Chapter 20
MILA
But the Whalers rally.
Carter scores a greasy rebound goal that makes the crowd lose its mind. Jesse nearly throws himself over the boards in celebration. Then, in the final three minutes, the Storm tie it again with a shot so fast even Tall couldn't catch it.
Overtime.
The lights dim briefly. The crowd leans in.
In the suite, the kids are vibrating—actually vibrating—chanting, “Whalers! Whalers!” while bouncing on the seats like caffeinated kangaroos. One of the nurses encourages them to use their inside voices, failing completely.
Three-on-three overtime.
Mila spots Theo hopping the boards, stops breathing.
The Storm barrel in with speed, hungry for the puck. One risky pass arcs across the ice, and Theo snatches it out of the air as if he’s been waiting his whole life for that exact mistake.
He’s gone in an instant—long strides slicing up the middle, puck glued to his stick. The suite erupts, half cheers, half shrieks. Mila clutches the armrest because the children have started pogoing in unison.
Theo winds up—fakes the shot—the defenseman lunges, too eager. In one smooth flick, Theo switches to his backhand and slides the puck between the goalie’s pads.
The horn blasts. The arena detonates.
The kids lose their minds, jumping, cheering, screaming his name. She spots Richard in the corner, looking like he’s swallowed glass.
Naomi grabs her wrist, eyes shining. “Your man just won the game and didn’t even smile.”
Mila stares down at the ice as Theo skates calmly toward his rapturous teammates, face unreadable, helmet still on. But when he glances up—just briefly—his gaze finds the box.
And lingers.
Heat flashes across her skin.
Because in an arena full of screams and noise and joy, he still sees her.
By the time they return to the hotel, Mila’s feet hurt, her cheeks ache from too much smiling, and she’s dangerously close to needing a second glass of wine just to survive one more word from Richard.
Naomi steps into the lobby beside her, wincing as she adjusts her heels.
“You crushed that event,” she says, straightening then linking her arm with Mila’s for support.
“Those adorable kids, the smiles on their faces, and then that win.” She winks. “You’re going to be the lead story on the news. Jim Pearce will be thrilled.”
Behind them, Richard clears his throat in that passive-aggressive way that means he’s about to say something no one wants to hear.
“You could’ve done without the confetti cannons at the end,” he says, like a man who’s never felt joy. “It felt juvenile.”
“They were paper snowflakes,” Naomi says, not even looking at him. “And the kids loved them.”
Richard ignores her. “And the noise level in the suite—do you really think children yelling over the reporter is going to look good on the footage?”
“It looked like happiness,” Mila replies, her smile sharp and not at all sweet. “But I understand if that’s hard for you to recognize.”
Richard opens his mouth, but before he can lob another condescending gem, a front desk attendant steps out from behind the counter, clutching a small box in his hands.
“Miss Anderson?” he asks, eyes flicking between Mila and Naomi.
Mila pauses. “Yes?”
He walks over, holding out a sleek, black gift box wrapped in matte ribbon. No tag. No sender. Just her name on a sticker, printed in clean, simple font.
“This was left for you earlier,” he says with a polite smile.
Naomi perks up immediately. “Ooh. Secret admirer vibes. Tell me it’s lingerie. Or like...stupidly expensive jam from Meghan Markle.”
Richard steps forward, jaw set. “That’s inappropriate.”
Mila lifts a brow. “The jam?”
He doesn’t blink. “A personal gift from someone associated with the team? That crosses a line, Mila.”
She slides the box under her arm calmly. “It doesn’t say it’s from the team. It could be from my friend, Natalie.”
Richard’s nostrils flare. “Doesn’t matter. Perception does. You’re consulting for them. You wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about how you got the contract.”
The implication lands like a slap. Mila's entire body goes taut, every muscle locking up as the words sink in.
“I beg your what?” Naomi cuts in. The front desk clerk, who'd been hovering nearby, retreats behind his little island of laminated brochures. He makes a show of shuffling papers, likely regretting ever approaching them.
Richard shifts, but he doesn’t backpedal. “I’m saying it’s not professional. It opens you up to questions.”
“Questions like whether or not a woman earned her place,” Naomi says, stepping closer. “You’re unbelievable.”
Mila doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t have to.
“I’m not sure if I like what you’re implying, Richard,” she says, her tone glacial. “Actually—scratch that. I am sure. And it’s disgusting.”
He crosses his arms. “It’s a risk.”
“No,” Mila snaps, her composure cracking just enough to let her fury show. “It’s none of your business. And if the only way you can justify your presence here is by policing mine, maybe you’re the one people should be asking questions about.”
Naomi whistles softly under her breath. “Get him.”
Richard opens his mouth, no doubt to mansplain, but Naomi cuts him off without even looking at him.
“It’s a box, Richard,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You gonna file an HR report? Write a stern memo? Try not to throw your back out from all that overreaching.”
Mila doesn’t wait for another word. She turns toward the elevators, box under her arm.
“Are you going to open it?” Naomi asks, practically bouncing on her heels as they enter the elevator together. “I can’t help but notice the packaging is black.”
Mila considers, then shakes her head. “No. Feels...private.”
As the doors slide closed, Mila turns to her friend. “Thanks for being here tonight. And for keeping me from throat-punching Richard.”
Naomi leans against the wall. “Anytime. And hey, if that box is from the masked man, or Theo, or whoever he is, I want details.”
Alone in her hotel room, Mila sets the box on her bed carefully, eyeing it like it might bite.
It’s heavier than she expected. Tied with a black ribbon, simple and elegant.
She tugs the bow loose and lifts the lid.
Her breath catches, and her heart starts to pound.
Nestled in a satin cushion is a sleek, jet-black vibrator.
It looks high-end, with a small, egg-shaped end paired with a slimmer, curved wand she assumes is for her clit.
Also in the box is a tiny remote that fits in her palm.
There’s a folded card beneath it, thick cardstock, her name written in neat handwriting.
For when you miss me.
Mila sits down slowly, heart hammering.
It’s not just the gift—it’s the nerve of it. The boldness. The way it walks the line between reckless and intimate.
And God help her...she’s here for it.
She swallows hard, her body already betraying her as heat rushes low in her belly.
She grabs her phone and types, biting her lip.
This is next-level depraved stalker behavior.
Guilty. But you’re into it.
I haven’t decided yet. Maybe I’m curious.
Say the word, Daisy, and I’ll satisfy your curiosity.
She exhales, throat tight, pulse racing.
This is reckless, she tells herself. Unprofessional.
Probably crossing every line she’s ever drawn for herself in permanent marker.
But her body doesn’t seem to care. Her skin prickles with heat at the thought of him—whoever he is—thinking about her in that way.
Planning this. Wanting her to open it, to use it, to think of him while she does.
A man who’s watching her, learning her, knowing what would fluster her.
She should send it back, she tells herself. She should say no. But her fingers are already brushing the edge of the sleek black toy, like they have other plans.
Making up her mind, she picks up her phone again.
You’re lucky I have terrible impulse control and a locked hotel room.
I’ve been thinking about you alone in that room all day. Don’t make me wait longer.