Penalties and Proposals (Love on Thin Ice)

1. Willa

CHAPTER 1

WILLA

One thing not on my bingo card for this fall? Me in the back of a car, on the way to a media event, changing my clothes as I sit less than two feet away from a complete stranger, because my plane was late.

“Ma’am, our ETA is about ten minutes to The Regent’s Hotel in Maple Falls,” the kind older gentleman who’s driving me—I think his name is Howard—calls out from behind the glass partition he’s raised between us. I’m pretty sure he’s got an actual speakerphone he could use to talk to me, but who am I to question anything when I’m tugging my nicest sweater over my head at the same time I’m trying to make sure my black pants aren’t too wrinkled?

“Awesome. If you could please update me when we’re about to turn in so I can literally roll out of the back of this car and hit the ground running, I’d appreciate it,” I manage with a chuckle.

Looking out the window, a sign announcing we’ve arrived in Maple Falls greets me, the town motto screaming out.

“Maple Falls,” I mutter to myself. “You’ll never want to leave? I guess only time will tell.”

Shaking my head, I cannot help but marvel at the breathtaking scenery that surrounds me. Towering mountains dominate the horizon, their peaks dusted with the first snow of the season, creating a striking contrast against the deep blue sky. The winding road leads us through a tunnel of vibrant autumn foliage, the leaves shimmering in shades of amber, crimson, and gold.

As we ascend a gentle slope, the road curves, revealing panoramic views of the valley below. The town of Maple Falls nestles cozily in the embrace of the mountains, its quaint buildings and tree-lined streets blending seamlessly with the natural landscape. I crack my window—the crisp, cool air carrying an earthy scent of pine and fallen leaves, a reminder of the untouched wilderness around me.

Hitting the button to close the window, I fall back into the seat. I can see why Maple Falls is known far and wide for its scenic beauty now, that’s for sure. It’s beyond picturesque, it’s perfect.

But besides being here for work, I’m also after some peace and quiet from the city, and hopefully—fingers crossed—to get a photo of the super rare Blue Rock Thrush in my downtime.

I like to think that this is the cool part about being a freelance photographer: picking and choosing the gigs I take. I’ve been doing this on my own ever since a really bad encounter about three years ago … funny enough, that incident was with an ice hockey player. He was well-known at the time, and I was looking forward to working with him. The day he walked in the door, I couldn’t take my eyes off him—he was that good-looking. But from the moment he opened his mouth, it was over. The very thought still makes me shudder.

They say never meet your heroes, but for me, it’s never get too excited about who you’re working with. The more famous, the bigger the pain in my butt.

The trill sound of my cell phone ringing pulls me from my thoughts. I shove my hand into my bag, feeling around and finding my iPhone buried on the bottom. Warmth fills my heart when I see the word MOM flashing on the screen .

“I’m here, I’m here,” I say in a hurried whoosh, pressing my lips to the phone. “Sorry. Meant to call when I landed, but we were late, and now …”

“You’re rushing to get where you need to go, aren’t you?” Moms. How do they always know?

“You guessed it. I’ve still not been fully briefed yet. They thought I’d be in earlier, so I was supposed to meet with someone in the PR firm that hired me, but they all had to get to the media event and get prepped.”

“Oh sweetie, you’ll go in blind and handle it. I know you can.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Any idea if that jerk you worked with a few years back is going to be there?”

“None, but I doubt it,” I say with a snicker. That jerk . I love her. “Last I heard, he’d been knocked down from NHL status to AHL, and I’m under the impression AHL players won’t be here no matter how good they were ‘back in the day.’”

“Good. If I find out he’s there—”

“You’ll do nothing.”

“You are so very right.” She’s quiet for a moment before continuing. “Any more news on the offer from Athletic Edge ?”

Athletic Edge is one of the top sporting magazines and one of the reasons I’m here in Maple Falls. When uber-billionaire Zach Hart announced he wanted to host a charity event here, the major outlets scrambled to get coverage. It’s not every day that someone has the clout to assemble the team of teams for a six-week stint in rural Washington State to raise money for a children’s charity—one for underprivileged kids, too. The thought practically melts the heart on its own.

However, like all good deeds, there’s an agenda: Athletic Edge has also asked if I’d consider relocating from Los Angeles and base myself on the East Coast, working out of their offices in New York City. I’d still be able to freelance, sometimes, but the headline here is that I’d be getting a promotion. I would be the head of their photography department and in charge of photoshoots not only in the studio for all covers and features, but I’d sit on the development and creative side of the magazine, too, with all photographers reporting to me.

Is it ideal? For someone who wants to be a free spirit and have the stability of a nine-to-five, YES.

Is that why I’m taking it? No. I want this job because of my mother, and because I should have had a job like this a few years ago. But sadly, that chance sailed due to said ice hockey player who I shall not name for fear of him coming to life in front of us out of the mist. You know, like Beetlejuice or Voldemort.

“There’s been a lot of thought on the offer, Mom, and seeing as they’ve asked me to do it, I’m going to put forward my best work and go for it.”

“At least you’ll be closer to home,” she says with a sigh in my ear. “It’d be nice to have you in Harper’s Ferry again for more than the occasional visit.”

“New York is a one-hour plane ride, so we’d both be able to visit each other,” I remind her as the car suddenly brakes hard, coming to a stop. “That is, only if they don’t let me live where I want. If I have the choice, I’ll definitely come home for at least a year. Commuting these days is easy with video calls and, you know, the internet.”

My mom is still chuckling in my ear when the SUV I’m in comes to a screeching halt. I may be balancing my phone as I talk to my mother, but I’m also in the midst of trying to pull my pants up, so it’s not ideal. The force of our sudden stop slams me against the rear of the seat in front of me and bounces me back to where I began.

“Sorry!” Howard calls out from the front. Peering through the glass, which is thankfully one-way so I can see over his shoulder but he can’t see me, I spot a crowd of fans crossing the street wearing Dan Roberts’ jerseys and chanting. I’ve met Dan in the past—he’s a player from the Chicago Blizzards and is super nice.

“Local guy in the game,” Howard mansplains to me, assuming I don’t know hockey, I guess. Or, he’s simply being nice and I’m being a hardened city girl. It’s up for debate. “The residents around here are die-hard fans.”

“All good, Howard. Thanks.” Smiling to myself, I flick my mother onto the speakerphone as I pull my camera up to my eye and roll down the window. The cold Washington air hits my skin, waking me up. I’m patting myself on the back for being smart enough to have pulled my camera out and gotten it ready to snap no matter what. You can always get the best casual surprise shots when you least expect it, like now. “Hey, do you mind driving a little slower? I want to snap a few pictures.”

“Are you talking to me?” My mother’s voice sounds like she’s calling from inside a tin can as it reverberates around me in the enclosed space.

“No,” I mumble, putting the viewfinder to my eye and zeroing in on the crowd. Click, click, click. I look at the screen, pleased with the vibe I’m catching. It’s a great time of day, close to golden hour. That’s the time we photographers like to use natural light as the source for our photos. “I’m talking to Howard.”

“Who is that?”

“Never mind, Ma.” I giggle, putting the camera down and picking the phone back up. My gaze is focused on taking in the small town as we coast through it. Cute. Quaint. It’s got what I can only describe as yummy autumn vibes. Pumpkin spice and everything nice and all that Hallmark jazz. I feel like I’ve been chucked into the middle of the Gilmore Girls set, right into Stars Hollow, and I kinda like it. I’m a fan of that show from way back. “Look, I should go. We’re almost there. How about I call when I get settled in?”

“I love you, sweetie,” she says.

“Ditto.”

Disconnecting the call, I turn back toward the window to sightsee, and my thoughts take a mind of their own, dipping back to Noah.

Noah Beaumont was the player three years ago. He was on top of the world and the man who ruled the game. Dated celebrities, appeared on the covers of gossip mags, and I’m pretty sure he graced plenty of posters hung on the walls of teenage boys and girls alike. Girls and women loved him, the guys wanted to hang with him. Rugged and handsome … and the day I met him, he was drunk. Too drunk to do his job, and after finding out he couldn’t stand up, well, I made the call to boot him off my set. Sadly, the publication I worked for at the time, as well as Noah’s publicist, had other ideas.

Another shiver snakes its way down my spine at that thought. That event had its downside, but also there was an upside, too. After security was called and I was kicked off my own set and lost my contract, you can bet I learned to stand up for myself. You can come at me all you want, but I don’t have to take it and I know I don’t. I got an agent, I honed my skills, and I got stronger.

Glancing down at my right wrist, I turn my arm over, tracing the tattoo of the word “Believe” in a cursive script. In actuality, I’ve had this tattoo since I was just out of high school and only dreamed of being a working photographer. I’d gotten it so I would always stop and remember that no matter what, I have a goal and it counts.

Tapping it, I smile. I’ve learned that if I can believe in anything or anyone, it’s gonna be me. And only me. And that’s all right. That year was a hard one, and not just because of Noah. It was the year everything changed … but I’m different now. The girl with the big black-rimmed glasses and short bleached-blonde hair is gone. I mean, I’ve got contacts now and I let my hair grow and it’s my natural color, brunette, which my hair stylist calls warm cocoa. So same same, just different.

“We’re here,” Howard calls out as he slows to a stop in front of the stately hotel. He’s out of the car and opening the back of the SUV, pulling out my bags before I can crawl out of the back seat.

“Welcome to your home away from home for the next few weeks,” he sings out as he opens my door. “There should be signs once you get inside as to where you need to go.”

“Thanks, Howard. I appreciate the ride.”

“It’s my job, ma’am,” he says with a bow and grin. “Now, how about I give the concierge your bags to take to the counter so you can book it to the media event.”

“Again, thank you,” I say, smiling his way as I rush through the hotel entrance and head inside. There can only be so many places inside this hotel where a bunch of ridiculously huge men are stuffed into a room with the press, right?

Sure enough, signs point their way, sending me down a small hall to the room where the media event is in full swing. Reporters are taking turns standing up and asking questions while the coach, Doug Strickland, and the assistant coach, Scotty MacFarland—who I recognize from his time playing for the Denver Peaks—sit at a table at the front fielding them. The players of the newly organized Maple Falls Ice Breakers are dressed to the nines in their crisp suits and are all crowded around the men. The majority of these guys are like giants––the large banner, which is called a ‘step and repeat’ in the world of public relations, that’s been set up behind them is meant to show off the logos for all the sponsors of the charity event. Yet, it can barely be seen.

“Excuse me,” I whisper as I slide past a few folks standing in a cluster at the back door, watching on. I’m in at the perfect time; I only need to start snapping pics, so I do. Stealthily, I move around the room, taking pics of Doug and Scotty as they put their heads together and chat. The fans will love that one. A reporter a few rows ahead of me stands, and there’s a great angle behind him to snap over his shoulder and get Zach Hart, the man, the myth, the billionaire in frame so we can introduce him and his generosity to our audience. Without his drive to do this, it wouldn’t be happening.

I keep the viewfinder pressed to my eye, scanning the group of players. Not gonna lie, they are a good-looking group, but I’m no fool. I stay in a separate hotel from the team for a reason, something I’ve requested to be written into my contract. I know for a fact these guys are all at a lodge on the outskirts of town, which is why I asked to be housed here at The Regent’s for the duration of the event. It’s bougie, but well … I’ve worked hard to be able to ask for what I want, so I do.

I’m still scanning when I pass the face of someone who strikes a chord that goes pang inside of me. It’s not a good pang. It’s a nauseating kind of pang. Slowly, I pan my camera along the line of players and put the familiar face in my sights once more. My stomach hitches as my heart has its own jump scare.

No.

I close my eyes and shake my head. Surely, not. He can’t be here. I press my camera back to my eye and pray I’m seeing things. But I’m not. I know that chiseled jaw, that glare. There’s a way he holds himself that reminds me of royalty, even when he was hammered. Like he’s God’s gift.

I’m still coming to terms with the fact that my past is here to haunt me, when Noah Beaumont turns and looks straight down the camera lens and directly into my eyes … slicing right into my soul.