Chapter 9
DANNY
Vancouver’s pressing us hard. They pulled their goalie for the extra attacker. Now it’s six on five. The arena’s loud, fans screaming, trying to will their team to take the win.
I’m on the ice for defensive coverage. Tate’s in the net, crouched and ready. The puck slides around the boards as Vancouver tries to find an opening.
Their center gets it and makes a clean pass. Their defenseman winds up for a shot. I skate in front of it to make the block. The puck bounces off my shin pad and skitters toward the neutral zone.
Jack picks it up, flies toward their empty net, and fires from our blue line.
The puck slides down the ice in slow motion. I hold my breath as it hits the post then bounces in.
Empty netter. 5-3. The buzzer roars.
The Vancouver crowd groans. Our bench erupts with cheers. Jack’s got his arms up in a victory sign as he circles the ice.
I skate over to Tate and tap his pads with my stick.
“Nice saves tonight,” I say.
“Nice block,” he says with a grin. “That’s two assists for you tonight, right?”
“Yeah. And zero fucking penalties.”
“PR guy would be proud.”
I press my lips together. I don’t respond to that. Don’t want to think about Noah right now, two thousand miles away in Oakland, probably watching the game stats and making notes about my behavior on the ice.
In the locker room afterward, Coach gives his standard post-game speech. “Good effort. Solid win. Get some rest. Bus leaves at nine tomorrow.”
The second he’s gone, the mood shifts.
“There’s a place two blocks from the hotel,” Carter says, already pulling off his gear. “Good beer, decent wings, no tourists.”
“I’m in,” Jack says.
“Me too,” Cam adds.
Tate looks at me. “You coming?”
I should probably go back to the hotel. Stay out of trouble. Do exactly what Noah would tell me to do if he were here.
But Noah’s not here. We’re in Vancouver, and I just had two assists and zero penalty minutes, and I’m tired of being on my best behavior.
“Hell yeah. I’m in.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at a bar called The Sin Bin. It’s exactly what Carter promised…dim lighting, hockey memorabilia on the walls, and a bunch of locals who don’t give a shit that we just beat their team.
We grab a corner booth and a couple of high-tops. Someone orders pitchers of beer. The mood’s good. Winning does that.
I’m two beers in, finally feeling relaxed, when my phone buzzes.
I peer at the text from Noah.
Where are you?
I frown. How does he even know I’m not at the hotel? And why does he care?
I text back.
Out with the team. Why?
A second passes. And then, another text comes through.
Which bar?
I furrow my brow.
Sin Bin. Two blocks from the hotel. Again, why?
I roll my eyes at his reply.
Marshall wants me to check in. Make sure you’re staying out of trouble.
Of course. Marshall. Because God forbid I go to a bar with my teammates without a babysitter.
I’m fine. And you’re in California.
I’m actually here in Vancouver. I watched from the press box. I’ll be there in ten.
Despite the annoyance, I can’t ignore the shivers that dance over my skin at the thought of seeing Noah. I put my phone down and scrape both hands down the front of my face.
“Problem?” Carter asks.
“Noah’s on his way.”
“The PR guy? Why?”
“Bob Marshall sent him. Apparently I need supervision.”
“You’re having a beer with the team. Not starting fights.”
“Tell that to Marshall.”
Ten minutes later, Noah walks in. He’s still in his suit. This one is dark gray, perfectly tailored like the rest. And he sticks out like a dick on a cake in this place. When he spots our group, he walks over.
“Gentlemen,” he says when he reaches our table.
“Noah,” Carter raises his beer. “Join us. We’re celebrating.”
“I’m here in a professional capacity,” he says in a tight voice.
“Professional capacity. That sounds like fucking torture.” Jack grins. “Relax, man. Have a beer.”
“I don’t drink on the job.”
“You’re always on the job,” Cam points out.
Noah doesn’t respond. His eyes tangle with mine and I swear my heart jumps. “Masterson. Can I speak with you?”
I take a long gulp of my beer before slinging my arm over the back of the booth. “We’re kind of in the middle of something.”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
The guys are watching now, curious as hell about what he wants to tell me.
I drain the rest of my beer, stand up, follow Noah to a quiet corner near the bathrooms.
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“No problem. Marshall wanted me to check in. Make sure you’re not doing anything that could create issues.”
“I’m having beer with my teammates. That’s not exactly scandalous shit.”
“You’re still on probation. Your behavior reflects on the organization. You need to remember that.”
“Do you think I could forget with the many, many reminders you’ve given me?” I ask, my words loaded with sarcasm. “It’s also why I’ve been on my best fucking behavior for three weeks.”
“Language.”
“We’re in a bar, Noah,” I scoff. “Not a youth clinic.”
He looks around, and I notice the tension in his jaw. Like being here is making him uncomfortable.
“How many have you had?” he asks.
“Two beers. I’m not drunk.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“There’s no problem. I’m just doing my job.”
“Right. Your job.” I lean against the wall and fold my arms over my chest. “You know, most people would just trust that I’m capable of having a beer without destroying my career.”
“Most people aren’t responsible for managing your public image.”
“Lucky you.”
A woman approaches, maybe in her late twenties with dark hair and bright blue eyes. She smiles at me, ignoring Noah completely.
“You’re Danny Masterson, right?” she says.
“That’s me.” I flash a wide smile.
“Thought so. Saw you play tonight. You were great.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
Before I can answer, Noah steps forward slightly. Not between us, but close enough that his presence is felt.
“He’s fine,” Noah says. Cold. Professional. Typical for him. “Thank you.”
She looks at him, then back at me. “Oh, sorry. Didn’t realize you were with someone.”
“I’m not—” I start to say.
But she’s already walking away.
I turn to Noah. “What the hell was that?”
“What?”
“You just chased her off.”
“I didn’t chase anyone off. I simply informed her that you didn’t need another drink.”
“I can make that decision myself, thanks.”
“You’re on probation. Drinking with strangers who might post about it on social media is a bad idea.”
“She was being friendly. Not everything is a PR crisis.”
“Everything is a potential PR crisis when you’re under league scrutiny.”
I stare at him. There’s something in his expression…something tight and controlled that doesn’t match his words.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Completely.”
“She offered to buy me a drink. That’s it.”
“And if she posted a photo of you drinking with her? If someone spins that as you partying with fans while on probation?”
“Dude, that’s such a reach.”
“That’s my job. Thinking about worst-case scenarios.”
But it doesn’t feel like worst-case scenario thinking. It feels like something else.
“You know what I think?” I say, dropping my voice as I move toward him.
“What?”
A grin lifts my lips. “I think you didn’t like her talking to me.”
The slightest hint of red creeps up the sides of his neck. “That’s absurd.”
“Is it? Because you got pretty territorial pretty fast.”
“I wasn’t being territorial. I was being cautious.”
“Bullshit.”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t have time for this. Stay here, have your beers with the team, and don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be at the hotel if Marshall needs an update.”
He turns to leave, and I don’t know why I do it, but I grab his arm.
“Noah.”
He stops and stiffens. But he doesn’t turn around.
“Why are you really here?”
“I told you. Marshall—”
“Fuck Marshall. Why are you here?”
He finally turns, looks at me with those deep dark eyes, and for one brief second I see a crack in his professional facade.
He must realize it too because when he clears his throat, the eyes ice over and he’s back to being his normal pompous, uptight self.
“Because it’s my job to make sure you don’t destroy your career.” His voice hardens. “That’s the only reason I’m here. That’s the only reason I’ve ever been here. So don’t read into things that aren’t there.”
He pulls his arm free and walks out the door.
I stand there, staring at the door, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
Back at the table, Carter nudges me. “Everything okay?”
“Fine. Noah just needed to do his babysitting check-in.”
“He seemed tense.”
I roll my eyes and pour myself another beer. “He’s always tense.”
But that’s not entirely true. He was more than tense.
He was jealous. I saw it, and he knows I caught it. That’s why he left, I’d bet my left nut on that.
Noah Enver is fucking jealous.
And he made a pathetic attempt to cover it by being a complete asshole.
I finish my beer, barely listening to the conversation around me. My mind’s back at the hotel, two blocks away, where Noah’s probably pacing his room trying to convince himself he did the right thing.
An hour later, we pay the tab and head back to the hotel. The hotel lobby’s quiet when we get there. Most of the guys head straight for the elevators, but I spot him.
Noah’s sitting at the hotel bar. Alone. Still in his suit, tie loosened slightly, nursing what looks like whiskey. He’s staring at his phone, but I can tell he’s not really reading it.
“I’m gonna grab some water,” I tell Carter. “See you tomorrow.”
Carter follows my gaze, sees Noah, and grins. “Good luck with that.”
“Fuck off.”
I walk to the bar and slide onto the stool next to Noah’s.
He doesn’t look up. “You should be in your room.”
“So should you.”
“I’m having a drink.”
“So am I.” I signal the bartender. “Beer, please. Whatever’s on tap.”
The bartender nods and moves away. Noah still hasn’t looked at me.
“What do you want, Masterson?”
“Just grabbing a drink. Same as you.”
“There are other seats at this bar.”
“I like this one.”
He finally looks at me then, and his expression is completely neutral. Like the scene in that bar never happened.
“You played well tonight,” he says.
“Thanks.”
“Two assists. No penalties. Marshall will be pleased.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“I’m here because Marshall asked me to check on you. Which I did.”
“Right. Check on me.” I lean back as the bartender slides my beer toward me. “Is that why you got territorial when that woman talked to me?”
“I wasn’t territorial. I was cautious.”
“You were jealous.” I smirk and pick up the glass. “I thought you were gonna piss on me next.”
“You’re mistaken.” His voice is flat, but the muscle in his jaw ticks. “I have no personal investment in who talks to you or what you do in your free time. My only concern is that your behavior doesn’t create PR issues.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“That’s reality.” He finishes his drink and puts the glass down on the polished wood. “You should get some sleep. We fly out tomorrow afternoon.”
“Noah—”
“Goodnight, Masterson.”
He stands, pulls out his wallet, drops cash on the bar, and walks away without looking back.
I sit there with my beer, watching him disappear into the elevator.
The bartender comes over. “Need anything else?”
“No. I’m good.”
But I’m not good. I’m frustrated as hell.
Because I saw it. In the bar, when that woman talked to me. I saw the jealousy flare in his eyes before he buried it under “professional courtesy.”
And just now, when I called him on it, I saw him shut down completely and lock everything away.
So yeah, Noah Enver feels something.
He’s just never going to admit it.
I finish my beer, head up to my room, and lie in bed staring at the ceiling.
Two assists. Zero penalties. A win on the road.
By all accounts, tonight should feel good.
Instead, I’m thinking about the way Noah looked at me when he said “goodnight, Masterson.” Like using my last name was a deliberate choice. A reminder of the distance between us.
A distance he has no intention of closing.