Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Noelle
I lose sight of Cal before I can say something stupid—like thank you.
Not that I owe him one. I’ve had harder cases than a rookie with a face made for brooding and the social grace of a brick.
But there’s something about the way he moved, the way he held himself like the whole night was a test he already knew he wouldn’t pass.
It tugs at me.
And I don’t like being tugged.
“Jules,” I say into my earpiece as I round the far end of the tree. “Update me.”
“DOT just issued an advisory,” she says. “Snowfall increasing. Black ice likely. Valet’s reporting some vehicles skidding.”
My heels stop clicking. “How bad?”
“They’re debating closing Viper Row. Full shut-down.”
I glance toward the tall windows lining the front of The Pit. What was festive flurries an hour ago now looks like the city’s being eaten by a snow beast.
Fat flakes swarm the streetlamps. The glass is fogged halfway up from the temperature drop. We never take it seriously down here—not until there’s twelve car pileups on I-75 and every loaf of bread in the metro area’s been looted from the shelves.
“I want valet to start moving cars to the east ramp,” I say. “Get rideshare routes flagged. Notify security we might push early exit.”
“Copy.”
I pivot to move, but a blur of motion near the coat check catches my eye.
It’s Cal.
He’s not posing anymore. He’s helping a donor into her fur-lined coat—someone’s grandmother, clearly, based on the way she pats his chest like it’s her job to check for body fat. He endures it with the kind of quiet grace that makes something behind my sternum shift sideways.
One of the volunteer staff approaches him with an armful of umbrellas, and he doesn’t hesitate—just takes half, nods toward the front, and disappears into the swirl of pre-exit chaos without waiting for instructions.
No one asked him to help.
And he didn’t do it for the cameras.
The thought lands deeper than it should.
I press two fingers to my temple. No time for distraction. The room is already thinning—guests gathering coats, snapping final selfies, chattering nervously about roads and weather apps.
A few of the board members are clustered near the doors, and I move to intercept before they can derail the exit plan.
“Everything’s under control,” I tell them, layering calm over my voice like lacquer. “We’ve activated the exit plan. Valet and rideshare zones are staged, and we’re coordinating with security now to expedite.”
They nod, satisfied with my answer—or too cold to argue.
I exhale through my nose and glance over the room one more time.
That’s when the lights flicker.
Just a flicker—barely a blink—but the crowd feels it. I feel it. Every body in the room stills like prey scenting the air.
Then the string lights above the bar go out.
“Generator status?” I whisper into the mic.
“Green light,” Jules says, voice tighter than before. “But we may have just hit a grid surge.”
Of course we did.
“Get the quartet off the floor,” I say. “Cue emergency candles and battery uplights at the coat check. Let’s glow them out if we can’t light the way.”
“On it.”
The room begins to buzz again—movement, coats, chatter. I keep my shoulders straight and my pace calm as I cross toward the front. The staff’s already mobilizing, just the way I taught them.
Everyone moves quickly and a little over an hour later, all the guests have been sent home. I’ve checked in with Sloane’s building staff about closing up The Pit, sent Jules and my team home, and I’m stepping out into the cold, snow-filled air.
Pulling my gloves on, I assess the situation from the entrance of the arena, and I don’t like what I see.
“Don’t.”
The voice comes low and right behind me. I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
I also don’t need my pulse skittering like it is at his low tone either.
“It’s cold; you shouldn’t have waited for me.”
“When I didn’t see you leave with the rest of your team, I wanted to make sure you weren’t alone.” He pauses, then steps beside me. “You shouldn’t drive in this.”
His presence is quiet, but solid. Like a wall that won’t move unless you ask nicely and, even then, only if he agrees.
“I grew up in Michigan. I got this,” I say, not looking at him.
“You’ve got heels.”
“I’ve got backup boots in the trunk.”
“The trunk you can’t get to because it’s buried under six inches of snow and a poorly parked Escalade.”
I finally turn to face him.
His expression doesn’t change. Just calm, steady logic. It shouldn’t feel like care. But it does.
In a way that makes my ribs feel too tight.
“You shouldn’t be alone out there,” he adds, and it’s so quiet, I almost miss the way his voice dips. Like he’s not just talking about road safety.
The air between us stretches—warm, tense, breath-visible.
I don’t have time for this. I don’t have room for this.
But when I look out into the parking lot, I know he’s right.
The snow’s coming down harder. The side roads are full of red taillights from where people are stuck in traffic that doesn’t have a prayer of moving.
I close my eyes for a second. Just long enough to admit it: I don’t want to be alone out there either.
When I open them, he’s still watching me.
Not like I’m fragile.
Not like I’m in charge.
Just…watching.
“I live two blocks from here,” he says. “You can wait it out at my place. Just until the roads clear.”
My brain fires off all the reasons I should say no.
My mouth doesn’t.
“Lead the way, Reid.”
Thick, wet flakes swirl sideways across the courtyard, soaking through the air, slicking the pavement, and numbing my bare skin in seconds.
The wind cuts hard enough to make my eyes water.
I tighten my coat and follow Cal without speaking, heels clicking for two steps before I give up and hiss, “Hold on.”
I duck behind a snow-dusted SUV, unzip my tote, and yank out my emergency flats—plain black, low to the ground, not remotely cute but blessedly practical.
When I straighten, Cal’s standing still, waiting.
“You pack backup shoes?” he asks, voice dry enough to qualify as satire.
“I plan events. And apparently weather crises.”
He lifts one brow. “Anything else in there? Flares? A thermal blanket?”
“Protein bar and pepper spray.”
His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Just enough to feel like warmth under all this cold.
We walk in silence for a few moments. He’s a solid presence beside me—tall, broad-shouldered, hands jammed in his coat pockets.
His strides are long, but he slows for me without making it obvious. Snow crunches underfoot. A light above us flickers, casting gold across his face for a second, then going dark again.
The storm muffles everything. No traffic. No voices. Just the sound of us moving through the middle of a city that feels abandoned.
“I thought rookies all lived in midtown,” I say finally, if only to cut the quiet.
“I wanted to be close to the arena. Quiet building. Good windows.”
“You care about windows?”
He shrugs. “Sunlight helps.”
It’s not what I expected. Not from a guy who showed up at a holiday gala like it was a court summons and looked at the Christmas tree like it had personally wronged him.
“You really don’t like the holidays, huh?”
He’s quiet for a beat.
“I don’t do them,” he says finally. “Never really did.”
I want to ask why. But I don’t.
Because his voice dips on the word never, and there’s something too raw there to press into without warning.
I glance at him again—hair damp from snow, jaw tight, eyes forward. He’s a quiet one. A still water kind of guy.
But there’s something underneath. Something heavy.
“You don’t have to fake it for me,” I say softly.
He looks over, eyes catching mine in the dark.
“I wasn’t.”
My breath hitches.
I look away first as the Venom Lofts come into view.
They’re just off Viper Row—sleek glass, high-security, designed for players who want privacy and proximity without a media circus.
He leads me through the front entrance, and the air is so warm, I sigh in relief, still shivering. “Oh, thank God. I’m freezing.”
“Elevators are over here. Evening, Burt.” He waves to the concierge.
We don’t speak as the lights hum overhead, and we both drip melting snow onto the floor.
I can feel the tension in the air shift—tighten, stretch, breathe.
He glances down at my hand, where I’m gripping my tote strap like a lifeline.
“I’m on the fourth floor,” he says.
“Do you always bring stranded women back to your place?”
“Only the ones who threaten to drive in ice storms.”
The corner of my mouth lifts. I hate that he’s funny. That he’s warm beneath the quiet. That I can feel something in me loosening, and I don’t know how to stop it.
The elevator dings.
We step into a hallway lined with soft lighting and polished concrete floors. His apartment is halfway down. He unlocks it without hesitation and pushes the door open.
It’s clean. Modern. Minimalist with soft edges. Big windows, just like he said.
Thankfully, his power is still on, keeping the air warm.
Setting his keys down on a side table, he says, “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right back.”
I nod, stepping out of my flats then wipe melted snow off my dress.
Walking further into his place, I glance around. Kitchen. Sofa. Books. A throw blanket that looks like it was actually used.
It’s…nice. Not quite lived-in with some boxes stacked against the wall. But not messy. Like him.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” he says. “Towels are clean. I’ve got sweatpants and t-shirts or a flannel if you want to change.”
I nod once, peeling off my coat, before heading down the hall to the bathroom. “Thank you.”
When I get in there, I’m surprised to see it’s as spotless as the rest of the place. No toothpaste in the sink. No chaos. Just quiet.
I quickly change into the T-shirt, covering it with a flannel pajama top, and oversized sweats I have to roll up several times just to see my feet.
And I can’t help myself. I bury my nose into the neck of the softest T-shirt I’ve ever worn and inhale. It smells like laundry and man.
Cal to be exact.
My cheeks are flushed in the mirror as I pull my damp curls into a bun on my head. “What is wrong with you? You’re a grown ass woman, not some young girl who’s never been in a man’s apartment. You can handle this. You’ve handled worse.”
I nod at my reflection, satisfied with my mini pep talk, then drape my dress over the shower rod to dry.
When I come out, Cal’s changed into a T-shirt and sweats as well, standing by the kitchen with a glass of water. He hands it to me without a word.
“Thanks.”
“You okay?”
“I’m good.”
He nods once. Then turns toward the hallway.
“My room’s down there,” he says. “I just moved in, so there’s only one bed. You can take it.”
I blink.
He pauses, then adds, “I’ll take the couch.”
But the way he says it?
Like he knows it might not be that simple.
And that I’m already thinking the same thing.