Her Pucking CEO (The Chester Street Billionaires #4)

Chapter 1

JADE

“Ten minutes, Parker. Not a single second longer.”

I tug at the knot of the blue Royals scarf around my son’s neck.

He’s already loosened it three times with an annoyed huff.

The vibration of ten thousand throats beneath us hums through the concrete floor, straight into my soles, knocking my own pulse out of sync.

Parker completely ignores my fussing. His entire focus is locked on the glittering arena below, where players in neon jerseys streak across the frozen surface like colored bullets.

“I’m eleven, Mom. I can find the concession stand without a GPS,” he mutters, stubborn.

That tiny twitch in the right corner of his mouth gives away his attempt to sound older, more composed. It’s a sharp flick of defiance that needles my chest every single time because it reminds me of the man I erased from my life over a decade ago.

“Just get going,” I answer, forcing my voice to soften. “Take your phone. Answer on the first ring, or I’m calling the National Guard.”

He flashes a wide grin, grabs his hoodie, and ducks through the heavy fire door into the neon-lit corridor. As the lock clicks shut, the roar fades into a stifling silence inside my press box, broken only by the distant, rhythmic scrape of blades on ice.

On the narrow counter, my notepad sits next to my laminated press pass.

Jade Sterling – Feature Journalist. Right now, the title feels like a cheap costume, a disguise for an assignment I never should’ve taken.

When Tom Collins slammed the dossier onto my desk last week, it felt like he’d tossed a grenade into my carefully balanced life.

“It’s a profile, Sterling, not an investigative execution,” my editor-in-chief had barked.

He leaned so close over my desk that the scent of stale coffee and stress sweat filled my lungs.

“Cayden Miller. The man who owns the Montreal Royals. He’s in New York to ink a deal that’ll flip the league upside down.

I want to know what makes him tick, and I need this story from you because you don’t cave the second his PR sharks show their teeth. ”

I said no. Three times. I made excuses—too much work, no interest in hockey, a fake flu.

But Collins isn’t a man who accepts a ‘no’ when he has a target in sight.

He’s an opportunist who smells weakness like a shark smells blood.

He knows my father’s nursing home costs just went up.

He knows that as a single mom, I can’t survive two months without a paycheck.

“Either you deliver this piece, or we need to talk about your future at the Chronicle, Jade. There are plenty of hungry grads who’d sell their own grandmother for this story.”

That’s why I’m sitting in this New York arena for a Montreal Royals away game, feeling my stomach tighten with every passing second. My thumb hovers indecisively over Parker’s name in my contacts.

Suddenly, chaos erupts on the ice below. A bone-crushing check slams two players against the boards, and the entire crowd surges to their feet in a collective roar of fury and excitement.

Eight minutes have passed without a word from Parker.

A suffocating feeling spreads through my chest like thick syrup, driving me out into the sterile corridor.

The glare of the LED lights stings my eyes instantly.

I rush toward the food court, shoving past men in tailored suits and women in heavy cashmere coats.

My calls for my son start to carry the frantic edge of rising panic.

The snack stand is swamped by a dense crowd, but my son isn't in line. Amidst the sea of jerseys, loud laughter, and the smell of rancid fryer grease, there’s no sign of an eleven-year-old boy in a blue Royals scarf.

My heart races. I dial his number, but it goes straight to voicemail. I curse, low and sharp.

I quicken my pace, ignoring the questioning looks from security, my eyes searching the crowd for the one familiar face that is the center of my universe.

My path ends abruptly at the barrier to the exclusive Diamond Club—the gated area for owners and investors where an unaccompanied kid has absolutely no business being.

A broad-shouldered security guard blocks my way, looming like an immovable wall of black fabric.

“Hold on, Miss. Credentialed guests only.”

“My son,” I gasp. I’m not a professional journalist anymore. I’m just a mother about to lose her mind. “He must have wandered in there. He’s eleven. Please.”

“Private event, Ma’am.”

“Just let me look!”

He ignores my plea, heavy hand dropping onto my shoulder as I try to push past. Right then, the heavy double doors swing open. A waiter slips out, letting out a burst of muffled laughter, the fine clink of crystal, and the low hum of men’s voices—the kind of men who expect to be heard.

My eyes find Parker. He’s standing in the middle of the luxury lounge, staring at the massive screens, but my gaze snagging instantly on the tall figure beside him.

Cayden Miller has his back to me. He’s wearing a navy suit that fits so damn well it’s almost an insult. He’s taller than I remember. Broader in the shoulders. He leans casually against the window, a glass of water in his hand, completely unfazed by the dozens of suits vying for his attention.

As he talks to Parker, he leans down slightly, his posture easy, almost conspiratorial.

“Parker!” I scream.

Cayden turns slowly. The years have stripped away the boyish softness of his features, leaving behind razor-sharp angles and a hard resolve.

His eyes—that inscrutable, deep blue—hit me like a physical blow.

The air in my lungs evaporates. He doesn't flinch or startle; he just watches me with an authoritative calm that wraps around him like invisible armor.

He gives the security guy a nod, and I stumble through the doors.

“Does this young strategist belong to you?” he asks. That voice—deep, vibrating—is the same one I’ve heard in my nightmares for eleven years.

My knees feel like jelly as I close the distance, grabbing Parker’s shoulders and pulling him protectively against my hip. A fine tremor takes over my body, and I fight to hide it, avoiding Cayden’s searching stare.

“I’m sorry,” I managed to squeeze out, looking anywhere but at him. “He got lost. We’re leaving.”

“He wasn't lost,” Cayden says quietly, making no move to let us go. He looks at Parker, then his gaze drifts back to me. “He wanted to know why the Royals are running a 1-3-1 defense. He’s persistent. I like that.”

Parker beams. “This is the owner, Mom! He said I was right about the gap in the power play! The Royals just tied it up while we were talking!”

“Let’s go, Parker,” I say, my voice nearly breaking.

Then I dare to look up. Cayden is watching me more closely now. A shadow of confusion flickers across his brow. He squints just a fraction, like he’s trying to pull a blurry image into focus. I don’t know if he recognizes me—but he feels it. The static in the air that doesn’t belong there.

“Jade?” he asks. It’s not a polite greeting. It’s the question of a hunter picking up a familiar scent.

“Hello, Cayden,” I reply. “I’m here for an interview. From the Chronicle.”

His gaze turns cold instantly. The human curiosity vanishes behind the billionaire’s mask.

“You’re a journalist?” he asks curtly. He checks his watch—a heavy piece of platinum gleaming on his wrist. “You’re early. Our appointment isn't until tomorrow morning.”

“I just wanted to… capture the atmosphere,” I stammer.

He takes a step closer, and I instinctively back away.

At that moment, the stadium outside erupts. The horn blares. The crowd goes wild. Parker jumps into the air, fists pumping.

“GOAL!” he yells. “The Royals! Three to two! At the buzzer!”

Cayden pauses. He looks at the monitors on the wall, then back to Parker.

“You’d better finish capturing the atmosphere from your seats,” he says. A thin, almost mocking smile touches his lips. “And be on time tomorrow. I hate it when people waste my time.”

He turns away before I can even breathe an answer.

I grab Parker and pull him toward the exit, through the doors and back into the noisy corridor, away from the man who sees me as just another reporter he can control.

Only when we’re outside the arena, the freezing New York air hitting my lungs, do I start to breathe again.

“Mom?” Parker asks softly as we wait for a taxi. “Why are you so pale? That guy was actually nice.”

I look down at my son—at those eyes, which are the exact mirror of the eyes that just stared me down in the VIP lounge—and a wave of nausea hits me.

Tomorrow, I’ll be sitting across from Cayden Miller. I’ll have to ask him questions. But only one thing matters: he can’t start asking me questions. Because I know once he starts digging, he won't stop until everything is uncovered.

Including the fact that the boy he just explained the power play to is his own son.