Chapter 13 #2
Before I could process that, she pulled me into a hug—quick, natural, like we’d done it before. She smelled like something soft and clean, layered with something brighter underneath, and the contact grounded me faster than anything else had since we walked in.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I managed when she pulled back.
Her eyes lingered on my face for a moment—observant, thoughtful, like she was taking in more than I was saying.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Tea, if you have it,” I mumbled, softer than I intended, the request slipping out with a hint of self-consciousness I couldn’t quite hide.
Her smile widened, pleased in a way that felt oddly personal. “Good answer,” she murmured, already turning toward the kitchen.
I stood there for half a second longer than I should have, watching her move through the space ease and pose.
“You made it up here without killing him?” Ezra’s voice cut in behind us.
Relief threaded through me at the familiarity of it, something steady in a room that suddenly felt like it carried weight I didn’t fully understand.
“It was a close call,” I replied, glancing back at him.
Alois exhaled quietly beside me, the sound low and unimpressed.
Gavin’s attention shifted between us, something faintly amused flickering through his expression, like he was already ten steps ahead of whatever dynamic he was watching play out.
“You dragged her out of bed for this?” he asked Alois.
“She said she hadn’t seen the city.” Alois shrugged, like that was the entire explanation.
Like that was enough.
It shouldn’t have been.
And yet—No one questioned it.
Myla returned then, placing a mug in my hands before I could figure out where I was supposed to stand. The ceramic was warm, grounding, the faint scent of tea curling up with something herbal and soft.
“Careful,” she warned gently. “It’s hot.”
“Thank you,” I replied quickly, wrapping both hands around it like it might anchor me to something solid.
Conversation picked up around me again—easy for them, natural in a way that made it obvious I was the only one trying to keep up.
Names weren’t being said.
They didn’t need to be.
And that was when it started to click.
Not all at once.
Not cleanly.
But piece by piece, like something falling into place just slightly too late.
The photo in the entry. The way Gavin commanded a room. The way Alois didn’t introduce anyone with titles—because he shouldn’t have to.
My stomach tightened slightly.
I should have known who they are.
And the worst part? Alois had given me nothing. No warning. No context. No quiet, “Hey, this matters.”
Just dropped me into it like I was supposed to figure it out on my own.
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye.
He stood there, mug in hand, shoulders relaxed, completely disengaged from the part of the conversation that felt like it should matter most.
Like this—all of this—wasn’t something he felt the need to guide me through.
I should have been annoyed.
I was.
But underneath that—something else settled in.
He didn’t think I needed it. He knew I would figure it out. Was he testing me?
Ezra huffed a quiet laugh, breaking through my thoughts as he stepped a little closer. “We go all the way back,” he explained, gesturing between himself and Gavin. “Rookie season.”
I turned slightly toward them, listening more carefully now, trying to catch every piece I could.
Gavin’s mouth twitched faintly. “Thomas here was a powerhouse back in his prime.”
Ezra lifted a brow. “Too bad my prime only lasted a few seasons. Not like some men in this room.”
His gaze flicked between Gavin and Alois, something knowing settling into the space that didn’t need to be explained out loud.
Experience sat in the room like something tangible. Years. Games. Hits. Careers that had stretched longer than others could hold.
I adjusted my grip on the mug slightly, absorbing it all, filing it away the way I always did—connections, hierarchy, the invisible structure of a world I was still learning how to exist in.
This wasn’t just a home.
This wasn’t just a visit.
This was… history.
And I was standing in the middle of it without a map.
Alois shifted beside me then, close enough that I felt it before I registered the movement. His hand settled at the small of my back, steady and deliberate, guiding me forward a step as Myla moved past us again.
It wasn’t lingering. It wasn’t soft. It was functional. And still—it steadied me instantly. Like he knew exactly when I needed it. Like he’d been watching closer than he let on.
We moved through the space together, conversation flowing around me—hockey, history, pieces of a world I was still learning how to navigate.
But every time my attention drifted—it pulled back to the windows. To the city. To the reason we were here.
And every time I glanced at him—it didn’t make any more sense.
Time pressed in eventually, reality catching up to something that had felt briefly suspended outside of this awkward but awesome morning.
Myla walked us toward the entry, her hand brushing lightly against my arm as we slowed. “I’m glad you got to see the city this way,” she cooed, her voice just for me.
I nodded, glancing back once more toward the windows, the skyline, the quiet power of it all. “Me too,” I admitted.
Her gaze flicked briefly to Alois, then back to me. “He doesn’t usually do thing like this,” she added gently. “At least from what I’ve gathered.” Before releasing me, Myla gave a small wink.
My breath caught, just for a second.
Before I could respond, Ezra stepped in, steady and grounded. “Car’s waiting.”
The airport didn’t feel like an airport. There were no lines. No crowds pressing in from every direction. No overhead announcements fighting for space in the air.
Just movement—quiet, controlled, intentional.
Alois guided me through a side entrance I wouldn’t have noticed on my own, glass doors sliding open before we even reached them, a single staff member already stepping forward like he’d been expecting us.
The noise dropped off behind us, replaced by something cleaner, more contained—polished floors, low voices, the faint hum of a space built for efficiency instead of volume.
I’d flown private before. Grown up around it in a way that made it feel normal in certain spaces, certain circles.
But this—this felt different.
Less about luxury. More about function.
We passed through a short corridor that opened straight onto the tarmac, the morning air bitter, colder, carrying that familiar mix of jet fuel and metal that settled low in my lungs.
The plane sat a few yards ahead, already staged for departure, stairs down, crew in position, everything moving with quiet efficiency.
And I was so thankful. The thought flashed before my eyes—a full roster of NHL players walking through a commercial terminal would’ve been a mess.
Delays. Security bottlenecks. People trying to get close just to say they had.
I didn’t realize how much I’d been bracing for that until it wasn’t there.
I slid into my seat without thinking about it too much, settling in as the rest of the team filtered in, conversations low, movements automatic.
Alois dropped into the chair beside me without a word, his shoulder brushing mine for half a second before he leaned back, long legs stretching just enough to claim all of the space.
I let my head fall back against the seat, eyes closing for a second as my body tried to recalibrate. The city. The penthouse. The way the light had hit the water. The way he had said, You said that last night, like it had been enough.
My heart skipped unexpectedly at the thought.
I opened my eyes and looked at him. His profile caught the window light in clean, hard lines, but it wasn’t just his face that drew my attention.
It was the way he filled the space. Even here—with seats built wider, deeper, meant for bodies like his—he took up most of it. Shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt, one arm braced along the armrest like it belonged there, long legs angled just enough to fit without forcing it.
He’d already checked out of the world around him.
Noise-canceling headphones covered his ears, shutting out the low hum of the cabin, the voices, the movement—everything.
His dark gray hoodie was half-zipped, layered over a fitted shirt that did nothing to hide the solid weight of him beneath it.
An iPad rested against his thigh, one hand holding it steady as his thumb moved occasionally across the screen, slow and deliberate. Reading.
I let my gaze linger a second longer, just enough to catch the lines of text before I looked away.
French. Of course it was. Because apparently the same man who broke people for a living—sat on a private charter flight, shutting out the world to read something most of the plane couldn’t even begin to translate.
His expression didn’t shift. Not once. No reaction to anything around him, no flicker of awareness that he was being watched, studied, quietly taken apart piece by piece.
I forced myself to look out the window. Because I didn’t know what to do with him. Didn’t know how to thank him for the morning without turning it into something bigger than he was clearly willing to let it be.
My phone buzzed in my hand, pulling me out of my impending dangerous thought spiral just in the nick of time.
Micah: I need details. Immediately. Do not gate keep your life right now.
You’re not going to believe me. I’ll explain when we land. I’m on the plane with the team now.
Micah: You are living my actual dream.
It’s my nightmare. And also…don’t you have your own hockey hunk to travel with?
The typing bubbles appeared. Disappeared. Came back. Then—
Micah: Not the same. Logan doesn’t have the power to casually rewrite airline logistics.
A small, involuntary smile pulled at my mouth.
It lingered there longer than it should have.
Another buzz.
Lucy: Bento was a perfect gentleman. Came out once. Let me feed him a treat like I’d earned it. Litter box is clean. Water’s fresh. He should be good until you’re home. Brunch this weekend?
Yes. Absolutely. I owe you. Thank you.
And then my heart fluttered seeing a quick text from my father—
Paizinho: Did you make your flight?
Boarding now. I’ll call when I land. Love you.
Paizinho: Eu te amo, minha filha.
I love you, my daughter. The words settled somewhere behind my ribs, soft and familiar and unshakable.
For a fleeting moment—the everything faded. And I was just—home. The little girl who didn’t have to figure everything out in real time. Who didn’t have to stand in rooms she didn’t understand and pretend she belonged there.
The plane began to move, the low rumble building beneath us, vibrating through the frame, through the seat, through me. My grip tightened slightly around my phone before I slipped it into my bag.
I turned my head back toward the window, watching as the runway stretched out in front of us, long and inevitable.
The city fell away slowly. Buildings shrinking. Lines softening. The river turning into a streak of light instead of something vast and steady.
That quiet bubble—the one from this morning—the one that hadn’t made sense but had still felt real—it didn’t come with us. It stayed suspended somewhere just above the Hudson.
I exhaled slowly, my chest tight in a way I couldn’t quite name.
Beside me, Alois didn’t move. Didn’t acknowledge anything that had happened in the last few hours. But then—his hand settled on my knee. Like it had always belonged there.
My breath hitched, shallow and quiet, as I stared straight ahead, refusing to look down. Because if I did—if I acknowledged it—it would become real in a way I wasn’t ready for.
Nothing about this made sense.
Not him.
Not the way he had watched me at that window.
My fingers curled slightly against the armrest as the plane leveled out, the city disappearing fully beneath the clouds.
Because something told me—whatever this was—whatever had started between us this morning—we were already wildly veering off course, and I had a sinking feeling that we were heading right back into the belly of the beast.