Chapter 7
BEA
The cold didn’t settle—it bit. Sharp enough to slip under the collar of my coat and linger there. My breath ghosted faintly in front of me as I crossed the last stretch of pavement, dissolving the second I stepped inside and the doors sealed behind me.
Outside, the trees lining the parking lot had been halfway stripped bare, dull gold leaves clinging in stubborn patches that looked like they’d forgotten how to let go. The sky had been that thin, washed-out gray that promised winter without committing to it yet.
Inside, it disappeared.
The glass doors of Talon Arena whispered open.
Warm air wrapped around me, carrying the scent of burnt coffee, industrial cleaner, and something deeper—rubber, sweat, the lived-in edge of a hockey building that no amount of maintenance could erase.
It settled into my lungs differently than the cold had.
I paused just inside the lobby, adjusting the strap of my bag on my shoulder, letting my eyes take inventory.
The space was quieter than I expected. Not empty—but muted. Conversations stayed low, contained, like no one wanted their voice to carry further than necessary. Footsteps were purposeful without being rushed, tension tucked neatly beneath routine.
A TV mounted above the reception desk played a morning sports segment with the volume down, captions scrolling in sharp white lines across the bottom.
I checked my watch—8:43 a.m.—two minutes before I told myself I’d arrive. Enough time to settle. To breathe. To remind myself that I knew how to do this.
I smoothed my hands over the front of my blouse, the crisp cotton cool against my palms. My coat still held a trace of the outside chill, the fabric colder than the air around me, like it hadn’t fully decided which world it belonged to yet.
“Morning.” The voice came from my left, easy and familiar in tone, like we’d spoken before.
I turned, already preparing to introduce myself, to anchor the interaction in something predictable—but the woman behind the reception desk was already smiling at me in a way that suggested I didn’t need to.
“There’s coffee in the conference room,” she added, nodding toward the hallway behind her. “You’ll want it.”
Not: Can I help you?
Not: Who are you here to see?
My fingers tightened slightly around the strap of my bag. “Thank you,” I stammered anyway, because politeness cost nothing, and because I didn’t know what else to say.
She nodded once, already looking past me, already moving on.
The hallway beyond the lobby was brighter, lined with framed photographs—players mid-stride, ice spraying in sharp arcs beneath their skates, faces caught in that split-second between effort and impact.
The Frosthawks logo appeared repeatedly, stamped into corners, stitched into jerseys, burned into the identity of the place.
Fire in the cold.
I’d studied it. Learned it. Memorized the language of this organization like it was a test I couldn’t afford to fail.
My heels clicked softly against the polished floor, the sound echoing just enough to remind me I was alone in my movement, even if I wasn’t alone in the building.
Voices drifted from somewhere ahead—low, overlapping, not quite contained. There was an edge to them I couldn’t place. Not loud. Not chaotic.
Tense.
I slowed slightly, my senses sharpening, cataloging details the way I always did when I walked into something new.
A man in a team jacket passed me going the opposite direction, a phone pressed to his ear, his voice low, like whatever he was dealing with didn’t have room to spill into the hallway. He glanced at me once—quick, assessing, not unkind but not welcoming either—before continuing on without slowing.
My stomach tightened.
I hadn’t been here before. I didn’t recognize anyone. No one had stopped me. No one had asked who I was or where I was supposed to be, and for a split second, standing in the middle of a hallway that felt too quiet for a building this size, I wondered if I had already done something wrong.
Why isn’t anyone talking to me?
The thought pressed in sharper than I expected, but I pushed it aside just as quickly, straightening my shoulders as I adjusted the strap of my bag and kept moving.
Keep moving, I told myself. You gave yourself extra time for a reason.
Relief flickered low in my chest as I walked, small but steady.
I wasn’t late. I wasn’t rushing. I had done exactly what I always did—planned, prepared, controlled the one thing I could—and even if something felt off, even if this wasn’t unfolding the way I had pictured it, I still had time to figure it out.
The conference room door was already open.
That had to be where I was supposed to meet the head of the public relations team, just like Ezra had explained when he convinced me into this situation—just a conversation, an initial meeting, a chance to prove that I belonged in a room like this before anyone had the chance to decide that I didn’t.
Light spilled out into the hallway, too bright compared to the rest of the building, fluorescent and clinical, washing the edges of everything in a pale, overexposed glow.
As I got closer, the voices I had only half-noticed before sharpened into something more defined—one clipped and irritated, another calm and measured, a third somewhere in between, threaded with a tension that didn’t match the idea of a simple morning meeting.
I slowed without meaning to, just slightly, my steps quieter as I reached the doorway.
Then I stepped inside.
And stopped.
The room was full.
Not crowded, but full in a way that made the air feel thinner, like there wasn’t enough space for all of the energy pressing into it.
A long table dominated the center, laptops open, papers scattered, coffee cups in varying states of abandonment as if no one had time to finish anything they started.
The smell hit me first—burnt espresso, stale sugar, and something sharper underneath it all, the faint bite of stress-sweat hidden under expensive cologne.
At the far end stood a woman who didn’t need to speak to be in charge of the room—imposing, tightly wound, her irritation held just beneath the surface like something sharpened instead of hidden.
I didn’t recognize her, but I didn’t need to.
That had to be who I was there to meet, Charlotte Anderson.
Her hair was pulled back into a tight knot that emphasized the sharpness of her features, her posture rigid in a way that read as power rather than tension.
A blazer the color of deep charcoal fit her like armor, the sleeves pushed up just enough to suggest she had been there for hours already, working through something that clearly hadn’t gone the way she wanted it to.
Her gaze flicked up as I entered, landing on me for half a second before moving on as if I were just another item added to an already overloaded list.
No warmth.
No hesitation.
Just assessment.
“Beatriz Ribeiro,” she snapped, her voice cutting cleanly through the room without raising in volume. “Communications.”
That was it. No introduction. No welcome.
Just a label.
Every eye in the room shifted, just briefly, toward me, and even that small movement felt amplified, like the air itself had tightened around the moment.
I felt it. Measured it. Filed it away, the way I always did, even as something sharper pressed in beneath the surface.
“Good morning, everyone,” I said, keeping my tone light, just this side of friendly, even though my pulse had started to climb for reasons I couldn’t quite name yet.
There was no version of this where I let them see me falter.
Not in a room full of people who clearly already knew each other.
Not when I was the only one trying to figure out what I had just walked into.
None of this made sense.
“Sit,” Charlotte replied immediately, already turning back toward the table as if I were no longer something that required her attention. “We’re already behind.”
Behind what?
Stepping fully into the room, I pulled out the nearest chair with careful precision, the metal legs scraping faintly against the floor. The sound cut through the conversation just enough to feel too loud, too noticeable, like I had disrupted something I didn’t understand.
I set my bag down beside me, slid into the seat, and placed it neatly at my feet, every movement deliberate.
My heart rate ticked up, steady but noticeable, a quiet drumbeat under everything else.
Something was very off.
I reached into my bag, fingers finding the smooth edge of my portfolio, the familiar weight of it grounding in my hands. I pulled it out, flipping it open with practiced ease, my resume already clipped neatly inside.
“I appreciate you taking the time to—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Charlotte didn’t even look at me when she said it.
My words stopped mid-sentence, hanging there for a fraction of a second before disappearing entirely.
She glanced at me then, sharp and brief. “Put it away,” she added. “We don’t have time for that.”
Heat climbed the back of my neck, subtle but undeniable.
I closed the portfolio slowly, hoping the movement itself could buy me a second to recalibrate.
This wasn’t an interview. The realization settled in my chest, heavy and immediate. I slid the portfolio back into my bag.
Around me, the room continued moving like I wasn’t there.
A man to my right—mid-fifties, coffee in hand, eyes tired but alert—leaned forward slightly.
“We’re looking at exposure within the next two hours,” he grumbled, his tone clipped, practical. “Maybe sooner if anyone local picked it up overnight.”
Another voice answered from across the table, calmer, more measured. “Initial reports are already circulating internally. Nothing public-facing yet.”
My gaze moved between them, tracking, listening, absorbing.
No one explained anything. No one paused. Information moved through the room in fragments, incomplete on their own but building something larger, something urgent.