Epilogue
NOVAK
I lean against the arena wall, watching Cole wrap his arms around Harper like she's the most precious thing in the world. The way he's holding her, like he can't quite believe she's real, it's nauseating. And fascinating.
Who would have thought? Cole, the robot, the guy who meal-preps his emotions and schedules his spontaneity, found his person. His ice-cold heart apparently has a defrost setting, and Harper Hayes found the switch.
Something twists in my chest watching them. Not jealousy exactly. I'm Liam fucking Novak, and I don't get jealous of anyone. But there's this weird ache, like watching something I never knew I wanted until I saw someone else having it.
I shake it off. Some people are built for that mushy romantic bullshit. Others are built to score goals and look good doing it. I know which category I fall into, and I'm perfectly happy there.
Besides, we made the playoffs, baby. Time to party.
Three days later, I'm strutting into the PR office like I own the place. Because let's be honest, after the performance I put on in our first playoff win, two goals and an assist, I basically do own this place.
“Novak,” Jennifer McCall says, gesturing to the chair across from her desk. “Congratulations on the win. You played beautifully.”
“I know,” I grin, dropping into the chair and putting my feet up on her desk. “What can I say? I'm a natural-born superstar.”
Jennifer's smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. She reaches for her tablet with the kind of careful precision that usually means I'm about to get lectured.
“We need to talk about your extracurricular activities.”
She swipes the screen and shows me a compilation that makes me proud and horrified in equal measure. There's my two AM Instagram Live cooking show, already at five million views.
A photo of me with the charity auction winners, all of us sporting matching tattoos, including mine that just says “NOVA” in Comic Sans font because I thought it was hilarious at the time.
“Look, I know the tattoo font was a questionable choice—”
“Nova,” Jennifer interrupts. “Now that we're in the playoffs, management thinks it's time you cleaned up your image. The stakes are higher. The media attention is more intense.”
I scoff. “My image is fine. Fans love me. I sell jerseys. I score goals. What more do they want?”
“They want you to stop making headlines for the wrong reasons.” She sets down the tablet. “We've assigned someone to work with you personally on image management.”
“Absolutely not.” I stand up, pacing to the window. “No one tells Liam Novak how to live his life.”
“It's not a request.”
“Then it's a stupid decision. I've gotten us this far being exactly who I am.”
“And who you are is talented enough to take us to the Stanley Cup,” Jennifer says calmly. “But only if you don't derail everything with another scandal.”
I want to argue, but she's got that look. The look that says this conversation is over, and I can either cooperate or find myself traded to some frozen wasteland in Canada.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But I'm not changing who I am for anyone.”
“The specialist is waiting in the conference room. She's an expert in her field.” Jennifer stands, smoothing her skirt. “Come on, I'll introduce you.”
I follow her down the hallway, already planning how I'm going to make this image consultant's life hell.
No uptight PR drone is going to tame the Nova.
I'm thinking corporate speak bingo, maybe showing up to meetings in my most outrageous outfits, definitely not taking a single piece of advice seriously.
Jennifer opens the conference room door. “I'd like you to meet Liam Novak.”
My brain short-circuits.
Standing beside the conference table, looking like every professional fantasy I've ever had, is her. The woman from that night three months ago. The night that's been replaying in my mind ever since, the night that ruined me for everyone else.
Her blonde hair is cut in a sleek, sophisticated style that frames her face perfectly. She's wearing a charcoal gray skirt suit that somehow manages to be both completely professional and absolutely sexy.
The skirt hits just above her knees, revealing legs I remember wrapped around my waist. The blazer is tailored to show her curves without being obvious about it.
But it's her eyes that nearly bring me to my knees. Those same storm-gray eyes that looked up at me with such heat, such wildness, such perfect understanding of exactly what I needed.
My body responds instantly, memories flooding back. Her hands in my hair, her nails dragging down my back, the way she moved beneath me like she was made for me. The way she urged me to keep going. To fuck her hard.
She closes the distance between us, her expression perfectly composed. Showing absolutely no sign that she recognizes me.
“Congratulations on your win, Liam,” she says, her voice crisp. Nothing like the breathy, desperate sounds she made that night. “I'm Avery Carter. It's a pleasure to meet you.”
A pleasure to meet me? Like we're strangers. Like she didn't rock my entire world and then disappear before I woke up, leaving nothing but her scent on my sheets and a fake name I couldn't stop thinking about.
I stare at her, waiting for her composure to crack, for some flicker of recognition. But Avery Carter, because apparently that's her real name, doesn't even blink.
Two can play this game.
“The pleasure's all mine,” I say, putting on my most charming smile. The one that's gotten me out of trouble and into beds from coast to coast. “I have a feeling this is going to be a very interesting partnership.”
Something flickers in her eyes then. Just for a second. Like maybe the ice queen facade isn't as solid as she wants me to believe.
Jennifer looks between us, oblivious to the tension crackling through the room. “Sloane comes highly recommended. She's worked with several high-profile athletes to successfully rebrand their public image.”
“I'm sure she's very good at her job,” I say, still watching Avery’s face. “Very thorough.”
“I believe in comprehensive strategies,” Avery replies smoothly. “Whatever it takes to achieve the desired results.”
The words are professional, but the way she says them, the slight emphasis on 'whatever it takes', sends heat straight through me.
Jennifer checks her watch. “I'll leave you two to get acquainted. Avery, you have my full support. Novak, I expect your complete cooperation.”
The door closes behind her, leaving us alone.
The silence stretches between us, thick with memories. Sloane doesn't move from her position beside the table. Doesn't acknowledge what happened between us. But I can see her pulse jumping at the base of her throat.
“So,” I say finally, prowling closer to the table. “Avery Carter. That's your real name, I'm guessing? Not Layla?”
“Mr. Novak,” she says, her voice cool. “I think we should establish some ground rules for our working relationship.”
“Oh, we definitely should.” I lean against the table, close enough to catch a hint of her perfume. The same one she wore that night. “I have a few rules of my own.”
Her composure cracks just slightly. Just enough for me to see the woman underneath the suit. The woman who knew exactly how to drive me wild.
“This is going to be strictly professional,” she says.
“Of course it is.” I grin at her. “Wouldn't dream of it being anything else.”
But we both know I'm lying. And from the way her breath catches, the way her pupils dilate just slightly, I think she knows it too.
The rest of the season just got a hell of a lot more interesting.
The END