Chapter 2
Toby
The ice didn't lie.
My skates carved a perfect, crescent-shaped groove into the pristine white surface.
Chh-kkt. The sound was sharp, violent, and satisfying.
I pushed off my left edge, feeling the burn in my quadriceps, a familiar fire that I welcomed.
Speed was simple. Physics was simple. If you applied enough force at the correct angle, you moved.
There were no variables on the ice that I couldn’t control. No shareholders demanding quarterly projections. No parents using my custody as a bargaining chip in a merger. And, usually, no soaking wet, platinum-blonde complications squatting in my spare bedroom.
Usually.
I drove the puck hard into the boards. It exploded off the glass with a deafening bang that echoed through the empty arena.
"Fuck," I breathed, the condensation clouding in front of my face like smoke.
I couldn't get her out of my head.
Georgia Sterling. The name alone tasted like expensive champagne and bad decisions.
I had left the penthouse two hours ago. I hadn't checked on her. I hadn't even looked at the guest room door. I had simply grabbed my gear, engaged the security system, and fled like a coward.
Because that’s what it was. Fear.
Not fear of her—she was five-foot-nothing and weighed about as much as my equipment bag.
I was afraid of the reaction she triggered in me.
The instant, visceral desire to conquer.
When I had looked at her last night, shivering and defiant in that ridiculous silk dress, my brain hadn't registered ‘GM’s daughter’ or ‘forbidden territory.’
It had registered ‘Mine.’
And that was unacceptable.
I lined up another puck at the blue line. I focused on the net. I visualized the top shelf, the water bottle resting on the mesh. Precision. Execution.
She picked my lock.
She stared me down.
She smelled like vanilla and rain.
I slapped the puck. It sailed wide, missing the net entirely and clattering uselessly into the corner.
I growled, slamming my stick against the ice.
"Trouble in paradise, Cap?"
The voice echoed from the tunnel. I didn't turn around. I knew that lazy, amused drawl anywhere.
Jaxson "Jager" Wells. My winger. My roommate—technically, though he spent most nights in random sorority houses or passing out on the couch in the team lounge. He was the only person on the team who wasn't terrified of me, mostly because he was too stupid to have a survival instinct.
"You're late," I said, skating over to retrieve the pucks.
"I'm on time," Jager countered, stepping onto the ice.
He didn't wear a helmet during morning skates because he claimed it messed with his 'flow.
' His blonde hair was a disaster, and he reeked of stale beer and mouthwash.
"You're just early. As always. Do you ever sleep? Seriously, T. You’re gonna turn into a robot.
A very rich, very good-at-hockey robot, but still. "
He skated a lazy circle around me, tapping my shin pads with his stick. "So, why are we trying to murder the glass at the ass-crack of dawn? Did Daddy Kincaid try to buy you a yacht again?"
"Drop it, Jager."
"Okay, okay." He held up his gloved hands in surrender. "Touchy. Must be the draft pressure. Or..." He narrowed his eyes, leaning in, his grin widening. "Did you bring a girl home? Is the Silencer getting laid? Is that why you’re here punishing the pucks? Post-coital guilt?"
I froze. My grip on the stick tightened until the carbon fiber groaned.
If Jager knew Georgia was in my apartment, it would be on Twitter by lunch. If the team found out, the locker room would be a circus. If her father found out...
Richard Sterling was the General Manager of the team holding the number one overall pick in the upcoming NHL draft.
The team I was destined for. The team I needed to draft me so I could sign my own contract, make my own money, and finally, legally, sever my financial ties to the Kincaid shipping empire.
My father, William Kincaid, saw my hockey career as a cute little hobby before I inevitably took over the CEO chair.
He controlled my trust fund. He controlled the penthouse.
He controlled the narrative. The only way out was to be so undeniably good that the NHL paid me eight figures to play a game.
Richard Sterling held the keys to my freedom.
And I had his estranged daughter locked in my guest room.
"No girl," I lied, my voice flat. "Just focus."
"Boring," Jager sighed, snapping a puck toward the net. It dinged off the crossbar. "You need to get laid, man. You’re wound tighter than a snare drum. It’s unnatural. You have puck bunnies lining up outside the arena every Friday and you just walk past them like they’re traffic cones."
"Traffic cones don't try to sell stories to TMZ," I muttered, skating toward the circle.
"Fair point. But still." Jager lined up next to me. "By the way, did you hear about the Sterling girl?"
My heart slammed against my ribs. I kept my face blank. "What about her?"
"Word is the old man finally cut the cord.
Revoked the cards, kicked her out of the Tri-Delt house.
Savage." Jager chuckled, shaking his head. "I mean, she’s a brat, but that’s harsh even for Richard.
People are saying she vanished. Lola Vance posted something cryptic about 'missing persons' on her story. "
I felt a cold knot tighten in my stomach. Vanished.
To the world, she was missing. To me, she was a liability sitting on my Italian leather sofa.
"Who cares?" I said, channeling every ounce of indifference I possessed. "She’s not part of the team. She’s irrelevant."
"True," Jager conceded, passing me the puck. "But she is hot. In a 'might ruin your life' kind of way. If I find her, maybe I’ll offer her a place to crash. Imagine the drama."
The image of Jager—chaotic, loud, promiscuous Jager—touching Georgia made my vision go red. A sudden, violent surge of possessiveness roared through me, hot and irrational. The idea of her anywhere near him, or anyone else, made me want to cross-check him into the boards.
I slapped the puck. It hit the top corner of the net with a thwack so loud it sounded like a gunshot.
"She’s not your type," I snapped.
Jager whistled. "Damn, T. Nice shot. And relax, I’m kidding. High maintenance isn't my vibe. I like low stakes. You’re the one who likes difficult things."
He didn't know how right he was.
By the time I finished classes and dry-land training, it was 4:00 PM.
I had spent the entire day operating on autopilot. Macroeconomics. Sports Psychology. Film study. I went through the motions, taking notes, nodding at professors, ignoring the whispers that followed me through the student union.
There’s Kincaid.
Think he’ll go first overall?
He looks pissed.
He always looks pissed.
Usually, the campus was my kingdom. I moved through it like a shark in a tank—feared, respected, untouched. But today, the armor felt thin.
Every time my phone vibrated, I expected a disaster. Had she ordered room service? Had she set the kitchen on fire? Had she left?
God, I hoped she had left.
If she was smart, she would have called a friend, found a hotel, pawned a ring. She would be gone, and I could go back to my sterile, controlled existence.
But as I walked across the quad, the wind biting at my face, I knew she wasn't gone. I knew it because my luck wasn't that good. And because Georgia Sterling didn't have friends; she had an audience. And without money, the audience dispersed.
I was the only audience she had left.
I swiped my keycard at the entrance of the Kincaid Tower. The concierge, a man named Henri who had worked for my father for twenty years, nodded at me.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Kincaid. Rough practice?"
"Standard," I murmured, heading for the elevators.
"Oh, and sir?" Henri called out.
I stopped, my hand hovering over the call button. "Yes?"
"I didn't want to disturb you, but I noticed... well, I thought I heard movement in the penthouse earlier. Housekeeping isn't scheduled until Thursday. Should I send security up?"
My blood ran cold.
"No," I said, too quickly. I forced my voice to slow down, to drop into that commanding register that made people stop asking questions. "I have a guest. She... prefers privacy. Do not disturb her. And Henri?"
"Yes, sir?"
"Put her on the unspoken list. No log entries. No calls to my father's office. If anyone asks, I am alone up there. Understood?"
Henri’s eyes widened slightly. He knew the drill. The "unspoken list" was usually reserved for my mother when she was drying out, or high-level business partners who didn't want the press to know they were in town.
"Of course, Mr. Kincaid. Discretion is paramount."
"Good man."
I stepped into the elevator and watched the doors slide shut.
I had just officially covered for her. I was an accomplice now. The moment I lied to Henri, I bound myself to her.
The elevator climbed. 20... 30... 40...
My chest felt tight. I loosened my tie. I hated suits, but the business school required them for presentations. I felt like I was wearing a costume.
The elevator opened directly into the foyer.
I stepped out, bracing myself for chaos.
The apartment was silent.
The puddle from last night was gone. The marble was dry.
I walked into the living room. It was exactly as I had left it. The pillows were chopped. The blinds were drawn to the perfect height. There was no glitter, no clothes, no sign of life.
Had she left?
A strange, hollow feeling expanded in my chest. Relief? Disappointment?
I walked to the kitchen.
And then I stopped.
She hadn't left.
She was sitting on the granite island—literally on the counter, her legs dangling—eating an apple she must have found in the fruit bowl.
She was wearing one of my t-shirts.
It was a black North Haven Hockey shirt. On me, it fit snug across the chest. On her, it was a tent. It hung off one shoulder, revealing the creamy slope of her neck and a black bra strap. It ended mid-thigh, leaving her legs bare.