3. Chapter 2
Declan
No. No. Fuck. No.
The woman whose taste I can still remember is standing in a conference room. In a Bears polo. And my General Manager is introducing her as my new boss.
This isn't happening.
Her skin is soft. Her palm is warm. I can feel the delicate bones of her fingers under mine, the same fingers that dug into my shoulders while I fucked her into the mattress.
I drop her hand like it's on fire.
"Likewise," I manage, my voice flat as a dead puck.
I turn and take my seat at the table without looking at her. My skin feels too tight. My cock is throbbing against my zipper, a traitorous, painful reminder that my body doesn't give a single fuck about professional boundaries.
Goddammit! What have I done?!
Beck slides into the chair beside me, still grinning like the demon he is.
"That," he whispers, low enough for only me to hear, "was fucking priceless."
I shoot him a glare that would make lesser men wet themselves. My prick of a brother just winks. Mason sits on my other side, giving me a what the hell is wrong with you look. I ignore him too.
Is it that obvious? Can the whole damn room see how fucking awkward this is?!
Across the table, Josie—Josie Whitfield, Jesus Christ—sits down. She straightens her spine and folds her hands neatly in front of her with the prim composure of a woman who absolutely did not have her ankles hooked behind my neck thirty-six hours ago.
She looks completely professional. Composed.
Christ.
How the hell can she sit there looking like a woman in complete control? Yet all I can think about is how she sounded when she lost it?! About the way her thighs clamped around my head when I made her come the first time. The way she whispered more before I'd even caught my breath.
I pick up the nearest pen and starting hammering the button, forcing the images from my brain.
Click. Click. Click.
It's the only thing keeping my hands from doing something stupid. Like reaching across the table and dragging her out of that chair and away from my perfectly peaceful life.
Colin clears his throat, leaning forward to place his elbows on the table. "Alright, now that we're all here—and by 'here,' I mean forty-five minutes after the scheduled start time—let's get started."
Beck snorts. "Traffic was a bitch."
"Traffic is two surfers and a stray golden retriever that won't go home, Morrison," Colin deadpans. "Try to do better."
Beck shrugs, unbothered.
"Right," Colin continues, squeezing his eyes like he's already got a headache. "As I was saying before the Morrison brothers decided to grace us with their presence, we've brought Josie on to overhaul our public image. And by our public image, I mean you three."
He glares at each of us separately, like we're back in the living room of our parents' house, being scalded for the time Beck convinced us the neighbor's inflatable pool was a free water park and we ended up flooding their entire backyard.
That little stunt earned us a summer's worth of chores and a lecture on 'personal property' that Mom still brings up every Thanksgiving.
Beck shifts beside me, and I can feel him gearing up to say something stupid. Something that'll make this worse. So I kick his ankle under the table. He grunts, but the words stay locked behind his teeth.
For now.
"We all know the deal by now…" Colin continues. "Attendance is down. Media buzz is non-existent. Blah, blah, blah."
A murmur of been-there-done-that floods the room.
"Point is, the league is breathing down our necks, and Josie's job is to make people care about this team again. And to do that? We need our stars to shine. So boys, listen up, and listen good."
Click. Click.
"Thanks, Colin." Josie’s voice cuts through the room, steady and confident as she stands on the other side of the table. It’s the same voice that whispered don't stop against my lips, but now it's all business.
Just like her damn outfit.
That polo is doing work. Dark blue, fitted, tucked just enough to show off the curve of her waist before it disappears into those jeans. The fabric pulls across her tits in a way that feels intentional, like the universe is personally testing my restraint.
She's got a ponytail, all business, but I know what's underneath.
Fuck me.
"I've been reviewing the numbers while we waited, and the good news is there's a lot of untapped potential in this market. I think Beachside loves the idea of their own hockey team, and I think using your sibling angle as the highlight is a great idea. We just need to make them love you."
She looks directly at me when she says you.
My jaw clenches. I don't blink. Don't react.
Fuck.
She keeps talking, going through some ideas and fuck, she's good. Competent. The way she's laying out data points and engagement strategies… it's like she's been doing this for a decade.
Didn't she just walk in the door?! How the hell is she this good at her job already?
I don't want her to be good.
I want her to be unqualified. To be in over her head. Someone Colin will replace in two weeks so I can go back to my easy fucking life.
But no.
She's sitting there in that fucking shirt, talking about 'brand synergy' and 'community integration,' and all I can think about is how good her tits looked bouncing in the moonlight.
"Social media is our biggest untapped weapon," she continues, her gaze sweeping the table. She’s in her element now, and it’s irritating as hell. "I've been scrolling the channels for days. Instagram. TikTok. It's all empty. We need player spotlights, behind-the-scenes content, TikTok challenges—"
"TikTok?" Beck perks up. "Oh, hell yeah. I've been waiting for someone to unlock my dancing potential."
Mason groans. "Please, God, no."
Josie’s lips twitch. "Yes, TikTok. Don't look at me like that, Mason. It's where the eyeballs are. We need to meet fans where they are, not where we wish they were."
Coach Pearson grunts from his seat, arms crossed over his massive chest. "I don't know what a TikTok is, and I don't wanna know. Just tell me it doesn't interfere with practice."
"It won't," Josie promises, her tone respectful. "It's about capturing moments within the team. The work we do. The grind we put in. The personality of everyone who they can cheer for, week in, week out." Her eyes flick to me again. "People connect with people, not logos."
"And one top of that," she says, turning to a laptop she’s pulled up, displaying a sleek presentation. "We start engaging in youth clinics. Charity events. Player appearances at local businesses. People need to see you as part of Beachside, not just visitors passing through."
Coach Pearson gives a slow, approving nod. "Kids' clinics. I like that. Get 'em on skates early. Filter them into the academy."
"Exactly," Josie says, a genuine smile breaking through. Damn. It's fucking devastating, too. "And lastly: media accessibility. Like it or not, you boys are the brand. So we need you available at all times. Interviews, podcasts, local TV spots. You will become unavoidable."
Unavoidable.
Is she kidding?!
I came here to be avoidable. That was the whole point.
No media circus. No brand-building. No city's hopes and dreams crushing my shoulders. Just hockey, the beach, and the mansion.
And now this woman is standing there telling me I have to do the exact opposite?
Fuck this.
Beck leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head. "I love it. Community engagement? Youth clinics? Count me in. I'm great with kids."
Mason doesn't look up from his notes. "You are absolutely not great with kids."
"I'm fun with kids," Beck corrects, grinning. "There's a difference." He shifts his gaze to me, those blue eyes sparkling with pure mischief. "What do you think, Cap? You down to be unavoidable?"
The entire room waits for my captain's opinion. It should hold weight in a room like this. It used to. Back when I held the power and control of this organization.
But now, I can feel the walls closing in. TikTok. Charity events. Media tours.
It's every single thing I came here to avoid, laid out like a roadmap straight to hell.
I finally look at Josie and she meets my gaze, those sparkling green eyes steady as hell. There's no hint of the wild, desperate woman from Breakers the other night, the one that followed me to the bar and looked to do something reckless.
There's nothing reckless about her.
Just a cool, collected woman who won't stop looking at me.
"Can't we just… play better?" My voice comes out flat. "Win some games?"
Coach Pearson, without looking up from scribbling on his notepad, lets out a low grunt.
“You’d think,” he says, his tone dryer than the sand outside the arena. He tosses his pen onto the table. “But if playing better was the whole answer, Declan, we wouldn’t be sitting in this room right now, would we?"
"Well, no. But—"
"We’d be out on the ice. But the puck don’t lie, son. And neither do the empty seats.”
Fuck.
It lands exactly as intended. A direct hit to my already-bruised ego.
“Hear that, Cap?” Beck whispers from beside me. “Coach just said you suck at more than just TikTok.”
I elbow him in the ribs. He lets out a satisfying oof but his grin doesn’t falter.
Colin is looking more and more like a man who deeply regrets every life choice that led him to this moment.
Across the table, Josie doesn’t blink. Her once irresistible lips are now pressed into a thin line, yet somehow, I still can't look away.
“What Coach is trying to say, in his own… diplomatic way,” Colin says, shooting Pearson a look, “is that playing better is Step One. Josie’s plan is Step Two through One Hundred. They’re not mutually exclusive. We need both.”
Josie nods, taking back the reins smoothly as she swipes at a loose strand of hair.
My eyes track the movement like a fucking hawk, and here I am, trying to argue about letting our hockey do the talking while my body’s ready to drag her across this conference table and remind her who's in charge here.