Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Two Weeks Later
Tonight was Eric's first game with the team, and for a split second, he nearly blew it.
The roar of the crowd echoed through the arena as he flew down the ice with the puck glued to his stick.
He weaved through defenders with practiced ease, shifting left, then right, making the opposing team look slow and clumsy in comparison.
Every cheer that erupted from the stands fueled him further, pumping air into an ego that had taken a beating these past few months.
They thought they’d trade him and be done? Ha!
It was their loss. He'd landed on his feet just fine.
In fact, he was doing better than fine. The organization had welcomed him with open arms. His new apartment was bigger than anything he'd expected—fully furnished, modern, and located in a part of town that made him feel like he'd finally arrived.
The coaches believed in him. The fans were already chanting his name.
Tonight was proof that he didn't need anyone who hadn't wanted him.
He cut toward the net, the goalie shifting nervously as Eric worked the puck from left to right, approaching with fervor. He was going to score, to show them what they’d missed out on. The crowd rose to their feet. The moment was his. Then he looked up… and everything else disappeared.
Standing just beyond the glass, behind the goal, was a woman he'd never seen before. She wasn't screaming like everyone else. She wasn't waving a sign or wearing a jersey. She was simply watching… him.
Was she focused on him?
Her hands were clasped tightly against her chest, her lips slightly parted as though she'd forgotten to breathe.
The bright arena lights seemed to find her in the crowd, casting a soft glow over her features while the thousands of people surrounding her faded into the background.
For one ridiculous second, it felt as though she was the only other person in the building.
And he was positive now - she was looking directly at him.
Not the game.
Not the scoreboard.
Him.
The expression on her face hit him harder than any body check he'd ever taken.
Awe. Wonder. Excitement. Longing… like she'd just witnessed something extraordinary before her.
God, when was the last time someone ever looked at him like that?
Sure, he had girls eyeballing him, but this was somehow different, more personal.
His skate caught an edge.
"Whoa—"
He stumbled and the puck nearly slid away from him. A defender lunged forward, sensing the mistake, and Eric barely recovered in time, yanking the puck back under control.
"Focus, dummy," he muttered to himself through clenched teeth. His heart was pounding for reasons that had nothing to do with hockey. With one final burst of speed, he snapped his wrists and fired. The puck streaked across the ice and the goalie dropped immediately to block the shot.
Too late, bro…
The puck slipped cleanly beneath his pads and buried itself in the back of the net and the arena exploded. Eric thrust both fists into the air as teammates rushed toward him. The crowd's cheers thundered around him, but his attention was already elsewhere.
He twisted around, searching the stands. His eyes scanned, trying to find her again and paused where she’d been a moment ago. Just over the goal— and nothing.
The spot where she'd been standing was empty.
He blinked and looked again. Had he imagined her? No - there was no way. He could still picture every detail of her face. Still feel the strange jolt that had hit him the second their eyes met. As his teammates pounded him on the helmet and shouted congratulations, Eric kept scanning the crowd.
Maybe she'd stepped away.
Maybe she'd gone to grab a drink.
Maybe she'd vanished into the sea of people filing through the arena.
Whatever the reason, he knew one thing. If he saw her again, he wasn't letting her disappear a second time. He’d play off missing the shot with faking an injury or something, because he needed to know more about that woman, that goddess in the stands.
This feeling of emptiness, regret, like he’d missed out on something vital didn’t feel so good.
Next time?
He was making his move.
They won.
The game was over, the final buzzer long since faded, but the adrenaline still hummed beneath Eric's skin like a live wire.
He'd done everything expected of him afterward—the endless media interviews with reporters asking the same questions in slightly different ways, the post-game analysis, the forced smiles for cameras.
He'd even lingered in the locker room longer than he normally would, making an effort to get to know the men who now wore the same jersey.
New team. New city. New faces. The chemistry was still developing, both on and off the ice.
Most of the guys had eventually decided there was only one proper way to celebrate a win.
Alcohol.
Loud music.
Questionable decisions.
And so, like a flock of overgrown children with professional athletic contracts, they'd piled into rideshares and headed downtown.
The Iron Peak was already alive when Eric stepped inside.
The bass wasn't merely music here—it was a living thing.
It pulsed through the walls and floorboards, vibrating up through the soles of his boots and settling somewhere behind his ribs.
Every beat seemed to synchronize with the crowd itself, creating one giant, restless heartbeat.
Colored lights sliced through the haze hanging above the dance floor, illuminating flashes of raised glasses, laughing faces, and bodies moving in rhythm.
It was only Tuesday, which made it one of Eric's favorite nights.
The weekend crowds brought tourists, bachelor parties, and people desperate to be seen. Tuesdays belonged to the locals. The regulars. The people who came because they genuinely wanted to be there rather than because some social media influencer told them it was the place to be.
The crowd was thinner.
Easier to read.
And Eric liked being able to read a room.
He leaned casually against the polished black granite bar, though there was nothing particularly casual about the man himself. At six-foot-four and built like someone had sculpted him out of granite to match the countertop, he naturally commanded attention whether he wanted it or not.
A dark charcoal henley stretched across broad shoulders and a chest built through years of professional hockey.
The fabric strained slightly whenever he crossed his arms, as though even the shirt understood it was losing a battle.
His sleeves were shoved to his elbows, exposing powerful forearms lined with a web of veins and old scars—small souvenirs collected from countless games, practices, and fights for the puck.
His damp brown hair looked artfully disheveled despite the fact he'd spent exactly three seconds running a towel through it after showering at the arena. A faint shadow darkened his jaw by the end of the day, giving him a rougher edge than the polished athletes featured in magazine spreads.
His gaze moved steadily across the nightclub.
Then he saw her.
His woman from the stands.
She was tucked away in the farthest corner of the bar, hidden inside a curved leather booth that seemed determined to swallow her whole.
The spot was half-shadowed, shielded from the chaos of the crowd, as if she'd deliberately chosen the one place where she could disappear while still technically being part of the party.
And somehow, she still managed to be the only thing Eric could see.
A half-finished drink rested between her hands, the clear liquid sparkling beneath the rotating lights overhead. She wasn't talking much. Mostly listening. Watching. While her friends animatedly waved their arms and shouted over the music, she sat quietly among them, present but somehow separate.
His gaze lingered.
Her hair spilled over her shoulders in thick, rich brown waves that caught every sweep of colored light.
Gold one second. Amber the next. The soft curls framed a face that looked almost too delicate for a place like this.
Even from across the room, he could make out the faint scattering of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks.
They stood out against her fair skin, giving her an almost sun-kissed appearance despite being surrounded by darkness and neon.
Incredible, he thought, swallowing as he drank her in.
Not the obvious, attention-seeking kind of beauty that crowded every sports bar and club he'd ever walked into.
No. This was something quieter. More alluring…
more dangerous. The kind that sneaks up on a man and makes him do a lot of stupid things.
‘Doing stupid things’ sounds very interesting right now…
She turned her head slightly, laughing at something one of her friends said. The sound never reached him through the pounding music, but he saw the smile. Saw the way it softened her features.
Yet that gorgeous smile wasn't real - not completely.
Eric couldn't explain how he knew. Maybe it was the years he'd spent reading opponents on the ice. Looking for tells. Looking for weakness. The smile was there, but the happiness behind it wasn’t.
Something in her eyes, in the way she held herself, gave her away.
Large and expressive, they seemed almost black in the dim lighting, but he caught flashes of blue whenever the lights swung her direction.
Clear blue. Bright enough that he suspected they'd be impossible to ignore in daylight.
Those eyes were paying attention to everyone around her.
But they weren't truly with them, the group.
His interest sharpened.
Then she bit her lip.
Just once.
A nervous habit, maybe?
Thoughtless, unconscious, but Eric felt it like a punch to the chest. The curve of those full lips disappeared briefly beneath white teeth before she released them again.
The movement was small, innocent, alluring – and it shouldn’t be affecting him like this.
The only thing going through his head when he saw that small motion was, ‘Baby, don’t bite too hard – those are my lips to nibble on… ’
His grip tightened around his bottle.
The woman was wearing a simple black dress. Nothing flashy. No sequins. No plunging neckline demanding attention. The fabric skimmed her figure, hinting at soft curves without advertising them. If anything, it made him look harder.
Everything about her seemed restrained. Contained. Careful. Measured. As though she'd spent years learning how to take up as little space as possible. She’s hiding… why?
The contrast fascinated him.
The room was loud. Wild. Full of people trying desperately to be seen…
and there she sat, perfectly still in the middle of it all.
A locked door surrounded by open windows.
A mystery wrapped in black silk and freckles.
She was hiding in plain sight, overlooked by the rest of the idiots around her… but not him.
A slow smile tugged at Eric's mouth.
There you are...
For the first time all night, he wasn't bored.
Beside him, another player, Dex or Dax – or maybe it was Detox, because he was throwing down beers left and right – the other man followed the direction of his stare and let out a low whistle.
"See something you like, Vincente?"
Eric took another sip of his drink without looking away from her.
"I see… a delightful challenge."
Dex barked out a drunken laugh. "That's dangerous."
"The dangerous ones are always worth it."
His teammate shook his head. "You don't even know her."
"Not yet," Eric agreed, but he wanted to - badly.
For the next fifteen minutes, he watched.
Not because he was trying to work up the courage to approach her.
Eric “The Flash” Vincente had never lacked confidence a day in his life.
He watched because she intrigued him. Every movement seemed deliberate, controlled.
She sipped her drink slowly. Listened more than she spoke.
Smiled politely when addressed. Every now and then, her gaze drifted toward the dance floor or the crowded bar with an expression he couldn't quite name.
Loneliness, maybe? Exhaustion? She looked like she'd rather be anywhere else – and Eric was drinking in every signal, every sigh, learning and processing so his next move would land appropriately but he needed something more, something else to clinch the deal.
Then opportunity arrived.
A guy from a nearby table leaned over the back of her booth and Eric hesitated, fighting the urge to run over and claim what was his.
The man's grin practically screamed confidence and he recognized the type instantly.
This guy probably thought that buying her a drink was all it would take to get in her pants, but Eric knew better. He could feel it in his gut, his soul.
The stranger spoke.
She listened and offered a polite smile - then shook her head once. No embarrassment. No flirtation. No invitation to keep trying. The message couldn't have been clearer.
Not interested.
She turned her shoulder away from him and resumed her conversation with her friends. Dismissed. The guy lingered for a few awkward seconds before retreating with whatever dignity he had left.
Eric chuckled under his breath. Interesting. Most women would have softened the rejection. Left the door cracked open. She'd shut it entirely. Not cruelly… just decisively. Which only made him want to know what it would take to get past those walls.
His smile widened.
He loved walls. Walls were challenges. Walls were puzzles. Walls existed for one reason—to see who was determined enough to climb them and plunder the treasures inside… and he was down for plundering anytime that the stakes were right.
Setting his bottle down, he pushed away from the bar. That idiot had his chance and blundered it badly. Now it was time to show his woman what a real man was like – and lay claim to her.
"Hold my drink."
Dex groaned immediately. "Oh nooo."
Huh? Eric paused for a brief moment and glanced at him. Did this guy know something he didn’t?
"What?"
"I know that look."
You don’t know a thing about me – and I’m about to get to know her, he thought silently, ignoring the other man. He glanced toward the secluded booth one more time and his pulse kicked up unexpectedly. Not nerves…
Anticipation.
Eric started across the crowded room – toward the most interesting thing he'd seen all season.
Her.