Chapter 7 #2
Ten minutes later, we're sitting in the empty stands overlooking the practice rink, coffee in hand, watching the guys run through drills.
Rose appears out of nowhere, plopping down beside me with a salad roll so enormous it looks like it could double as a weapon.
"Is that thing edible or are you planning to bludgeon someone with it?" Darcy asks, eyeing the monstrosity.
Rose takes a defiant bite. "Margot made it. It's got roasted vegetables, hummus, and something she called 'goddess dressing.'"
"Looks like it could feed a small village," I mutter.
"Or one very stressed Bears employee," Rose counters, chewing happily.
Down below, Declan skates past, executing a perfect snap shot that pings off the crossbar. My stomach does that annoying flutter thing it's been doing ever since he kissed me last night.
Oh yeah. That happened.
I've been so buried in work chaos and Colin's incompetence that I haven't had a single second to process that kiss.
Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe if I don't think about it, I can pretend it was just another impulsive decision in a long line of impulsive decisions.
Darcy notices. Of course she does.
"So," she says, sipping her cappuccino. "You gonna tell us why you were yelling at your laptop, or do we have to guess?"
I sigh, leaning back against the cold metal seat. "Colin Holden is a nightmare."
"We know," they chime simultaneously, giggling at each other.
"He bailed on our meeting this morning and went to the golf course instead. Then ignored me for four hours before finally sending his signature."
Darcy winces. "Ouch."
"And now I'm scrambling to salvage a ticket promotion that could actually help this franchise, but I can't shake the feeling that if I fail—" I stop myself, pressing my palms against my thighs. "If I fail, it proves everyone right."
Rose sets down her salad roll, her warm brown eyes softening. "Everyone who?"
I hesitate.
Down on the ice, Declan passes the puck to Beck, who immediately tries something flashy and wipes out spectacularly. Sawyer, in net, shakes his head like he's used to this.
"My family," I finally say. "Well, my mom, specifically."
Darcy shifts beside me, but she doesn't interrupt.
"She doesn't know I'm here," I continue. "Doesn't know I work in sports. Doesn't even know I took this job."
Rose's eyes widen. "Wait, seriously?"
I nod. "She thinks I'm freelancing. Doing vague marketing stuff.
Because my whole life, she made it very clear that girls like me don't belong in sports.
That I was wasting my time caring about hockey and—" I swallow hard.
"And my dad was the only one who got it.
The only one who didn't make me feel like I was wrong for wanting this. "
The cool air in the arena suddenly feels heavier.
"He died eight years ago," I add quietly. "And I've spent every year since trying to prove that his belief in me wasn't misplaced. That all those nights we spent together, bonding over things no one else understood weren't wasted."
Rose reaches over and squeezes my hand. Darcy just smiles softly at me.
"Josie," Darcy says, her voice steady. "Your dad was right. You belong here."
"Do I?" I gesture toward the rink. "I'm here because I lied my way through life. Because I couldn't be honest about who I really was. And now I'm working my ass off for a franchise that might fold, for a boss who'd rather play golf than save it, and if I fail—"
"You won't," Rose cuts in.
"But if I do," I press, "my mom gets to say 'I told you so.' And I'll have wasted all these years chasing something that was never meant for me."
Darcy sets her coffee down.
"Listen to me," she says. "I've been in the hockey world my entire life. My father's on the NHL Board. I've watched men fail upward while women twice as qualified get dismissed. And you know what I've learned?"
I shake my head.
"The women who survive? They're the ones who stop waiting for permission to be great." She leans in. "You're already great, Josie. You've got this entire town buzzing about a team they didn't care about a month ago. Colin Holden would be lucky to have half your work ethic."
Rose nods emphatically, salad roll forgotten. "She's right. And also? Your mom doesn't get to define who you are. Or your career. Or whether you belong."
I blink hard, happy to finally be able to talk to women who know exactly how I'm feeling.
Down below, Declan scores again. This time, he looks up toward the stands.
Right at me.
He holds my gaze for a second too long. I'm about to smile, perhaps even wave considering how… decent… he was being last night.
But then his eyes narrow, and he turns back to the drill without a flicker of acknowledgment.
Cool. Great. Awesome.
So we're doing that again?
The hot-and-cold thing. The kiss-me-then-pretend-I-don't-exist thing. The same thing every alpha male in every building I've ever worked in has done to me. Dangle something, then yank it away just to watch me scramble.
I should've known.
I spend the rest of the afternoon shoving that thought down, blaming myself because… to be fair, I'm just as much at fault for our situation as he is. I told him it meant nothing, I said it was reckless.
Somehow, I bury it under spreadsheets and social media schedules and the slow, satisfying rollout of the ticket promotion that's already getting traction online.
By the time I look up again, the arena's gone dark.
Everyone's left. The cleaning crew probably finished an hour ago. It's just me, my glowing laptop, and the faint sound of the ocean breeze hitting the windows outside.
I finally slam the laptop shut, rubbing my burning eyes.
My back aches. My stomach's empty.
And I still haven't processed a single thing about last night, because apparently that's just my life now… I'm too busy surviving to feel anything.
I grab my bag, ready to order room service and binge Netflix alone in my hotel suite for the rest of the night.
And then a knock against my open doorframe scares the living daylights out of me.
I look up, and my heart slams into my throat.
"Declan?"
He's leaning against the frame, looking way too good in a white tee that clings to every ridiculously muscular inch of him. His arms are crossed, and those stormy blue eyes are fixed on me like he's been standing there longer than he's letting on.
"You're here late," he says.
"So are you." I clutch my bag tighter and grab my phone off the desk. "Don't you have a mansion full of margaritas and stray dogs to get back to?"
"I do." He pushes off the doorframe, stepping inside. "But I saw your light on."
"Stalking me now?"
"Depends. You into that kind of thing?"
He grins as his eyes do that thing again. That slow, deliberate sweep that makes me feel like he's mentally undressing me while simultaneously planning exactly what he'd do once I'm naked.
Why does that turn me on so much?
"Into what kind of thing, exactly?" I ask, crossing my arms and immediately regretting it when his gaze drops to my suddenly tight nipples. "Stalking? Because I'm pretty sure there are laws about that."
He pushes off the doorframe and steps closer. "I was just finishing up at Breakers and saw the light on. Now I'm here, making sure you're not working yourself to death in an empty building late at night."
"How thoughtful. And here I thought you were just being your usual charming self."
His mouth quirks up at one corner. "You think I'm charming?"
"I think you're a lot of things." I grab my laptop and shove it into my bag, if only to do something with my hands. "Charming isn't the first word that comes to mind."
"What is?"
The question is quiet, but there's a layer underneath it that makes me look up. It feels less like banter and more like... curiosity. Like he actually wants to know what I think of him.
Dangerous territory, Josie.
"Complicated," I say finally. "Definitely complicated."
He moves closer, and my pulse spikes as I watch those massive biceps shift. "I saw you staring at me from the stands today."
So he did see me watching him.
"I was working," I lie.
"Mm." He studies me, a little too closely. "Funny. You were looking at me like you wanted to murder me."
"That's just my face when I look at you."
His mouth twitches. "Touché."
My pulse is hammering now, that familiar heat crawling up my neck. My lips tingle, remembering last night.
Don't. Do not do this.
"Declan, it's late. I should go."
"Probably." He takes another step. The space between us shrinks to nothing. "But I can't stop thinking about last night."
The words hit me low in the stomach, exactly where they're meant to.
"Declan—not here." I swallow hard, and the asshole just smirks. "We can't—"
"Why not?"
He reaches for me, his fingers gently tracing along my collarbone, featherlight and absolutely devastating.
I should stop him. Should say something clever and walk away.
Instead, my eyes flutter closed, letting his touch wash over me completely.
"Open your eyes, sweetheart."
I blink slowly, and the hunger in his gaze nearly drops me to my knees.
"Tell me you don't want this," he murmurs, lips brushing where his fingers were. "Tell me to stop, and I will."
My core floods. I'm pretty sure I've never been this turned on in my entire life.
My brain scrambles for every reason to tell him to walk away.
The job. The secret. The franchise.
My whole fucking life.
But he's right there.
And I still haven't finished what I started the second I woke up this morning.
"Oh, fuck it."
I drop my bag.
And launch myself at him.