Chapter 1 #2
Body: She should be arriving today. I expect weekly reports, Sterling. Remember what we discussed. Keep her out of the tabloids, and your future is secure.
I stared at the screen until the pixels blurred.
I hated him. I hated Victor Vane with the kind of cold, simmering loathing that usually reserved for rival captains. He had bought the team's arena three years ago. He pumped money into the program, sure, but he treated the university like his personal ant farm.
And now, he had leveraged me.
Watch my daughter. Keep her in line. Do this, and I’ll make the call to the GM in Boston. I’ll ensure you get the roster slot.
It was a transaction. I was a mercenary. And my mission was a five-foot-three fashion student who had been kicked out of three boarding schools and arrested twice in Paris for "public indecency."
I tossed the phone into my gym bag, zip-tied my emotions into a dark corner of my mind, and headed for the showers.
The drive back to the house was usually my decompression time. I drove a ten-year-old Ford truck that smelled like sawdust and oil. I liked the cold. I kept the windows down, letting the freezing Maine air numb the sweat on my skin.
But when I pulled into the driveway of the house, the peace shattered.
There was a tank parked next to Beef’s rust-bucket Jeep. A matte black G-Wagon that looked like it belonged in a rap video, not on the coast of Maine.
"She’s here," I gritted out, gripping the steering wheel until the leather creaked.
I killed the engine and grabbed my gear bag. I walked up the steps, noting the deep gouges in the snow where someone had dragged something heavy.
I opened the front door.
The first thing that hit me was the heat.
It wasn't just warm; it was tropical. The air was thick, suffocatingly hot. It felt like walking into a sauna. My skin, still cool from the rink, instantly prickled.
Then, the noise.
Bass. Heavy, rhythmic, synthesized bass shaking the floorboards above my head. It was rattling the framed jersey on the wall.
"Beef!" I barked, my voice low but carrying through the house.
Beef poked his head out of the living room. He was eating a bag of chips, looking terrified.
"Captain," he squeaked.
"Why is my house eighty degrees, and why does it sound like a Miami nightclub upstairs?"
"She... she's scary, Cap," Beef whispered, crumbs falling from his beard. "She has a lot of luggage. And she looked at me like I was furniture."
I didn't respond. I just tightened my grip on my gear bag and headed for the stairs.
I took them two at a time. The heat rose with every step, getting stifling at the top landing. The music was coming from the spare suite. My spare suite. The one that shared a bathroom with me.
The door was closed, vibrating in its frame.
I didn't knock. I didn't believe in knocking when my perimeter had been breached.
I dropped my bag in the hallway with a heavy thud and slammed my hand against the wood of her door.
"Turn it off," I commanded.
No answer. Just more thumping bass and a high-pitched female voice singing about… money? Sex? I couldn't tell.
I tried the handle. Locked.
Of course.
I turned and marched to my own door. I unlocked it, stepped into my sanctuary—pristine, grey, orderly—and went straight for the bathroom door.
The bathroom was even hotter. Steam billowed out, thick and smelling violently of vanilla and flowers. It smelled soft. It smelled chaotic. It smelled like a headache.
I walked through the steam, my boots heavy on the tile, and ripped open the door that led to her room.
The music assaulted me.
"I said turn it—"
The words died in my throat.
She wasn't looking at me. She was standing in front of the full-length mirror attached to the closet door. And she was… dancing.
If you could call it that. It was more of a slow, serpentine grind against the air.
She was small. That was my first thought. Tiny. She barely came up to my chest. But she was curved in ways that physics shouldn't allow. She was wearing pink silk that covered nothing. Her legs were bare, smooth, and pale.
She spun around, sensing the intrusion.
Her eyes went wide. They were blue. Not the icy blue of the bay, but a warm, Caribbean blue that looked out of place in this frozen hellscape.
She didn't scream. She didn't cover herself.
She reached over to the speaker on the desk and paused the music. The silence crashed back into the room, ringing in my ears.
She looked me up and down, slowly. Her gaze lingered on my broad shoulders, dropped to my hands—still taped from practice—and then came back up to my face. She smirked.
"You must be the Gavel," she said. Her voice was smoky, honey-thick, and entirely unimpressed. "Beef said you were big. He didn't mention you were rude."
My jaw ticked. I felt a surge of something hot in my blood—anger, yes. But something else. Something possessive.
"And you," I said, my voice dropping to that octave that usually made rookies wet their pants, "must be the problem."
She laughed. It was a bright, tinkling sound that grated on my nerves. "Oh, Daddy, you have no idea."
I stepped into the room. The air shifted. It became charged, electric. I saw her breath hitch, just a fraction. She wasn't as brave as she pretended to be. I could see the pulse jumping in the hollow of her throat.
"Rule number one," I said, stepping closer until I was looming over her. I could smell the vanilla coming off her skin in waves. It was intoxicating. "No music during study hours."
"It's 5:00 PM," she countered, tilting her chin up to meet my eyes. She had to crane her neck.
"My study hours," I corrected. "Which are whenever I say they are."
"And if I refuse?" She crossed her arms. The silk pulled tight across her chest. I forced my eyes to stay on hers.
"Then we have a problem," I said softly. "And I fix problems."
"Is that a threat, Sterling?" She stepped closer, invading my space. Her bare toe brushed against my boot. "Because I don't respond well to threats. Ask my father."
"I'm not your father," I said. "I'm the man who decides if you stay in this house or if you sleep in the snow."
Her eyes flashed. Hurt? Fear? No, defiance. Pure, unadulterated defiance.
"I'd like to see you try to throw me out," she whispered.
I looked at the thermostat on her wall. I reached over her shoulder—she flinched, just slightly—and ripped the plastic cover off. I dialed the temperature down to sixty.
"Put some clothes on, Miss Vane," I said, my mouth inches from her ear. "You're not in LA anymore. You catch a cold, and I have to take care of you. And I don't do babysitting."
I pulled back. Her face was flushed, her lips parted. She looked stunned.
"And fix the lock on your bathroom door," I added, turning my back on her. "Because if you walk into my room looking like that again, I won't be as polite as I was today."
I walked back into the bathroom and slammed the door behind me.
I leaned against the sink, gripping the porcelain until my knuckles turned white. My heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I looked at myself in the mirror. My pupils were blown wide. There was a flush high on my cheekbones that had nothing to do with the heat.
Vane had sent me a brat to tame.
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling. Not from fear. From the urge to reach out and grab.
"Fuck," I breathed into the steam.
I was in so much trouble.