Chapter 2 #2
I clutched my clipboard like a shield. I was still wearing my navy sweater and skinny jeans, my hair perfectly curled. I looked like a tourist in a war zone.
I found the Equipment Room door and pushed it open.
It was a cavernous space lined with shelves of helmets, pads, skates, and endless rows of black jerseys. And it was chaotic. Gear was piled on the floor in heaps.
"Hello?" I called out.
Silence.
I stepped further in, my heels clicking on the concrete. "Is anyone here? I'm the new... manager."
"You've got to be kidding me."
The voice came from the back, from the shadows between the rows of shelving.
I froze. I knew that voice. It was deep, gravelly, and laced with disdain.
Liam Vanner stepped out into the harsh fluorescent light.
My breath hitched.
Last night, in the truck, he had been a bulky shape in a heavy jacket. Now... now there was nowhere for my eyes to hide.
He was wearing gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a compression shirt that clung to him like a second skin.
The shirt did nothing to hide the topography of his body.
His chest was broad, a wall of muscle that tapered down to a narrow waist. His arms were corded with veins, the geometric tattoo on his forearm stark against his pale skin.
He was huge. In the small aisles of the equipment room, he seemed to take up all the oxygen.
He was holding a clipboard of his own, and he looked furious.
"What are you doing here, Sofia?" he asked. He didn't call me Princess. He said my name like it was a curse word.
"I work here," I said, trying to inject some steel into my voice. "As of ten minutes ago."
He stared at me. His slate-gray eyes raked over my outfit, lingering on the pearls in my ears and the designer bag slung over my shoulder.
"You work here," he repeated, deadpan. "In the equipment room. Dressed like you're going to brunch."
"I didn't have time to change," I said defensively. "My father... he assigned me."
Liam let out a harsh laugh and tossed his clipboard onto a stack of towels. "Of course he did. Let me guess. Daddy cut you off, so now you have to slum it with the help for a semester to learn a lesson?"
It was so accurate it stung. I felt tears prick my eyes—hot, angry tears. I hated that he saw right through me. I hated that he knew exactly what I was.
"It's none of your business," I snapped. "I have a job to do. Where is the inventory list?"
He took two steps toward me. I instinctively took a step back, my back hitting a shelf of helmets. They rattled ominously.
He didn't stop until he was a foot away. The heat radiating off him was palpable. He smelled like the rink—cold air and intensity.
"This isn't a game, Sofia," he said, his voice low. "This isn't a PR stunt for your dad. We have a championship to win. I have scouts to impress. I don't have time to babysit a spoiled brat who doesn't know the difference between a skate guard and a jockstrap."
"I am not asking you to babysit me!" I shouted, my temper flaring. "I am smart, Liam. I can count towels. I can organize a room. I can do this."
"Can you?" he challenged. He reached past me, his arm brushing against my shoulder, to grab a roll of stick tape from the shelf behind my head.
The proximity was suffocating. He was boxing me in. I could see the stubble on his jaw, the faint scar through his eyebrow. My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I thought he might hear it.
For a second, I thought he was going to touch me. I thought about his hands on my waist last night. The ghost of his grip flared on my skin. I looked up at him, my lips parting.
He looked down. His gaze dropped to my mouth, then snapped back to my eyes. His pupils were blown wide, black holes swallowing the gray.
"You're shaking," he observed.
"I'm cold," I lied.
"You're terrified," he corrected. "You're out of your element, Princess. Go back to the castle. Tell your dad you quit. Save us both the headache."
"No," I whispered.
Something in me snapped. Maybe it was the fear of my father. Maybe it was the humiliation of the last twenty-four hours. Or maybe it was the way Liam looked at me like I was useless.
I straightened my spine, pushing back against the shelf.
"No," I said louder. "I'm not quitting. I need this job. And you don't get to fire me. You're just the goalie. You don't own this team."
He blinked. Surprise flickered across his face, replaced quickly by a dark, simmering amusement.
"Just the goalie," he repeated slowly. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. "Careful, Sofia. You might find out exactly how much of this team I run."
The door to the equipment room banged open.
"Yo, Vanner! Are you hoarding the tape? I need to wrap my—"
Jaxson Miller, the blonde winger from the team photos, skidded to a halt in the doorway. He looked from Liam to me, his eyes widening.
"Whoa," Jaxson said, a grin spreading across his face. "Did I interrupt a murder or a make-out session? The tension in here could cut glass."
Liam stepped back, the spell breaking. The cold air rushed back into the space between us.
"Neither," Liam grunted. "This is the new student manager. Thorne's daughter."
Jaxson’s eyebrows shot up. "The Heiress? In the dungeon?" He whistled low. "Damn. That’s gonna be... interesting."
Liam looked at me one last time. His expression was unreadable again. The Wall was back up.
"Stay out of my way, Sofia," he warned. "And don't touch my gear."
He brushed past Jaxson and stormed out of the room.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, my knees shaking so hard I had to grab the shelf for support.
"Don't mind him," Jaxson said, walking over and picking up the roll of tape Liam had left behind. "He's allergic to fun. And rich people. And smiling. You'll get used to it."
"I doubt it," I muttered, watching the empty doorway where Liam had been.
I looked down at the clipboard in my hand. My knuckles were white.
I was stuck here. In this humid, smelly, testosterone-fueled basement. With him.
I remembered the look in his eyes when he crowded me against the shelf. It wasn't just anger. It was hunger.
And God help me, I wanted to provoke it again.
"Okay," I whispered to the empty room. "Let's work."