Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Jerry
The ice doesn’t lie.
That is the first rule I learned, long before I learned how to balance a ledger or manipulate a stock price.
People lie. They smile when they hate you.
They shake your hand while looking for the knife in your pocket.
They moan your name when they’re really thinking about the credit limit on your Amex.
But the ice? The ice is honest. If you are weak, it knocks you down. If you are slow, it leaves you behind. If you are distracted, it breaks you.
I was currently trying to break myself before the ice could do it for me.
Sprint. Blue line to red line. Stop. Spray snow. Back.
My lungs were burning, a familiar, searing heat that usually brought clarity. Today, it brought nothing but static.
Sprint. Blue line. Goal line. Stop.
I slammed into the boards, the impact jarring my shoulder, vibrating through my teeth. I welcomed the pain. Pain was a variable I could control. Pain was simple physics—force meets resistance.
What happened on my desk yesterday was not physics. It was chemistry. Volatile, unstable, explosive chemistry.
I rested my forehead against the cold glass, my breath fogging the surface in rhythmic puffs. Sweat dripped from my nose, landing on the pristine white surface below.
I looked at my hand. My right hand. The glove was off, discarded on the bench. My fingers were taped, but I could still feel it. The phantom sensation of her. The heat. The slick, overwhelming wetness of her surrender.
“Yours. I’m yours.”
The memory hit me like a puck to the throat. I squeezed my eyes shut, gripping the stick until the carbon fiber groaned under the pressure.
I had broken the contract. I had broken the cardinal rule of engagement: Never dip your pen in company ink. Never compromise the asset.
Heather Bloom was an asset. She was a solution to a PR problem. She was a tenant.
But yesterday, for twenty minutes in my study, she had been everything. And I had been out of control.
I hated being out of control.
"You're going to crack the glass if you hit it any harder, Cap."
The voice echoed through the empty arena.
I didn't turn around. I knew who it was. Silas. He was the only one stupid enough to interrupt my morning suicide drills.
"Go away, Tank," I rasped, pushing off the boards and skating a slow circle to keep my legs moving.
"Can't do that," Silas said cheerfully. I could hear the clack-clack-clack of his stick handling a puck as he stepped onto the ice. "Coach Miller sent me. Said he saw you on the security feed at 5:00 AM and was worried you were going to stroke out before the game on Saturday."
"I'm conditioning," I lied.
"You're punishing yourself," Silas corrected. He skated up beside me, effortlessly matching my stride. For a man the size of a refrigerator, he moved with annoying grace. "So, what did you do? Did you kill someone? Did you lose a million dollars? Did you accidentally eat a carb?"
"I'm fine," I snapped, picking up speed.
Silas kept pace. "You're not fine. You're skating angry. You usually skate cold. Angry Jerry is messy. Angry Jerry takes penalties."
I stopped abruptly, spraying a wave of ice shavings over Silas’s skates. He didn't flinch.
"I am not messy," I said, the words coming out low and dangerous.
"Okay," Silas held up his hands. "Not messy. Just... intense. Look, man, the team is buzzing. Bianca has been quiet, which is terrifying, and you've got the Rink Mouse living in your ivory tower. People are talking."
"Let them talk," I said. "That's the point. Visibility."
"Is it?" Silas tilted his head, his eyes shrewd. "Because usually, when you execute a plan, you look bored. Right now? You look like you're trying to outrun a predator."
I stared at him. Silas saw too much. He was a goalie; it was his job to read the micro-expressions, the shift in weight before the shot. He saw the crack in the armor.
"Drop it, Tank," I warned.
"Fine. Dropped." He slapped my shin pads with his stick. "But heads up. The predator is in the building."
"What?"
Silas pointed with his stick toward the tunnel.
I followed his gaze.
My heart did a traitorous, violent flip in my chest.
Heather.
She was standing at the entrance to the bench, looking completely out of place in the cavernous arena. She was wearing jeans—thank God—and a bulky Vane University hoodie that swallowed her upper body. She was clutching a tablet to her chest like a shield.
She looked small. She looked tired.
And seeing her sent a jolt of lust straight to my groin so potent I almost doubled over.
"Speak of the devil," Silas grinned. "Or the angel. Depending on your perspective."
I ignored him. I skated toward the bench, my movements predatory. I needed to intercept her. I needed to get her out of here before—
"Hey! It's the First Lady!"
The shout came from the other end of the ice. The rookies were coming out for the morning skate.
My jaw clenched. First Lady.
I reached the boards just as Heather stepped up to the glass. She flinched when I stopped, the violence of my stop spraying snow against the barrier between us.
Her eyes met mine.
Hazel. Gold. Wide.
There was a blush rising on her neck, a vivid pink stain that I knew—I knew—extended all the way down to her chest. She was remembering.
She was thinking about the desk. About my fingers. About the way she had screamed my name.
"What are you doing here?" I demanded. My voice was rougher than I intended.
Heather swallowed. She adjusted her grip on the tablet. "Good morning to you too, Sunshine. I'm here because you left your phone on the kitchen counter. And your PR manager has called it fourteen times in the last twenty minutes. Something about a 'Crisis of Narrative'."
She held up my phone.
I stared at it. "You brought it to me?"
"It's in the job description," she said, her voice trying for light and breezy but landing somewhere near strained and breathless. "Personal Assistant. Logistics. Phone delivery."
"You shouldn't be here," I muttered, looking over my shoulder. The team was gathering at center ice. They were looking at us. They were looking at her.
"Why?" She frowned. "I work here. Remember? The cleaning gig I'm not allowed to do anymore?"
"Because," I stepped off the ice, my skates clacking on the rubber matting. I towered over her, blocking her view of the team. Blocking the team's view of her. "This is a locker room environment. It's not... civilized."
"I've cleaned the urinals in this place, Jerry," she deadpanned. "I've seen the uncivilized parts."
"Hey, Heather!"
It was Johnson, one of the wingers. He was skating over, a grin plastered on his face. He was shirtless under his gear, sweat glistening on his chest.
"We missed you last night!" Johnson called out, leaning over the boards. "Usually the glass is sparkling, but the new guy left streaks everywhere. We need the expert back."
I felt a growl vibrating in my chest. It was irrational. Johnson was being friendly. He was acknowledging her.
But he was looking at her smile. He was flirting.
I took a step sideways, completely cutting off his line of sight.
"Johnson," I barked without looking back. "Laps. Now."
"What? Why?"
"Because I said so. Twenty laps. Go."
"But—"
"Thirty," I said.
Johnson groaned and pushed off, muttering something about dictatorships.
I turned back to Heather. She was looking up at me, her eyebrows raised so high they were disappearing into her bangs.
"Thirty laps?" she whispered. "Because he said hi to me?"
"Because he was wasting time," I lied.
"You're a terrible liar," she noted.
"I don't lie," I said, snatching the phone from her hand. Our fingers brushed.
The spark was immediate. It wasn't a static shock; it was a circuit closing. A heavy, thrumming connection that traveled up my arm and settled heavily in my chest.
She pulled her hand back as if burned. She looked down at the floor, biting her lip. That nervous mouth.
"About yesterday," she started, her voice dropping to a whisper.
"Don't," I cut her off. I couldn't talk about yesterday here. Not with the smell of the ice and the sound of the team behind me. If I talked about it, I would want to do it again. I would want to drag her into the equipment room and finish what we started.
"We need to talk about the rules," she insisted, braver than she had any right to be.
"Tonight," I said abruptly. "At the penthouse. Not here."
"Fine," she said, her eyes flashing. "Tonight. But just so you know... the PR team wants us to do a photo op. A 'candid' study session. They're coming to the apartment at 7:00."
My stomach tightened. "Great."
"Yeah. Great." She stepped back. "I'm going to go... assist. Don't check anyone into the hospital today, okay? It's bad for the narrative."
She turned and walked away.
I watched her go. I watched the sway of her hips in those jeans. I watched the way the oversized hoodie couldn't quite hide her shape.
"You're staring," Silas said, gliding by.
"Thirty laps, Tank," I said.
"Worth it," he laughed.
The Penthouse
The "Candid Study Session" was a circle of hell Dante had forgotten to write about.
At 7:00 PM sharp, a photographer and a social media manager named Chloe—who looked like she subsisted entirely on iced coffee and ambition—invaded my sanctuary.
"Okay, so the vibe is 'Power Couple but Chill'," Chloe directed, waving her hands around my living room. "Jerry, sit on the couch. Open a laptop. Look... studious, but sexy. Heather, sit next to him. Maybe rest your head on his shoulder? We want 'supportive girlfriend' energy."
I sat on the Italian leather sofa. My spine was rigid. I hated strangers in my space. I hated cameras.
Heather sat next to me. She was wearing leggings and a soft, cream-colored sweater that looked fuzzy. She smelled like vanilla and stress.
"Closer," Chloe commanded. "There's too much air between you. It looks like a business merger. Mush together!"
Heather shifted. Her thigh pressed against mine. Her shoulder tucked under my arm.
The contact was electric.
I tried to focus on the laptop screen. It was blank.