “I don’t want you in any other man’s clothes tonight.”
Fallon rolls her eyes. “Yes, sir,” she retorts sarcastically.
“That’s more like it,” I say smugly.
She tugs on the shirt, buttoning it up, and tucks it into her jeans, adjusting the collar to give it a more fitted look. It’s still unmistakably a man’s shirt, and I like the idea of people seeing her in it.
I glance at my watch, trying to divert my gaze. “I better get going. I have to meet with some VIPs.” I turn on my heel and head through the doorway before I do something drastic like throw her over my shoulder like a caveman.
“Thanks for the shirt,” Fallon calls out after me. “But don’t think this means we won’t have a conversation about your brutish behavior later.”
“Looking forward to it,” I answer over my shoulder.
When I get to the hall, I take a quick look to make sure there’s no one around before tossing Aleksandr’s jersey in the trash. I’ll gladly foot the bill to replace it, but this one has to go.