Chapter 14
NOAH
Fuck, I kissed Danny Masterson.
That’s the thought that wakes me up in the middle of the night with a racing heart. I lie in bed, replaying every second of what happened in my office.
The way he looked at me. The way I grabbed his shirt. The way his mouth felt so good and so right plastered against mine.
And the way I completely lost control.
I cover my face with my hands and let out a groan. I have to figure out a way to fix this, but how? It’s not like I can take back that kiss or pretend it didn’t happen.
All I can do is make sure it never happens again.
At the office the next morning, I avoid every space where Masterson might be. I skip the morning skate and stay in my office with the door closed, burying myself in work that doesn’t require me to think about the fact that I kissed a player.
My phone buzzes. I look down to see a text from Dad.
You coming to practice?
Busy with sponsor calls.
Everything okay?
My jaw tightens as I type out the lie.
Fine. Just catching up on work.
I’m not fine. I’m the opposite of fine. But I can’t tell my father that I kissed one of his players in my office and then panicked and pushed him away.
I need to be more careful. Maintaining distance is a necessity. I can’t give anyone a reason to think there’s anything unprofessional happening between and Masterson.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a text from Masterson. Goddamn these phones. And fuck me for answering him and giving him a reason to blow things open.
We need to talk.
There’s nothing to talk about.
Bullshit. We kissed. That’s something.
I told you it was a mistake. It won’t happen again.
Stop saying that.
It’s the truth.
No. It’s what you tell yourself so you don’t have to deal with what you’re feeling.
I drop my phone on the desk without responding.
But he’s right. That’s exactly what I’m doing.
On Saturday morning, I show up at the practice facility at 9:30 for the third youth clinic. Kids swarm the place and their excitement is high.
Masterson shows up at 9:45. Early, like always.
He sees me, and a shadow eclipses his expression.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning.” I keep my voice professional. “We’re going to use the same structure as last time. Defensive positioning, teamwork fundamentals.”
“Got it.”
He pulls on his skates and heads onto the ice. I stay against the boards with my clipboard, documenting everything like I’m supposed to.
Like nothing happened. Like I didn’t kiss him two nights ago. Like I can’t still feel his hands in my hair.
The clinic’s about halfway through when I feel someone’s eyes on me. I glance up and scan the entrance. That’s when I see him.
Fucking Alex. Standing in the shadows near the doorway, arms crossed, observing what’s happening on the ice. He’s got a press badge hanging around his neck, but he shouldn’t be here. Not on a Saturday. Not at a youth clinic.
My stomach drops.
I put down my clipboard down and walk over. He sees me coming, straightens up, his fake, easy smile sliding into place.
“Noah.” He nods toward the ice. “Looks like a fun time out there.”
“What are you doing here, Alex?”
“I'm working a profile piece. Bigger than the Puck Fest incident. The whole arc - assault, rehabilitation, redemption story.” Alex gestures toward the ice.
“The Tribune's been chasing the redemption-narrative angle in pro sports for a year now.
My editor wants five-thousand words and a feature placement.
This guy's the centerpiece. I need to understand him.”
He gestures toward the ice where Masterson’s demonstrating a drill. “He’s good with kids. I wouldn’t have guessed that from the Puck Fest incident.”
“You have no reason to be here.”
“I’m covering Friday’s game and thought I’d do some background research first. I like to get a feel for the players in their natural environments. It makes my articles feel more authentic.”
I roll my eyes, not buying his bullshit for a second. “This isn’t a natural environment. It’s court-ordered community service.”
He shrugs. “Still. It tells you something about a person, doesn’t it?
How they handle obligations they don’t particularly want.
” Alex watches Masterson. “He’s an interesting guy.
He’s got protective instincts, loyalty to his teammates, and a quick temper when people he cares about are threatened. Makes for a compelling profile.”
“You’re not writing a profile on him.”
“Why not? It’s a great human interest piece. Reckless player learns restraint and gives back to the community. People love redemption stories.”
“There’s no story here, Alex. And you need to leave.”
He points at the badge. “This is a public facility. I have credentials.”
“For game coverage. Not for stalking players during community service events.”
Alex’s smile sharpens. “Stalking. That’s a strong word. I’m just observing. You know, the way you’ve been observing him for the past month. Very closely, from what I can tell.”
My hands clench at my sides. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just that you’re spending a lot of one-on-one time with him. Media training, community service supervision, crisis management. Very hands-on approach for a Communications Director.” He pauses. “I’ve never known PR directors to be such hand-holders.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“I’m sure you are.” Alex glances back at the ice, where Masterson’s helping a kid with his stance. “He seems like the kind of guy who’d inspire that kind of...dedication. Hell, he’s probably grateful for someone who has his back.”
“You need to leave. Now.”
“Relax, Noah. I’m just making conversation.” Alex pulls out his phone and types something. My blood boils and I want to tear it out of his hands and hurl it at the wall. “But I should get going anyway. There’s a lot to prep before Friday’s game. Good seeing you.”
He walks away, and I’m left standing there, heart pounding, watching him disappear down the corridor.
He knows. Or he suspects. Either way, he’s watching.
I turn back to the ice. Masterson’s still working with the kids, completely unaware that Alex was here. Completely unaware that someone’s digging into his life, looking for an angle, trying to find something worth writing about.
And if Alex digs deep enough, if he watches closely enough, he’ll see what I’ve been trying so hard to hide…that I care about Masterson more than I should and that there’s something between us that goes way beyond professional obligation.
I pick up my clipboard with shaking hands and try to focus on taking notes.
But all I can think about is Alex standing in that doorway, watching Masterson, commenting on how “interesting” he is. The way he said it…shit, it was like he was testing me. Like he was trying to see how I’d react.
And I reacted exactly the way someone would react if they were trying to hide something.
When the clinic ends and the last kid leaves, Masterson skates over to the boards.
“Everything okay?” he asks.
“Fine.”
“You look tense.”
“I’m fine.”
He lets out a frustrated sigh. “Noah, why don’t you just tell me the truth?”
“Fine.” I grit my teeth. “Alex was here watching the clinic.”
Masterson’s expression shifts. “What?”
“He said he was doing background research. Getting a feel for players in their natural environments before the game he’s supposed to be covering on Friday.”
“Sounds like a bunch of crap to me.”
“I agree.”
“So, what’d you tell him?”
“To leave. That he had no business being here.” My shoulders slump slightly. “But he’s watching, Danny. He’s looking for something, and if he finds it—”
“He won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“We keep our distance. We stay professional. We make sure there’s nothing for him to find.”
Masterson’s pained gaze locks on my face. “Is that what you want?”
No. “It’s what has to happen.”
“Right.” He gets off the ice, drops onto a bench, and pulls off his skates. “Professional distance. Got it.”
I want to say something else, to tell him I’m sorry, that I hate this, that if things were different—
But I stop myself. I can’t. Because saying any of that would make it worse.
He leaves the facility without looking back, and I’m alone in the rink with the uncomfortable awareness that Alex Naylor being in Oakland will make everything infinitely more complicated.
And the fact that seeing him watch Masterson made me want to pummel his ass into the ground says everything about how badly I’m failing at maintaining professional distance.
Masterson sends me a text later that night.
I get why you’re scared. But running from this isn’t going to make it go away.
I stare at the message.
He’s right. I know he’s right.
But I don’t know what else to do. For once, I’m smart enough not to respond.
On Sunday, I avoid the arena completely. I work from home, handle emails, and prep for the week ahead. Anything to keep from running into Masterson.
There’s a mandatory meeting on Monday morning that I can’t skip. I show up early, take a seat in the back, and keep my head down.
The players file in. I see Masterson immediately. He’s hard to miss, with those gorgeously rugged features and thick muscles that keep X-rated fantasies on a permanent loop in my mind. He sees me too, and our eyes meet for half a second before I tear my eyes away.
The meeting’s standard stuff. Dad goes over the upcoming schedule, reviewing systems, and making adjustments. I take notes, maintaining my professional role since I’m technically still keeping an eye on the Masterson situation.
Masterson shows up next to me once the meeting is over.
“Can I talk to you?”
“I’m busy.”
“Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Masterson, I really can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You’re not that busy, and I’ve been really good.”
His half-smirk gets me. “Fine. My office. Five minutes.”
In my office, I close the door and lean against my desk.
“What?”
“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About Alex digging, about the risks, about everything you’d lose.”
“Good. Then you understand why we can’t—”
“Let me finish.” He steps closer. “I get it. I do. But I also think you’re using that as an excuse.”
“It’s not an excuse. It’s reality.”
“Part of it is. But the other part is that you’re terrified of actually letting someone in. Of trusting someone enough to be vulnerable with them.”
“That’s not—”
“Alex fucked you over. He took something private and made it public and destroyed your ability to trust people. I get that. But I’m not him.”
“I know you’re not.”
“Then why are you treating me like I’m going to betray you the second things get complicated?”
“That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then what are you doing?”
I look at him, and I don’t have an answer.
“I’m trying to protect both of us,” I say finally.
“From what?”
“From making a mistake that destroys everything we’ve both worked for.”
“That kiss wasn’t a mistake, Noah. And you know it.”
“It doesn’t matter what I know. It matters what I can prove. And I can’t prove that this…whatever this is…won’t blow up in our faces.”
“So you’re just going to keep pushing me away.”
“Yes.”
He stares at me then finally nods.
“Okay. If that’s what you need to do.”
He heads for the door, and I should let him go. Should let this end here, cleanly, before it gets any more complicated.
Instead, I hear myself say, “Danny.”
He stops. Doesn’t turn around.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For kissing you. For making this harder than it needs to be.”
“You’re not sorry you kissed me. You’re sorry you can’t figure out how to let yourself want it.”
He leaves, and I’m alone in my office with the uncomfortable truth of what he just said.
He’s right.
I’m not sorry I kissed him. I’m sorry I can’t be the kind of person who takes that risk. Who chooses what I want over what’s safe.
I sit down at my desk and try to focus on work.
But all I can think about is the way he tasted. The way his hands felt. The way I felt, for those few seconds, like I could finally breathe.
And the way I felt when I pushed him away.
Like I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.