The Owner She Couldn't Have

Chapter 1

Lacey

I pause at the entrance of the Alpha Ridge Desperadoes’ VIP suite, suddenly conscious of my heartbeat drumming in my ears.

Fiona grips my elbow, tugging me forward with the same excitement she’s had since we were kids sneaking into each other’s rooms for late-night gossip sessions.

Now we’re sneaking into an exclusive box at her dad’s hockey game, but my pulse isn’t racing because I’m trespassing.

No, it’s because Oliver Green—my best friend’s father, the man I’ve spent way too many nights dreaming about—is standing right inside.

The suite is buzzing with energy, the low hum of conversation mingling with the crackle of anticipation from the stadium below.

Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the ice, where players in Desperadoes jerseys skate warm-up laps.

The overhead lights flicker across the rink, turning the polished ice into a liquid mirror.

My breath catches when I spot Fiona’s father leaning casually against one of the plush seats, scanning the crowd with a confident, discerning gaze.

Oliver Green is easily the most magnetic man I’ve ever met.

And that’s a problem because, well, he’s Oliver.

I press my lips together, reminding myself to keep it together.

We’re here to support Fiona’s boyfriend, Stellan “Striker” Stephenson, the star center for the Desperadoes.

Fiona’s practically bouncing. “Lacey, c’mon!

Let’s go say hi to Dad.” She tugs at my hand again, and I step deeper into the suite.

My eyes flick over the expensive décor: the gilded frames of hockey memorabilia, comfortable couches in the team’s colors, and a well-stocked minibar.

It’s plush, powerful—just like Oliver. I’ve been here before, but it never fails to impress me how easily Oliver brings style and authority to any space.

It’s as if the entire arena belongs to him, and in a very literal sense, it does.

Fiona waves enthusiastically at her father. “Dad!” she calls out, then glances back at me, mouthing, “He’s in a good mood today.”

I fight back a wry grin, and we walk over.

Oliver looks at Fiona with that warm, paternal affection in his eyes.

A small pang of envy nibbles at me. I know I have no right to feel that way—he’s my best friend’s dad, for heaven’s sake—but the warmth in his gaze stirs all kinds of feelings I try my hardest to bury.

Fiona greets him with a quick hug. “We made it,” she announces. “Though I almost had to drag Lacey. Traffic was insane.”

“That’s a polite way of saying I drive like a grandma,” I joke, though my voice comes out a bit shaky. I force a laugh, feeling Oliver’s eyes on me.

He flashes a grin that lights up his entire face—strong jaw, faint crinkles around the eyes, just enough to prove he’s mature without feeling old.

If you can believe it, those lines make him even more attractive.

“I’ll have to make sure you get a special parking pass next time.

Can’t have my VIP guests late because of traffic. ”

He’s so confident, so assured. My stomach knots.

“Thanks, Mr. Green,” I say, then correct myself.

“Oliver.” He’s asked me repeatedly to drop the formalities; it’s just so hard to do.

In my mind, he’s always Mr. Green, the man who picked Fiona and me up from dance class, the man who quietly slipped me a hundred-dollar bill on my eighteenth birthday because I couldn’t afford a new dress for prom.

And now… the man I can’t stop looking at like I’m starving and he’s the last slice of cake.

Fiona raises a hand to get the bartender’s attention. “We’re celebrating tonight,” she declares, smoothing a hand over her stylish jacket. “Striker’s been on a scoring streak, so I’m pretty sure he’s gonna tear up the ice.”

I nod, trying to focus on Fiona’s words. “I’m definitely excited to see him play.” I’m making small talk, but in truth, I’m trying to quell the heat spreading up my cheeks because Oliver’s attention still lingers on me. I feel it—an almost tangible weight.

Oliver folds his arms across his chest, his biceps straining the fabric of his tailored suit jacket.

He’s dressed in a crisp white shirt, open at the collar, no tie, and a dark blazer.

It suits him—polished but relaxed. “If Striker’s in the zone,” he says, “he’ll be unstoppable. Fiona, your mother’s coming by later.”

Fiona’s brow wrinkles. “Ugh, Mom’s coming? She never stays more than a few minutes anyway.”

Oliver shrugs, an amused glint in his eyes. “She said she wants to congratulate Striker in person.”

Fiona snorts. “And then she’ll vanish before the second period. Classic.” She waves off the subject and hands me a champagne flute. “Anyway, Lacey—here’s to us having a great night.”

I raise my glass. “Cheers,” I murmur.

Oliver lifts his own tumbler—dark liquid swirling with a single giant ice cube. Whiskey, probably. He looks me in the eye as our glasses clink. “Cheers,” he repeats softly.

The moment is startlingly intimate, and my heartbeat picks up again. I take a sip of the bubbly champagne, the crisp effervescence tingling my lips. I sense a warm flush creeping across my face as I glance away, trying to focus on the action on the ice.

Fiona starts gushing about Striker’s latest stats.

I half-listen, nodding in the right places, but my thoughts keep drifting.

I can’t help it. My body is hyperaware of Oliver’s presence a few steps away.

When I shift my weight from one foot to the other, I feel his gaze flick toward me, like a gentle brush of fingers against my skin.

Hockey players do their laps below us, and the arena’s lights switch to a dramatic spotlight for the pregame introductions.

The crowd roars. Fiona squeals, pulling out her phone to record.

She’s so excited she doesn’t notice the heat building between me and her dad, but I do. I can almost see the air crackling.

I try to distract myself by asking Fiona questions about Striker’s routine. “So, has he changed his pregame superstition yet? I remember you mentioning he always ties his right skate before his left.”

“Oh no, still the same.” Fiona laughs, rolling her eyes. “He’s big on consistency. Drives me nuts sometimes, but what can I do?”

Oliver steps closer. “Athletes thrive on ritual,” he says, his tone warm as he joins the conversation. “Striker’s a prime example. That dedication is part of the reason he’s so valuable.”

I swallow, nodding. “Absolutely. It’s impressive, seeing how these players can be so disciplined.” I try to keep my voice steady, but the moment Oliver stands beside me, a surge of warmth runs through my arm. He’s not even touching me, yet my skin prickles with an undeniable awareness.

Fiona makes a playful face. “Dad’s always liked Striker,” she informs me. “He practically offered him a blank check when his contract was up for negotiation last year.”

Oliver arches a brow. “He’s the best in the league. Had to make sure he stayed a Desperado.”

A few more guests file into the suite—executives, sponsors, and their partners. Fiona immediately gets swept into conversation, bragging about Striker’s achievements. I’m left nursing my champagne, hovering near a window where I can see the players coasting around the rink.

Oliver appears at my side moments later, his voice low. “You’re quiet tonight. You okay?”

I blink, caught off guard by his directness.

“Yeah,” I manage with a small laugh. “Just taking it all in.” That’s an understatement if there ever was one.

I’m taking in every molecule of his presence, from the smell of his cologne—woodsy, with a hint of spice—to the shape of his mouth when he speaks.

He tilts his head, analyzing me in that gentle but penetrating way that makes my stomach twist. “You sure?”

My throat feels tight. He’s so close I can catch the subtle shift of color in his eyes—hazel with flecks of gold. “Positive,” I lie. “Really, I’m just excited for the game.”

Oliver nods, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Good. Let me know if you need anything.”