2. Chapter 1 #3
He heads for the door and I take a deep breath, grab the new iPhone, and follow him out into the hallway.
He disappears for ten minutes while I wait in the corridor, and when he returns, he's wearing black pants and a team polo. He still looks like he just rolled out of bed… but at least he’s wearing shoes now.
"Ready?" he asks me with a grin.
I nod. "Ready."
He opens the door. Conference Room A is a massive space, filled with expensive dark wood and leather, with a long oval table polished to a mirror shine. The entire far wall is glass, overlooking the practice rink where a scattering of players are starting to appear.
Two other men are already seated alongside a pretty woman who looks about my age.
Huh. Another woman? That's a good start.
The man in his fifties with shoulders like a bulldozer and a silver-flecked beard stands as we enter. He’s wearing a blue Bears polo, and the look he gives me is loaded with judgment.
“Josie Whitfield,” Colin says, his voice bouncing in the quiet room. “Meet Head Coach Jack Pearson.”
Coach Pearson’s handshake is firm. Somehow it feels like a test. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thank you, Coach. It’s an honor.”
He grunts, a sound that could mean anything, and sits back down.
Colin gestures to the others. “Darcy Madden, head of analytics. And Pete Langford, assistant coach.”
They both give me polite nods and I take the seat Colin indicates, directly across from the empty chairs at the far end of the table.
Colin checks his watch. “The Morrison brothers should be here any second.”
Any second. Right.
For the next twenty-five minutes, I learn two things:
One, 'any second' in Beachside apparently means 'maybe sometime before lunch.'
And two, nobody in this room wants to talk about hockey.
“You catch that swell this morning, Coach?” Colin asks, leaning back.
Coach Pearson shakes his head. “Too much chop. Went to Goldie’s instead.”
Pete chimes in. “Oh. Goldie’s got a new IPA on tap. Those citrus notes? Almost too smooth.”
“Too smooth?” Colin scoffs. “That’s the problem with this town. We need some damn bite.”
I sit there, my smile plastered on, screaming internally. What the hell is an IPA anyway?! I mean, I know what it is, but do we need to discuss its citrus notes while a franchise drowns?
Just as I’m about to politely clear my throat and ask about, I don’t know, the losing hockey team, the door swings open.
“Sorry we’re late! Someone couldn’t find his hoodie.”
The voice is loud, cheerful, and instantly grating on my nerves.
A man walks in first. He’s all lean muscle and chaotic energy, dressed in ripped jeans and a vintage t-shirt for a band I’m pretty sure broke up before he was born. Dark hair falls across his forehead, and his grin is pure trouble.
He scans the room, those bright blue eyes landing on me. “Ah. You must be the new blood. Our Lord the Savior.” His grin widens. “I’m Beck. The fun one.”
“Josie Whitfield,” I say, my professional mask snapping into place.
Behind him, a calmer, steadier version enters. Same blue eyes, same build. He gives me a polite nod. “I'm Mason.”
“Nice to meet you both.”
And then.
The air in the room gets heavier, hotter, like a door to a furnace just blew wide open.
Oh no.
The last of the brothers fills the doorway.
And white fucking noise fills my ears.
I know those shoulders. I know that haircut that's cut short on the sides. I know the set of his jaw, the full lips I spent hours biting just to stop myself from screaming.
But worse than all that…
My pussy knows this man. It gives a traitorous, unmistakable throb, a memory of being stretched, filled, ruined.
No. No no no no no.
Time doesn’t just slow. It fucking stops.
“Declan,” Colin says, oblivious to the nuclear bomb that just detonated across the table. “This is Josie Whitfield, our new PR lead. Josie, meet your captain. Declan Morrison.”
Declan Morrison’s eyes sweep the room, a captain assessing his territory. They pass over Colin, over Coach, over his brothers…
And land on me.
I watch his face do a horrifying, slow-motion collapse.
Shock. Pure, unguarded what the fuck.
The silence is so thick you could skate on it.
Darcy looks up from her tablet. Pete stops picking at his cuticle. Beck’s grin turns razor-sharp, his eyes darting between his frozen brother and my probably-pale face.
Declan doesn’t move for a full three seconds. Then, with a stiffness that screams internal screaming, he takes the final steps to the table.
I stand, my legs only slightly shaky.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and my voice sounds almost normal. Almost.
He stares at my hand, then his gaze lifts to mine as he takes it.
His palm is warm. Rough with calluses I know intimately. Electricity jolts up my arm, straight to my core. I feel the strength in his grip, the power he’s holding back.
I feel everything.
“Likewise,” he says, and his voice is flat. But I hear the gravel underneath. The same gravel that growled filthy praise against my neck.
He’s the captain. I fucked the CAPTAIN.
The man I’m supposed to make the face of this franchise is the man who had his face between my thighs.
Oh, fuck.