The Hockey Star's Game

Chapter 1

ONE

STELLAN

Some mornings start with bad coffee in a stranger’s kitchen. This one started with me dressed like money in a city that wasn’t mine.

Gleaming marble floors and a breathtaking view of the Chicago skyline. The hotel’s club level felt like one continuous mirror—all glass, chrome, and polished wood, like an invitation to admire your own reflection while eating meticulously diced fruit at ten in the morning on a weekday.

I flipped a page in The Economist, shoulders loose, draping myself in imagined family wealth as if I was the son of some entrepreneur, casually hanging out in executive lounges. Ha. Hardly.

Ten past ten. No sign of my target just yet. Several tables over, Tomas tapped away on his laptop, a messenger bag on the chair beside him that gaped open just enough for his camera.

I took another sip of my cooling coffee and flipped another page. The world this week: depressing.

Fifteen past.

And… yep. There he was. Matt, apparently.

That was all they’d given me: first name, a photo, rough timing, and a couple of additional instructions. No detailed job talk. Avoid sports. Keep it light. Make him feel at ease, not spotlighted.

I could do that.

He walked in with a slightly hesitant air, contained body language, not one of those guys who expected everyone to turn and bow.

Mid-twenties or so. Baseball cap pulled low, black hair still damp at the edges, just long enough to curl a little, as if he’d showered fast after a workout.

Athletic zip-up, dark and fitted, the kind that drew my attention to his body, which…

well, hey. Muscular thighs. Good shoulders. Nice face, too.

Irrelevant. I was gay, but I’d flirted with women, men, even an older married couple once because the husband wanted plausible deniability while testing the idea of an open relationship.

Bodies were bodies, and I had rent to pay.

That was what had put me in Chicago for a job I’d already filed under classic concerned-partner situation, checking for receptivity that would read clean in pictures, no escalation.

Standard. Ugly, yeah, but in a private way. Catch a cheater, hand over the proof, let rich people ruin each other behind closed doors. Not noble, no, but contained. I could live with that.

Matt paused for a second, gaze sweeping over the fairly empty space, then picked a table off to the side by the windows, dropped his stuff, and turned toward the buffet.

All right, then. My cue. I folded The Economist like I’d grown bored of the world’s problems, smoothed my sweater, and got up. Tomas’s tapping stopped for a second as he reached for his messenger bag and left it angled slightly differently than before.

I strolled to the buffet like I belonged, when five years ago this light-streamed space, all marble floors and aggressively tasteful breakfast setup, would have had me fighting nerves.

Silver domes, glass jars of granolas, colorful fruit displayed like art.

A station with infused water, cucumber and lemon floating like they were on a spa retreat. A stack of crystal glasses.

Matt reached for one. So did I, just a couple of seconds behind, leaning in right as he lifted a full jug—all in the timing. Water sloshed. A small splash hit my forearm, darkening the sleeve of my pale orange sweater that was possibly the most daring choice I’d made today.

“Shit, sorry.” His face fell, and, huh. My line. The world of the wealthy wasn’t usually so ready to apologize after I’d put myself in their way.

“No worries,” I said. “It’s just water. I expect my day will get a lot worse than this.”

“Not an optimist, then?” A small, reluctant smile tugged at his mouth even as he grabbed napkins and handed them over.

There was something faintly rounded about the question, the vowels softened at the edges, but nothing I could place, just a whisper of somewhere colder than here.

Up close, he looked… not exhausted, not exactly, but like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in a while.

Well. Best guess? His partner had hired me to check if he was a cheater, so his relationship was likely on the rocks. And, yeah, okay. Dark brown eyes, light stubble, a prominent jawline—this was the kind of guy who got offers.

Mine: incoming.

“Well.” I wiped my sleeve with a napkin and shot him a grin that showcased my dimples, shoving carefully styled chocolate curls off my forehead. “Just feels like a hot guy getting me wet is more of a highlight than a downer.”

He paused, then exhaled a laugh that came out tight and controlled, like he wasn’t sure he should admit he was enjoying this.

He was, though—a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it drop of his focus to my mouth before he met my eyes again, body language uncertain but angled toward me.

Not leaning in, though. Nothing that would read conclusive.

“Still,” he said, watching me a little too closely for… something. Expectant, only I couldn’t pin it down. “Sorry. My hand–eye coordination is usually excellent.”

“Good for you,” I said, teasing. “Want a cookie?”

One side of his mouth quirked up higher. “Think I’ll go with fruit salad.”

“How very responsible.” I poured water for both of us and handed him one glass, making sure our fingers brushed for a hint longer than normal. “I’m Stellan, by the way.”

His gaze hesitated on me, followed by a tiny pause as if he was busy weighing risks. “Matt.”

Interested. The way his look lingered, his smile a hint late only to stay too long. How his voice had dropped when he offered his name.

Interested. But undecided what to do with it.

“Matt,” I repeated, letting my own smile widen into something that said I was easy, safe, a fun little moment that wouldn’t cost him anything. Why end it early? “So, Matt. What brings you to Chicago? Unless you live around the corner and come up here because it beats dicing your own fruit.”

His gaze flicked past me, scanning the room again. Then back to my face. Guilty? Well, good. If he was contemplating a little time-out from his relationship, he should be having qualms.

It wasn’t my job to judge him. My job was to be the harmless chance he’d want to take.

“Work,” he said, a single word that felt like he’d thrown up a little wall.

I lifted my brows. “Thrillingly specific. So, a convention of professional lobby scent consultants?”

He breathed out another half laugh. “No, just… a business meeting. Dinner.”

“Ah.” I nodded like I knew the drill. I kind of did, had at least done enough business dinners and events. “Stiff suits, pressed shirts, and polite conversation over caviar.”

“Something like that.” His mouth twitched, and I let the pause linger as we started moving along the buffet, side by side, but not close enough that it really counted. His turn to ask a question, extend our interaction—if that’s what he wanted.

Greek yogurt and berries for him, cheese and a miniature pain au chocolat for me. A hard-boiled egg for him, a piece of sausage for me.

“What about you?” he asked, and—yes. I was in. “Business? Pleasure?”

“You mean right now?” I shot him a meaningful look, careful to keep it light, a little teasing.

While some people enjoyed playing coy, Matt seemed like the kind of guy who might lock down if I came on too strong.

“Cute that you think I have the discipline for a real job. Look at my breakfast choices.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, body angled toward me, caution still tucked into the edges of his expression. “So you’re happily spending someone else’s money?” he asked.

“Family credit card,” I said, matter-of-fact, as if my parents hadn’t treated money like sand that ran through their fingers, just good enough for the next fix. The only plastic I’d grown up around had come with late notices and clenched-jaw fights.

“Ah. Lucky, I guess.” He sounded like someone unfamiliar with the concept, like he was here on his own merit. Influencer? He had the looks and body.

For a moment, we hovered with plates and glasses, smiles tilting like this could go either way.

“You sit over there?” I asked then, nodding toward his table.

He did that small pause again, like a risk-benefit calculation, before he nodded. “Yeah. Feel free to join me.”

“Sounds good,” I said, and smiled like it wasn’t the start of something he might come to regret.

“No,” I said.

Matt’s mouth pulled to one side, as if he was trying to hide his amusement. “No?”

“Like I said—no.” I leaned in a little, lowering my voice like we were conspiring. “If you were from New York, you’d have much louder opinions.”

He looked down at his plate, but not before I caught the full smile that warmed his eyes, cap pulled low enough it would have been easy to miss. “Yeah, no. I have opinions.”

“You’ve yet to tell me about the deli that ruined you for all other sandwiches. You’d have rearranged the buffet for better traffic flow.”

This time, he actually laughed, low but true. Somehow, my stomach fluttered with the sound.

“Okay,” he said. “If not New York, where do you think I’m from?”

Seattle—probably. Most of the agency’s clients were, and by extension the majority of my targets, too.

“Somewhere with winters,” I said instead. “Canada, maybe. Or one of those American places that sound halfway there. You’ve got good coat posture.”

“Good coat posture,” he repeated, amused, dark eyes steady and a little tired around the corners. His body language stayed controlled: spine straight, forearms neatly on the table, expensive watch catching the light when he moved his hand.

And… Jesus, I was intrigued despite myself.

I’d learned to read a room early, to read people and their moods—pure self-protection that had gotten my brother and me out of tight spots before.

But Matt didn’t fit into any of my neat categories.

He carried himself with quiet confidence coupled with an awareness of his surroundings that I recognized from myself, only he wasn’t good at hiding it.