Daisy
The arena vibrates with a palpable energy.
Skates carve deep grooves into the ice as bodies collide along the boards, the crack of shoulder pads and the boom of the crowd syncing into primal territory.
The Nashville Badgers are exactly what everyone said they’d be—big and bruising…
and annoyingly proud of it. The game’s only twelve minutes old and already it’s a dog fight.
I watch Grizz absorb a heavy hit—his body slamming into the glass hard enough to make the entire lower bowl wince—but he barely blinks.
Then, with this impossible mixture of power and finesse, he makes a pass through two Badgers’ defenders straight onto Coen Highsmith’s tape.
Coen flies down the wing, fakes a shot that makes the Nashville defenseman bite so hard he nearly trips over his own skates. Then, without even looking, Coen dishes the puck across the slot.
Deacon barrels in, a human missile, stick coiled for a one-timer, timing perfect.
Crack.
The puck fires into the back of the net.
The arena erupts into a deafening roar.
“YES!” Elias shouts beside me, raising his arms skyward like he’s single-handedly responsible for the goal. “That’s how you convert a power play!”
I laugh, adrenaline buzzing, heart still somewhere on the ice. “I don’t even know what that means, but I know it’s good.”
“It’s very good,” he confirms, beaming.
Below us, players swarm Deacon, the horn blaring, lights flashing. Grizz skates by Coen and taps his helmet—a small gesture, but it feels intimate. A flash of connection. Trust. Brotherhood.
God, he looks good out there. I mean… I always thought he was gorgeous and magnetic, but now that we have carnal knowledge of each other, he looks good in a different way. I appreciate the total package because now I’ve been allowed on the inside.
The final seconds of the period tick down. Another scrum forms near the Vipers net, more shoving, more chirping, but no whistles. When the buzzer finally sounds, the Zamboni doors swing open, and the ice crew floods the rink.
The noise drops into an anticipatory hum. Phones come out. Fans stretch and stand and rush for concessions.
Inside Julian Langley’s suite, everything feels a little insulated, like we’re floating above it all, watching from a world in rarefied air. I’m still not used to being here.
Elias swipes a handful of chocolate-dipped pretzels from a tray and offers me one. “Best first period I’ve seen out of them in a while,” he declares, mouth half-full.
I grin, accepting one. “Honestly? That was the most exciting twenty minutes of sports I’ve ever seen.”
He leans against a leather couch in the suite, watching Grizz glide off the ice. “Your boy’s on fire tonight.”
I elbow him, quickly glancing to my left and right to ensure no one is within earshot. “For the ten-thousandth time, he’s not—”
“Relax,” he drawls. “I meant professionally. Mostly.”
I roll my eyes, but my cheeks warm anyway.
He points his pretzel at me. “And speaking of unexpectedly excellent things… explain to me again how you ended up in this suite?”
I let my gaze sweep the space—gold accents, a fully stocked bar, velvet seating, impeccably dressed staff floating about.
“I’m still trying to figure that out,” I admit.
“Julian emailed me this morning, totally out of the blue. ‘Join me in the suite tonight.’” I mimic his clipped, perfectly controlled tone.
Elias snorts. “Classic Julian. Wants to sound casual but comes off the complete opposite.”
“I was surprised,” I say honestly.
“Julian doesn’t waste invitations. If he wants you here, there’s a reason,” says Elias.
I try to shrug it off. “Maybe he just wants my PR eyes on the atmosphere.”
“Anyway,” Elias says, brushing crumbs from his shirt, “Julian didn’t even invite me tonight. I’m just lucky enough to be your plus one. Honestly, I’ve only been up here once, and I’m his nephew. Meanwhile”—he gestures to me—“you’re the VIP.”
“I’m definitely not the VIP,” I say.
“Really? Then why does he keep looking at you?”
I whirl so fast I nearly spill my drink. Julian Langley stands near the suite entrance speaking to two executives, but as if called by Elias’s commentary, his eyes dart cleanly, unmistakably toward me.
The look lasts less than a second, but it lands.
Elias whistles under his breath. “Oh boy.”
And just like that, I realize, Whatever tonight is? It isn’t just watching the game.
Elias and I drift toward the buffet as the rink settles into its Zamboni lull, and stepping into the serving area feels like wandering into the culinary wing of a palace.
The spread is almost indecent in its abundance.
A chef in a white coat and hat is torching salmon belly at the sushi station, the flame creating this fleeting golden halo around each piece before he places it on a slab of black slate.
An attendant behind the carving station slices prime filet mignon to order, the meat giving way.
Lamb chops glisten under soft lights, brushed with mint and pistachio, arranged with the kind of symmetry that suggests a food stylist was involved.
Even the truffled mac and cheese comes portioned in miniature copper pots.
“God bless generational wealth,” Elias murmurs reverently.
I try not to stare at everything like a tourist, but it’s difficult.
Half of this looks like it belongs at a gala, not in a hockey arena suite.
I select a little of everything, building a plate that’s half experimentation, half indulgence, and just as I turn to rejoin Elias, the universe picks that moment to play a cruel joke.
I collide with a body. My plate tips and a piece of Wagyu slides. The lamb chop makes a break for freedom and time slows just enough for me to recognize the face of the man I may have just fed by accident.
Julian Langley.
“Oh God—sir, I—” Half the apologies I want to string together crash into each other on their way out. “I am so sorry.”
He takes a small step back, brushing off a faint smear from his arm—nothing catastrophic, thankfully, though the lamb chop on the floor isn’t a great look.
Elias inhales sharply, the sound of someone witnessing a crime in progress.
Luckily, a waiter is there, efficiently cleaning up the mess and disappearing in two breaths.
I set the plate down on the marble counter a little harder than intended and straighten, willing my pulse to calm, willing my dignity to reconstitute itself out of thin air. Julian looks at me with that quiet, inscrutable composure I’m beginning to learn is his default setting.
“Are you enjoying the game, Daisy?” he asks.
“Very much,” I say, trying to match his tone while ignoring the heat crawling up the back of my neck. “It’s actually grown on me a surprising amount these last few weeks.”
His brows lift slightly. “Has it?”
“It has. The speed, the intensity… the way the whole thing can pivot in a heartbeat. There’s a lot happening that I didn’t appreciate before.”
He studies me with a level of scrutiny that makes me aware of every breath I take. “And how are things with Grizz?”
I knew the question was coming the second he appeared behind me, but still, it catches me off guard. Elias edges half a step away—not abandoning me, just giving me space, but the gesture feels like a little flag planted in the ground… You’re on your own with this one.
I draw a slow breath. “We’re making progress,” I say carefully. “There’s still work to be done, of course, but I’m hopeful.”
Julian holds my gaze for a half-second, long enough that I can feel the question beneath the question, the suspicion or curiosity or calculation I can’t decipher.
And then, just when my nerves start to thrum in my fingertips, he nods once.
“Well,” he says, “from where I’m standing, you’ve done the impossible. ”
The words are so unexpected I almost convince myself I misheard.
But he continues. “It’s as if Grizz has adopted an entirely new approach.
No unnecessary outbursts that put us in shorthanded situations.
Gone are the retaliatory penalties that cost us momentum.
He’s controlled and focused, and outside the rink…
” He tilts his head slightly. “I’ve heard nothing but positive feedback from the press.
No incidents or unnecessary drama, and we haven’t seen any firestorms since you arrived. ”
I’m not sure what to say to that because I’m not sure how much of this I can claim, so I hold my tongue.
“He’s a different player these last few weeks,” Julian finishes, his tone still even but unmistakably satisfied. “You should be pleased with the work you’ve done.”
I open my mouth, then close it again, because the truth—that none of this was part of a professional strategy, that everything changed when we let our primal instincts take over—is the one thing I can’t say out loud.
So I smile and dip my head, accepting the praise like it belongs to me. Even though my stomach twists with the knowledge that if Julian ever learned why I suspect Grizz is different… all of this could combust.
All I can do is keep my expression composed, my breath at a normal cadence, and hope he can’t feel the fault line running beneath my feet.
I’m still trying to steady my breathing—still trying to process what it means for Julian Langley to say I’ve done the impossible—when a ripple of movement at his side draws my attention.
Two women step into the circle of light beside him, materializing as if summoned. They’re both beautiful, but not in the glossy, ornamental way I’m used to seeing clinging to wealthy men at events like this. Their elegance is more refined, almost with a self-made vibe.
And then I realize why… I know one of them.
Tall. Striking. Hair in a sleek knot. A black silk jumpsuit that somehow outshines half the outfits in the room.
That’s Alessia Renard. The Alessia Renard.
The fashion designer whose dresses I’ve worshipped since journalism school.
The woman whose runway shows made me scribble frantically in my notebook, trying to figure out how to put the vision into words.
She greets Julian with a touch to his arm.
The second woman is just as striking, though I don’t recognize her. Dark hair in soft waves, emerald earrings brushing her jaw, carrying herself with the ease of someone accustomed to this level of exclusivity.
Julian turns to me, offering a polite, final nod. “Excuse me, Daisy. I have to tend to other matters. Enjoy the rest of the game.”
He steps away, effortlessly folding himself into the orbit of the two women—one on either side, both leaning in slightly as he speaks.
I stand there for a second, trying not to look like someone who just dropped lamb chops at this man’s feet and then received the best performance review of her life.
Elias appears at my elbow, holding a fresh drink he absolutely did not get for me but hands over anyway. “Well,” he says lightly, “that went well.”
I blink at him. “You heard everything, didn’t you?”
He tilts his head in an It’s me you’re speaking to manner. “Obviously. I’m not deaf. And your expression was screaming at me from across the suite.”
“He said I’ve done the impossible.”
“Well, you have tamed the beast,” Elias says. “At least temporarily.”
I swat his arm and grin.
Then his eyes move toward the trio across the room—Julian with Alessia Renard on one side and the other stunning mystery woman on the other. Julian makes them both laugh. His posture is relaxed, a man entirely in his element.
Elias whistles softly. “Look at that. The man never disappoints.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“My uncle,” Elias says, easing closer so he doesn’t have to project over the hum of the suite, “always has women with him. But not… you know.” He wiggles his hand in the universal sign for bimbo with big tits.
“That’s not his style. He likes the impressive ones.
The intimidating ones. The ones with pedigrees or empires of their own. ”
I glance again at Alessia, her laughter soft but unmistakably refined. Julian bends slightly to speak into her ear. The image is striking—cinematic.
“So what,” I murmur. “They’re dates?”
“Dates. Companions. Guests. Whatever label you want.” Elias shrugs. “Point is, if they’re in that suite with him tonight, they’re part of his… rotation.”
“Rotation,” I echo.
“Don’t look horrified,” he says, grinning. “He’s discreet. And generous. And they know exactly what they’re signing up for.”
I raise a brow. “Which is?”
“Oh, you know…,” Elias says casually, “a weekend trip to his place in Paris. He takes them on his Gulfstream and leaves either Friday night or Saturday morning depending on his mood.”
I stare at him. “His home in Paris?”
“I mean… if it’s just a weekend trip. If he has longer, he’ll fly them to his place in the Maldives. He’s quick to travel when he needs a little escape from the grind of running this whole shebang.”
“And they just… go with him?”
“If he invites them.” Elias smiles over the rim of his glass. “And believe me, he invited both of those women the second they walked in the door tonight. If he didn’t already ask them earlier.”
My eyes drift back to Julian and the two exquisite women at his side. Clarity strikes me—there are levels to this universe I haven’t even begun to understand. I’m playing a role in an environment far more complex—and far more delicate—than anything I’ve written about or navigated before.
Elias taps my arm gently, drawing me back. “Welcome,” he says with a half smile, “to the real inner circle.”
And with that, the period horn blares below us, echoing up to the suite.