Chapter 1 #3
“Sorry,” someone cut in—male, a little breathless. A guy in a navy blazer that was too tight around the chest. “Sorry, really, I don’t mean to interrupt, but…” His eyes were fixed on Matt, phone already half raised. “Oh my God. Matt Harkins, right? Seattle Cascades.”
My lungs pulled tight.
I stood up straighter, one hand by my side and the other clutching the cup, held on to my expression like a drowning man clinging to a safety buoy.
Seattle Cascades. Hockey. Fuck. Fuck. My brain flashed to a game Ronan had half watched in our apartment a while back, commentators talking over each other while I passed through on my way to the shower.
A face on the screen, helmet off for a second—dark eyes, prominent jawline, and Ronan saying, “That’s Harkins.
Captain.” I’d glanced over, thought, huh, handsome, and kept moving.
Because, unlike my brother, I didn’t watch hockey. Didn’t care about sports beyond whether rich people liked discussing them over drinks, which, maybe, was exactly the point. Jesus. They might have picked me because I’d look right at him and see a hot stranger, not a headline.
Matt Harkins.
Hockey star. The whole picture of him suddenly snapped into focus, those shoulders and thick thighs, the way he moved like control had been drilled into him.
Closeted.
Press? What if—fuck. What if this wasn’t a private job at all? What if I’d just helped hand the tabloids a closeted hockey star on a silver platter?
Matt’s face rearranged itself as he turned to face the guy, warmth replaced with a professional smile. It didn’t seem fake, not quite, more controlled and polished, careful not to offer too much.
“Hey,” he said, his voice easy as if I hadn’t just straightened out of a graceful tumble into his arms, as if our feet hadn’t knocked under the table just moments ago. “Yeah, that’s me. You follow the team?”
The guy laughed nervously. “Yeah, somewhat. My brother’s a massive fan, though. Can I get a quick picture? He’ll lose his mind.”
“Sure,” Matt said, still friendly, normal. Like I’d imagined it all.
Only—fuck. From the corner of my eye, I saw Tomas move. Laptop snapped shut, bag zipped. He stood and walked out with the calm efficiency of a man who’d gotten exactly what he needed.
And I’d been the key that unlocked it.
While Matt posed for a selfie and other heads turned to see about the commotion, I faked utter fascination with my empty coffee cup, clinging to a polite smile as I waited for the fan to scatter, something bitter coating my tongue.
For an instant so brief I almost missed it, Matt glanced at me. I kept my attention on the skyline.
The fan finally backed away, still gushing. “Sorry, sorry. Good luck this season. You’re unreal, man.”
“Thank you,” Matt said. It sounded automatic.
Heavy silence fell between us. Gentle music and the clink of cutlery, other voices washing distantly along the inside of my skull.
Nausea twisted through my veins. I… fuck.
A closeted athlete. It made sense, all of a sudden—how his body spelled confidence while his eyes kept scanning the room.
Why they’d sent me to catch him in Chicago, away from home, so he’d be a little looser, a little more likely to angle toward me rather than away.
I shuffled half a step back. “Hey, I—sorry.” For once, my attempt at a light tone fell flat. “I didn’t know who you were.”
His mouth tightened a fraction, the professional mask still on. “I got that.”
“I should go. It’s…” I picked up my glass, still holding on to my cup, then noticed I didn’t have enough hands to pick up the plate and cutlery, too, and anyway, this was a luxury lounge, there were servers who did that kind of thing. “Let’s just forget half of what I said, okay? Never happened.”
A flicker in his eyes, quick and unreadable. Then he inhaled and glanced away. “It was nice to meet you, Stellan.”
“You too,” I said, and Christ, he’d regret meeting me, would curse the day I was born. At least if he was into Shakespeare, the classics, something, whatever.
I needed to go. Fix it.
“See you, Matt,” I managed when no, I wouldn’t.
Maybe he replied, maybe he didn’t. I was moving already, heading for the elevators with my spine straight and my face set to pleasantly blank while my stomach drew tight like a fist.
Tomas had the shots. More than relationship leverage—ammunition.
Not okay, fuck. This was… Sure, yes, my job was ethically ambiguous, but I didn’t make people cheat. I didn’t shove their hands into the cookie jar. I just held the lid open and invited them to serve themselves.
This was different. Bigger than private leverage, bigger than a nasty little domestic war that would stay inside lawyers’ offices and penthouse kitchens. It felt like a weapon with a spotlight attached, the kind that could drag someone out of the closet and into headlines. Disgusting.
I needed to stop it.
Except I couldn’t unclick a shutter. I couldn’t unsend a file. The elevator doors opened and I walked in, unsure how to chase a disaster I’d helped set in motion.
But I had to try.