10. Landon
CHAPTER TEN
Landon
The gym is empty when I leave. Just a slow beep from the elliptical shutting down behind me and the slight ache in my quads reminding me that forty-five minutes of HIIT was probably a mistake after a four-hour night.
I swipe a towel across the back of my neck and step into the elevator, jaw tight, sweat cooling under my collar.
By the time I reach my penthouse, the sky is shifting—early morning light bleeding pale and gold across the South Beach skyline. I take a long shower, then change into clean slacks and a short-sleeved polo, rolling my shoulders as I finish buttoning the top.
A full schedule waits, but I can’t bring myself to dive in just yet. Instead, I grab my coffee and step out onto the balcony.
The breeze is cool. Palms sway below. A cruise ship inches toward the horizon, and seagulls slice across the dawn like paper cutouts.
I sip slowly, mentally cataloguing the day.
First, I have two contract reviews to finalize—one for the franchise’s local sponsorship deal, another involving an IP clause from the Icemen’s old marketing agreement. After that, a call with the league’s compliance office.
Then the one-on-one with Cam, the team analyst, which I’m not exactly looking forward to. The firm’s brief said he could be a wildcard.
Welcome to hockey law.
I scrub a hand through my hair and glance back at my phone. Twenty-eight unread emails. I can triage in the car.
I grab my keys and head downstairs.
The parking garage is quiet, all gray concrete and polished silence—until I turn the corner and see it.
A black Range Rover.
Parked crookedly. Too close.
Too damn close.
My Audi’s side panel bears a long, fresh scratch.
I stop in my tracks. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I crouch next to the rear wheel, running two fingers over the scrape. It’s not deep enough to be structural, but it’s definitely through the paint.
And fresh. I was down here yesterday. This wasn’t here then.
I take a breath and straighten up, jaw grinding.
I head to the front desk immediately. Security confirms the obvious—it’s a resident’s car. They’ll check the camera feeds and call the owner down.
The concierge tells me I can wait in the garage or upstairs, but I stay. I need to see who did it. And make sure I get their insurance details.
Three minutes pass. Then five.
Then I hear the elevator doors open behind me.
I turn around, ready with a firm, measured tone and possibly an insurance claim form.
And freeze.
She’s… not what I expected.
A woman steps out in a loose jersey—navy and white with the Miami Icemen logo across the front, falling mid-thigh like it’s been borrowed from someone else. Her hair’s pulled into a high ponytail. Bare legs. Slides on her feet.
There’s a leash in her hand, tugged by a Doberman puppy who sniffs the floor and promptly pees next to the wall.
Following behind her is a man I recognize immediately. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Black tee. Athletic joggers.
Rhett Collins.
One of the team’s defensemen. I studied every profile in the team brief. The guy’s a beast on the ice. Quiet off it. Skilled, sharp.
Not one of the ones flagged for discipline issues, but not a media darling either. The file said he kept a low profile.
The woman sees the scratch. Then me.
“Oh no,” she breathes, stepping closer. “Did I…?”
“You did,” I reply, glancing toward the Range Rover.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t even realize. Storm leaped on me when I was parking and…” She trails off, looking up at me with wide eyes. “I’m really sorry.”
The dog barks once like he agrees.
“I’ll need your information,” I say, pulling my phone from my pocket. “To file a report with the building and send to insurance.”
“Of course.” She tucks the leash into Rhett’s hand and steps closer, reaching into the oversized pocket of her jersey for her phone.
“I’m Ivy, by the way,” she says, her voice softer now. “I’m really sorry again.”
I glance at her, and for a moment I’m not thinking about the scratch or the car or my inbox. I’m noticing how her jersey slides off one shoulder. How there’s something warm in her face even though this is technically a confrontation.
“I’m Landon Shaw,” I reply. “New legal counsel for the Icemen.”
Both their faces shift.
Rhett’s brows lift. “I didn’t know we’d hired someone already.”
“Contract was signed two days ago. I’m here for the summer.”
“Well.” Rhett shifts his weight. “Welcome to the circus.”
I nod once. “Thanks. And again, I’ll just need the details so I can pass them along. The scratch isn’t terrible, but it’ll need repainting.”
“Totally understandable,” Ivy says, typing into her phone. “Let me know if you want us to cover it out of pocket instead. Whatever’s easier.”
Rhett watches me steadily. He’s unreadable. Protective, maybe. Or just sizing me up.
I glance between them and try not to make assumptions. They seem close.
More than close, judging by the familiarity. The borrowed jersey. The shared dog.
When Rhett finishes sharing his information, I thank him and nod again, trying to keep it strictly professional.
“I am really sorry,” she tells her boyfriend .
“It’s okay, babe,” he tells her.
I watch their easy interaction. Lucky guy. The woman is absolutely gorgeous, and she keeps looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon.
Rhett offers a quiet, “We’ll make it right,” before turning back toward the elevator.
She hesitates. “Sorry again. I’ll be more careful.”
I give her a quick nod. “Appreciate it.”
And then they’re gone.
The door closes behind them, and I’m left in the garage staring at the scratch on my Audi—and wondering why the hell the sight of Ivy in a hockey jersey suddenly feels like the most unsettling part of my day.
It’s not just the car.
It’s how quick that moment felt. Like I just walked into a movie scene halfway through, the plot already tangled.
I open my car door and slide inside, the echo of her apology still in my ears.
This city was supposed to be a break from my personal disasters.
Now it’s 6:45 a.m., and I’ve already got a damaged car, a mystery woman in the team’s clothes, and a meeting with the team analyst.
Welcome to Miami.
Let’s see how long I last.