Chapter 2 #2
The booth was small, essentially a glass box suspended over the ice. It was filled with monitors, soundboards, and mixing equipment.
And Belinda O’Shea.
She was sitting in the main operator’s chair, her legs tucked up underneath her, wearing the same damn grey cardigan.
Her laptop was open, the glow of the screen illuminating her face in the dark room.
She had a thermos next to her and a bag of pretzels that was dangerously close to the master control board for the scoreboard.
She didn’t hear me enter. She was typing furiously, her brow furrowed in concentration. She was muttering to herself.
"No, that’s an outlier. Remove the empty net goals. Regress the mean."
She was working.
I stood in the doorway, watching her. For a moment, I didn’t say anything. I just observed.
She looked different when she wasn’t terrified. Focused. Competent. She bit her lower lip as she typed, her eyes darting across the data. Her hair was pulled back in a messy clip, but curls were escaping everywhere, framing her face in soft, dark tendrils.
She looked... cozy. In my arena. In my sanctuary.
"You’re eating over the control board," I said.
My voice was low, but in the small, soundproof booth, it sounded like a thunderclap.
Belinda jumped.
She didn’t just flinch; she physically launched herself. Her knee hit the underside of the desk with a sickening thwack, and she spun the chair around, her hand flying to her chest.
"Jesus!" she gasped, her eyes wide. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"I’m trying to prevent you from getting crumbs in a fifty-thousand-dollar mixing console," I said, stepping into the room and letting the door click shut behind me.
The space instantly shrank.
The booth was maybe eight feet by eight feet. With me inside, it felt like a closet. I saw her eyes track my size, the way I filled the doorway. She swallowed hard.
"I—I’m being careful," she stammered, adjusting her glasses. "I’m O’Shea. I know how much this stuff costs. My dad complains about the budget every night at dinner."
"What are you doing here, Belinda?"
I used her first name. I didn’t mean to. It just slipped out.
She stiffened slightly. "Working. The WiFi in the dorms is garbage, and the library is full of freshmen who think studying involves screaming at each other. This is the only quiet place on campus."
"It’s restricted access," I said, moving closer. I stopped a few feet from her chair. I could smell the vanilla again. It was warmer here, mixed with the scent of... peppermint tea?
"I have a key," she said, lifting her chin slightly. A flash of that defiance again. "Employee privileges. Unless you own the building, Volkov, I’m allowed to be here."
She was right. But I didn’t like it. This was my space.
"You’re analyzing the practice data," I said, looking at her screen.
"Yes. I told you I’d get you the raw files. I’m cleaning them up." She turned back to the screen, dismissive. Or pretending to be. I could see the tension in her shoulders. She was hyper-aware of me.
I stepped closer. I leaned over her shoulder, bracing one hand on the back of her chair and the other on the desk.
I effectively caged her in.
She froze. Her breath hitched.
I wasn’t trying to intimidate her. I just wanted to see the data. That’s what I told myself. I wanted to see if her math was right.
But as I leaned in, my chest brushed against her shoulder. I felt the heat of her body through the wool of her sweater.
"Show me," I murmured.
She didn’t move. Her hands were frozen on the keyboard.
"The... uh..." Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. "The Fenwick score for the second line is down. They’re generating shots, but they aren’t quality shots. They’re just throwing rubber at the net hoping for a rebound."
I looked at the graph. She was right. The shot locations were all perimeter. Low danger. Easy saves.
"Garbage volume," I agreed, my voice vibrating in my chest. I was close enough that my chin was almost touching the top of her head. I could see the individual curls of her hair. I could see the pulse beating frantically under her jaw.
"Exactly," she whispered.
She turned her head slightly.
It was a mistake.
Because I was closer than she realized. When she turned, our faces were inches apart.
Her eyes were huge behind the glasses. I could see the flecks of gold in the hazel. I could see the dark ring around her iris. I could see the reflection of the monitor in her pupils.
And I could see the fear. But it wasn’t just fear anymore.
It was anticipation.
Her lips parted slightly. Her breath ghosted across my chin. It smelled like peppermint.
"You’re crowding me, Volkov," she breathed.
"You’re in my seat," I countered. I didn't move.
"There’s no name on it."
"There doesn’t need to be."
The air in the booth was suddenly thick. heavy. Charged with static electricity. It felt like the moment before a lightning strike.
My eyes dropped to her mouth. It was soft. Pink. Unpainted.
Twitching like a divining rod.
The thought slammed into me again.
I wondered, with a sudden, violent curiosity, what she would look like if I kissed her. Would she freeze? Would she melt? Would she make that little whimpering sound the book described?
The impulse to find out was terrifying. It was a loss of control. It was a deviation from the plan.
I pulled back.
I straightened up, putting distance between us. The loss of heat was immediate and jarring.
"The data is good," I said, my voice rough. "Finish it. Email it to me by midnight."
I turned and walked toward the door. I needed to leave. Now. Before I did something stupid. Before I became my father.
"Volkov?" she called out.
I stopped, hand on the doorknob. I didn’t turn around. "What?"
"Why do you hate me?"
The question hung in the air. Vulnerable. Honest.
I closed my eyes for a second.
"I don’t hate you, O’Shea," I said to the door. "I just don’t have time for variables I can’t control."
"Maybe you shouldn’t try to control everything," she said softly. "Maybe you’d be happier."
I laughed. A short, humorless sound.
"Happiness doesn’t win championships," I said.
I walked out and let the door slam shut behind me.
I marched down the hallway, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I was in trouble.
Because for the first time in three years, I hadn't been thinking about the puck. I hadn't been thinking about the angle.
I had been thinking about how much I wanted to hear her scream.
And that... that was a problem I didn't have a formula for.