Evelyn
“Yes, that works—”
My voice cuts off when my office door opens without warning and Hugh strolls in.
Would it seriously kill the man to knock?
He pauses long enough at the threshold to acknowledge basic social norms before stepping inside, all long strides and quiet confidence, as if my office has always been his domain to enter. As if the years of resentment between us never existed.
“Evelyn?” Rina says through the phone. “Are you still there?”
My gaze stays pinned to Hugh. “Yes,” I reply, tone clipped. “But let me call you back.”
“Sure, no problem,” she says easily.
I end the call and lower my phone to the desk, deliberately taking my time. It gives me a much-needed moment to steady myself before reassembling the composure that always fractures the second Hugh enters my private space.
I lift my chin. “Can I help you?”
The smile he bestows on me isn’t the polished, media-friendly version he reserves for sponsors or league officials. It’s also not the one that wins over board members and donors with practiced ease.
This smile is quieter and far more dangerous because it’s genuine.
It hits me square in the chest because it’s the same one he gave me years ago, back when the world was simple, and I hadn’t yet learned how easily hope could be crushed.
It’s the kind that slips past your defenses, finding the smallest crack in carefully reinforced armor.
It does its damage before you even realize you’ve let your guard down.
I resist the instinct to look away.
Behind him, the rink glows through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a sheet of pristine ice stretching wide and empty. The Zamboni has already come and gone, leaving the surface smooth and lines crisp. It’s the calm before the noise.
I’ve spent more hours than I care to admit staring at that ice, measuring my life in practices and game days, in press disasters and last-minute negotiations, in the endless balancing act of keeping this franchise running smoothly.
I haven’t even made it through half this season yet.
There are far too many months remaining before we reach the end of the deal Hugh coerced me into.
My fingers curl against the edge of my desk as I continue studying him, acutely aware that nothing about his presence here is accidental. Hugh never does anything without ulterior motives.
“If you’re not busy,” he says, “I was hoping you’d have dinner with me tonight.”
I lift a brow in surprise. “I’m sorry. Are you actually asking instead of demanding or just showing up uninvited?”
A corner of his mouth tips up as he shrugs. The smile that follows is sheepish. Almost boyish. And completely disarming. It sends an unwanted flutter through my chest, and my pulse betrays me before I can rein it in.
“I thought I’d try a different approach.”
That comment gets my attention. I’ve never known Hugh Landry to ask for anything.
He negotiates. Strategizes. Persuades with patience and precision, waiting people out until they give him exactly what he wants.
For him to stand in my office with his hands loose at his sides, shoulders relaxed, gaze steady, offering me a choice, is unfamiliar territory.
And it unsettles me more than any demand could.
He hesitates before adding, “You left early again this morning.”
My gaze flicks away as I focus on the crystal clock on my desk with its pristine edges that catch the light. Anything to avoid his eyes. Hugh has always seen far more than I wanted him to.
“There’s been a lot to do,” I say evenly.
Hugh doesn’t push or argue. He just lets the silence grow between us, as if he heard what I didn’t say just as clearly as he’s witnessed everything I’ve been doing.
It’s not a lie.
It’s just not the whole truth.
And the fact that Hugh seems to understand that?
It makes the invitation, not to mention the man standing in front of me, far more dangerous.
I’ve been more careful since the night we shared a bath.
I’ve made a concerted effort to get up earlier and slip from the penthouse before he wakes.
Or I stay late at the arena, burying myself in work until I know he’ll already be asleep.
I don’t linger in common spaces or allow the moments we do share to turn intimate.
Instead, I’ve watched him from across rooms and redirected conversations before they could turn personal. Anything to claw back a little bit of self-preservation and control.
Boundaries.
But the truth is simpler and far less flattering.
I understand exactly how easily Hugh could dismantle the walls I’ve spent years perfecting brick by careful brick.
I’m nowhere near ready to trust him. Not with my heart or the past. And certainly not with opening doors to a future that could cost me peace of mind.
I lean back in my chair and study the man standing in front of me. “And if I say no?”
“Then I’ll walk out of your office,” he says. “And try again another night.”
There’s no challenge or pressure in his tone.
Only patience.
If this is a new game he’s devised, I don’t know what the rules are. And I don’t like that I can’t see his endgame or anticipate his next move before it happens.
I shift in my seat, buying myself a few precious seconds before straightening the stack of papers on my desk, making sure the edges are perfectly aligned, as if order on the surface might translate into order in my heart.
It doesn’t.
I’ve spent the entire season so far holding everything together.
Players. PR fires. Expectations that never loosen their grip.
I’ve nudged people forward when they were afraid to take the next step, watched them fall in love despite themselves, and protected them from their worst impulses when they needed it most.
I’m incredibly good at managing other people. What I don’t know how to do, what I’ve never learned, is how to protect myself from the one man who sees straight through me. And appears patient enough to wait me out.
It was easy to be the architect when my own heart wasn’t on the line.
One night spent in his company shouldn’t matter.
“It would just be dinner?” I ask before I can rein the question back in.
He nods. “Does tonight work?”
I should latch on to the out he’s offering—the clean exit and safe answer.
Instead, I hear myself say, “I suppose.”
“Great. I’ll make arrangements.”
As he turns toward the door, I stop him. “Hugh?”
He glances back to meet my gaze.
“This doesn’t mean anything,” I say evenly. “It’s just dinner.”
His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile. “I wouldn’t insult you by pretending otherwise.”
The door closes behind him, and I remain where I am for far longer than necessary, staring at the empty space he left behind. Beyond the glass, the rink lights gleam against untouched ice.
For once, there’s nothing that needs my immediate attention.
I don’t catalogue the risks or rehearse worst-case scenarios.
I don’t plan my exit. I’ve spent years making careful choices.
Ones that were strategic in nature. Choices that kept everything running smoothly and my heart safely out of reach.
But right now?
I’m no longer sure I’m in control.
And that might be what terrifies me most.