Another Chance (Wildcatters Hockey #7)

Chapter 1

Zaila

Houston’s Wildcatters Arena on a game night brimmed with excitement—even for a charity game.

This evening, hockey teams made up of celebrities would be vying for a large donation their preferred nonprofit.

Throbbing bass from the pre-game playlist, stomping feet, and the scents of popcorn, cold beer, and melted cheese enveloped me in that unique hockey experience as I stopped at the top of the stairs to assess the Wildcatters’ home ice.

Lights flashed from the Jumbotron, bathing the crowd in blues and golds as people searched for their seats.

I loved every second of the chaos as I navigated down the concrete steps, my plastic cup of soda sweating against my palm as the ice sloshed inside.

Twenty-plus years of dreaming from my daddy’s knee, and I was finally here—but not as a fan in those nosebleed seats where we used to sit. Nope. As a Wildcatters employee.

My chest ached with a weird combination of excitement, pleasure, and grief that I hadn’t yet gotten used to.

I wanted to tell my daddy in person. I wanted him standing next to me.

But that would never happen again. At twenty-five, I understood grief and loss all too well; I longed for one more big bear hug from the best man to ever grace my life.

The row numbers blurred past me…26…25…24…as I juggled my phone in my other hand. Seat 14B was just a few more steps down. My thumb hovered over Dad’s old number, and I typed quickly before I could talk myself out of it. Mom hadn’t gotten around to canceling it, though she’d put the phone away.

“One day,” she’d said. But one day hadn’t come yet, and I still sent him little updates, as if he was just out of town.

Zaila: I did it, Daddy! I got our dream job! I’m here, ready for the first of what I hope are many games.

I hit send and tucked my phone in my pocket as I trotted down the steps, a rolling tide overtaking the crowd. The whispers turned to cheers mixed with jeers, camera flashes strobing like a storm. I glanced up in time to see him.

Gunnar Evaldson, the Wildcatters’ owner and former junior hockey phenom in his own right, continued to be a man everyone talked and wrote about in the industry. He was an enigma billionaire who’d built a franchise in less than ten years that most other organizations only dreamed of becoming.

His jaw was a hard line, his mouth unsmiling, and his pale blue eyes scanned the crowd more quickly and efficiently than a goalie reading a breakaway. Gunnar had played goalie in these charity games before, but regardless of the endeavor, the man was versatile, athletic, intelligent, and ruthless.

He was also taller in person, with broad shoulders and thick arms visible even under the team-issued sweater.

His walk—even in skates—was all contained power as he marched down my aisle, where I still stood, gawking.

He should’ve been on the ice, not up in the stands.

I guessed as the team owner, he had more leeway, especially when one of the people he’d been talking to was the state’s senator.

“That’s the Wildcatters owner,” someone in the stands said. “The commissioner guy called him up here, Stef.”

Ah. That explained why he was in the stands.

“Yeah... I’ve never seen someone in skates come into the stands,” Stef replied. “Oh my gosh! I didn’t think I’d get a picture with so many famous people together. Ooh, there are some of the Wildcatter players. Man, this place is lit!”

Behind him, a cluster of fans surged forward, phones out, calling his name. One of them shouted something about “last year’s record” that sounded less than complimentary. Another man reached for his arm, but Gunnar didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow his pace.

I tried to enter the row of chairs behind me, but the guy in the aisle seat stood up to high-five his buddy, blocking my escape.

I sidestepped straight into the path of a teenage boy in a Cormac Bouchard jersey.

He barreled into me, laughing, his shoulder slamming mine hard enough to send my soda sloshing.

The lid popped off as I stumbled. “Oh—no—no—no—”

A firm hand caught my elbow before I could face plant into a cement step. My gaze snapped up and found those eyes.

Icy blue. The kind of eyes you fell into.

“Easy,” Gunnar said, steadying me. His voice was deep enough to cut through the roar of the crowd, and the timbre sent a shiver down my spine.

“Thank you,” I said, heaving a sigh. “Oof. That was scary.”

Another fan jostled past, shoving my arm. My soda lurched in a sticky arc…straight across Gunnar’s chest. It hit his sweater with a soft glug, darkening the Wildcatters logo.

“Oh my gosh! I am so sorry,” I squeaked, my face rivaling the Texas summer sun that still shone outside.

I scrubbed his shirt with my sleeve, a Wildcatters long-sleeve T-shirt my new boss had given me earlier today.

Though I tried not to notice the impressive pec underneath, I did, and I liked the suppleness of Gunnar’s physique.

Don’t notice anything about your boss’s boss’s boss, Zaila!

Gunnar glanced down at himself, then back at me. “No harm. I’m just a little wet. And sticky.”

Oh Lordy, did he have to say that? It’s getting hot in here…

“Again, I’m so sorry,” I stuttered. My mind seemed incapable of another thought as I fell further into his beautiful, frosty gaze.

His lips twitched like he was suppressing something…annoyance, amusement—Oh, God, maybe both. “You always greet people like this?” he asked.

“Only the famous ones,” I said before my brain could stop me. “Makes me memorable.” Then, because my brain was an asshole that wanted to embarrass me more, I added, “You’re Gunnar Evaldson.”

His eyes came back to mine, cool and assessing. “Last I checked.”

“My dad used to tell me what an incredible leader you are. He was a big fan.”

“Used to?”

“He passed away. Last year.” The grief welled up, choking me.

Something shifted in his face. He was still guarded, but the edges softened. “Sorry.”

“Thanks.” I rallied a smile. “Anyway, you’re kind of a big deal to me.”

That earned me a dry huff as his eyes softened further. “Because of your father. So, I’m basically vintage now.”

“Vintage is sexy,” I mumbled.

I almost missed the faintest of flickers in his eyes, like I’d surprised him.

“Gunnar!” a woman’s voice snapped from a few rows down.

I glanced past him to see a woman with sleek black hair overlaid with a headset, glaring like she could cut steel with her eyes.

That woman, Lydia Breitbart, was my actual boss.

I’d met her earlier today when she’d given me the tour of the floor, my official Wildcatters badge, and the T-shirt I now wore.

Instead of the friendly smile she’d offered earlier, Lydia glared at me from under lowered, pinched brows.

I was so, so screwed, and I would not enjoy whatever she said next.

As I contemplated disappearing into the concrete floor, two women slid through the crowd and appeared at Gunnar’s shoulder.

One exuded Texas charm, and the other oozed chic.

They blocked Lydia’s evil eye, but I was sure she was still planning my painful demise.

“Well, what happened here?” the Texan asked, her big blue eyes darting between me and Gunnar.

“Oh, nothing much, Ida Jane. Just making friends the old-fashioned way.” Gunnar gestured to his damp jersey.

I bit back a groan at the growing audience for my humiliation.

“Gunnar,” Chic drawled, “There’s no need for dramatic pre-game rituals, especially not with the league commissioner. Now get going. I want to see you score goals like you rack up dollars.” She waved him off, though Gunnar gave me a last, lingering look before he clomped down the steps to the ice.

The elegant beauty turned to me. “I’m Naomi, and that bubbly bit of perky is Ida Jane.”

“Nice to meet you.” Ida Jane grinned. “Don’t worry about Gunnar.

He’s survived worse in the boardroom. Probably will tonight as well, seeing as my husband and the rest of the team have been ribbing him about his…

er, performance.” Her eyes went wide and her cheeks pinked, as she realized what she’d said.

Naomi threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, that was too good.”

“I’m Zaila,” I mumbled, mostly to be polite, and to stop any more innuendos. My body couldn’t take additional embarrassment, even second-hand. “And I’m supposed to start as the team’s social media intern tomorrow, but my boss is staring at me like she wants to skin me alive.”

“Oh, honey,” Naomi purred, “what an entrance. Planning on dousing all your superiors?” She offered a warm smile to ease the sting. “Some could use the wake-up call, including Lydia, the witch. Though, good for you—going straight to the top.”

I shuffled my feet, desperate to get away and sink into my seat. Maybe I should go home.

“Oh, she is glaring.” Naomi’s lip curled as she looked toward Lydia for a moment. “If you want me to finish your soda in her lap, I’m game.”

Ida Jane linked arms with me. “Stop, Naomi. Lydia’s…something else, bless her heart, but she doesn’t deserve a lap full of Coke.”

“You sure?” Naomi asked with a toss of her head.

“Nope,” Ida Jane said. “But tonight won’t be when we find out, because then we’d lose Zaila, and I have a strong suspicion our new social media hire is going to shake things up in the best possible way.

” Ida Jane turned her soft blue eyes toward me, her smile ratcheting into Cheshire-grin territory.

“Let’s find your seat, Zaila, and make plans for a lunch sometime soon. ”

As we walked, the women’s curiosity was palpable. I didn’t understand why they were being so kind to me.

Naomi cracked first. “So, darling, spill the tea...or cola, rather.”

I gulped. “I got bumped. A fan hit my elbow and blam! Soda everywhere.”

Ida Jane clucked. “That’s not even your fault. Though it certainly made an impression.”

“Indeed.” Naomi’s eyebrow rose and fell like a gymnast. “And Gunnar’s reaction? He’s usually...wintry.”

“He was nice,” I admitted. “Like, really nice.”

“We noticed,” Ida Jane said.

“That’s why we came over,” Naomi added. “Gunnar finding a woman intriguing is…well, intriguing.”

We reached my seat, and I collapsed into the cushioned comfort with a grateful sigh.

Ida Jane patted my shoulder. “We’ve all had our moments.

I once called a ref something unmentionable into a hot mic.

” She shrugged, her eyes narrowing. “He deserved it, but I didn’t like the way my behavior reflected on Maxim.

That’s my husband.” She pointed toward the big Wildcatters D-man, who sat two rows in front of my seat, along with the rest of the team and their partners.

I glanced at Lydia, but she was engrossed in a conversation with a celebrity player at the rink level. I sighed in relief.

“Enjoy the show—just don’t be the show,” Naomi said with a little finger wave.

I nodded. That woman’s confidence was something to aspire to.

“We’ll stop by this week. Break you out of the work prison,” she added. “Don’t worry, we have enough clout to make your jailer set you free for an afternoon.”

I couldn’t help laughing. Maybe my faux pas wouldn’t be a total disaster. It might not even destroy my evening—or my job.