Chapter 2
Lacey
The puck drops, and the suite erupts in cheers.
Fiona claps wildly, half leaning over the balcony railing, her hair bouncing around her shoulders.
The Desperadoes dominate possession early, and Striker is on fire, weaving through opponents with effortless grace.
A collective roar explodes when he scores the first goal, and Fiona nearly topples over with excitement, screaming, “That’s my man! ”
Oliver applauds appreciatively, exchanging enthusiastic banter with one of the sponsors.
I feel a rush of pride too—Striker’s an amazing player, and seeing him thrive makes Fiona so happy.
The music pulses through the arena, and I find myself bobbing along to the beat, momentarily distracted from the man a few feet away, the man who sends my heart into freefall.
After the buzz of the first goal settles, Fiona bounds back to me. “Right? Didn’t I tell you he was unstoppable? Gah, I love him.”
I grin. “It’s awesome, Fi. He looks amazing out there.”
She gestures to the bartender. “We need more champagne! And you—” She turns to me, pointing. “You’re finishing that glass, okay? This is a night to celebrate.”
“I will, I will,” I promise, taking another sip.
The bubbles pop against my tongue, mirroring the effervescence I feel inside.
My nerves are a tangled mess of excitement and longing, and the alcohol’s slight buzz makes it both easier and harder to mask it.
My senses feel sharpened, every nerve humming, especially when Oliver steps back over to our side of the suite.
“That was a hell of a play,” Oliver says, nodding toward the rink. His tone is casual, but I catch the faintest trace of tension, as if he, too, is trying to keep something under control.
“It really was,” I reply, lifting my glass to my lips again to hide the quiver in my voice.
Fiona, oblivious, is already halfway across the suite chatting up another group. She’s always been the life of the party, which is part of why we get along so well. I’m a little more reserved, but she draws me out. Usually.
Oliver’s presence, on the other hand, binds my tongue in knots. I sneak a look at him. “You must be proud,” I say. “I mean, of your team.”
He half-smiles. “I am. Building the Desperadoes into a championship team is something I’ve dreamed about for years. But it’s more than pride. It’s…” He exhales, searching for words. “Responsibility, maybe. I want every player to feel valued and every fan to feel inspired. Sounds cheesy, right?”
My chest tightens. He’s so genuine beneath that cool exterior. “No, not at all. It’s nice to hear someone talk about sports as more than just a business.”
His gaze slides over me, warm and intent. “Thanks.”
Our eyes lock, and a flicker of electricity skates across my skin.
It’s a dangerous feeling, one I know I shouldn’t be indulging.
I break the moment, turning my attention to the game.
A line change is happening, so the pace slows slightly.
The suite hums with conversation, but the hush between Oliver and me feels charged.
I glance at him again. “So, are you—”
A sudden roar of cheers interrupts me as the Desperadoes nearly score a second goal. Fiona, from across the suite, shrieks and jumps, practically strangling some unsuspecting guest with a hug. Laughter spreads around the room, and Oliver and I join in.
He steps away to speak with one of the assistant coaches who’s just entered, leaving me feeling both relieved and oddly bereft. The tension in my chest unravels a bit, but I miss the heat of his nearness. Ridiculous, I scold myself. You’re here for Fiona. For the game. Keep it together.
By the second period, Striker has racked up another point, and the Desperadoes lead two to one.
The suite is ablaze with excitement. I’m on my second glass of champagne, and Fiona has decided we need to celebrate every goal, so I’m feeling a bit tipsy—just enough for a warm glow.
Time slips by in a rush of whoops, high-fives, and excited chatter.
Suddenly, Fiona’s phone buzzes. She grimaces. “It’s my mother. She wants me to meet her at the entrance. Ugh, seriously?”
I offer a sympathetic smile. “Go for it. I’ll hold down the fort here.”
She groans but kisses my cheek, says, “Be right back,” and disappears through the door. Most of the suite’s occupants are closer to the bar or the couches, leaving me by the windows alone. Or at least, that’s what I think until Oliver’s voice rumbles softly behind me.
“You’re not joining Fiona?” He sounds curious, as though he figured we’d be glued together.
I pivot, my heart giving a little leap. “I figured it’d be better if she talked to her mom without me lurking. Besides, I’m fine here.”
Oliver steps closer, so close that I can feel the faint heat of his body. “You’re always so considerate.”
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I just know sometimes it’s best for them to have their own conversation, you know? Fiona doesn’t exactly get along with her mother.”
His gaze flickers. “True.” He takes a sip from his whiskey. “So, how’s life treating you otherwise, Lacey? Fiona mentioned you’re looking for a new job.”
My face warms. “Yeah. I’m on the hunt. The agency I was with downsized. Bad timing, but I’m hoping something better comes along.”
“It will.” His voice is calm, reassuring. “You’re talented. I’ve seen your work before, the design stuff you did for Fiona’s website. You could do something big.”
I look up, surprised. “I… I didn’t know you saw that.”
He shrugs. “I might not say it often, but I pay attention.” His eyes glimmer, letting that last line hang in the air. My heart thuds hard.
“Thank you,” I breathe. My hand trembles slightly, so I set my champagne flute on a nearby tray. “I appreciate it.”
He dips his head, the corner of his mouth curving up.
The faint lines near his eyes deepen when he smiles, and it’s disarming.
My mind flashes with memories of teenage me, curled up in Fiona’s room, thinking about Mr. Green—Oliver—my silly fantasies that I always brushed off as harmless.
But right now, they don’t feel so harmless.
They feel alive and heady, swirling in my chest with the sweet fizz of champagne.
We both turn to the glass, observing the game below.
The Desperadoes fail to connect on a power play, and there’s a collective groan from the crowd.
My own frustration feels overshadowed by the tension gathering between Oliver and me.
It’s unspoken, a current that crackles whenever we’re left alone.
I shift on my heels. “So, you must be proud of Fiona, too,” I say softly. “She’s come a long way.”
His expression softens. “She has. Sometimes I can’t believe my little girl is all grown up, living her own life, making her own decisions. She’s with a man who respects her, doing well in her own projects, traveling the world with Striker. It’s… a lot to take in.”
“She’s a great person. You and her mom did a good job raising her.” My throat tightens when I say it. His gaze dips to my lips, just for a split second, or maybe I’m imagining it. But it leaves a faint flutter in my stomach.
Oliver gently exhales, as if weighing his next words. “And how about you? Are you… seeing anyone these days?” His voice is carefully casual, but there’s an undercurrent there that makes my pulse spike.
I catch my breath. “No,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “No one serious.” Well, no one at all. I feel like any time I date, there’s this impossible standard in my head. And sometimes I wonder if that standard is shaped by the very man standing next to me. But I can’t say that out loud.
He nods slowly, the muscle in his jaw tightening. “You deserve someone who realizes how special you are.”
My cheeks heat. I want to respond with a witty comeback, something light and breezy that doesn’t betray the fact that I’m clinging to every syllable he says. But words fail me. Eventually, I manage, “Thanks. That means a lot.”
We’re quiet for a second, the crowd’s roar intensifying as the second period winds down. My heart is galloping. I inhale, trying to steady myself. The scoreboard shows a one-goal lead, but it feels like the entire arena is suspended in the same tension I feel in this suite.
Oliver’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He glances at it, frowns. “I should handle this,” he murmurs. “Another sponsor question.” He steps away to take the call.
I release a breath, pressing a hand to my chest. This is insane.
My body feels like it’s been lit on fire with just a few words, a couple of looks.
I’m not supposed to feel this way. I’m definitely not supposed to wish that phone call never came so we could keep talking, keep hovering in this dangerously thrilling space.
I catch a glimpse of Fiona entering the suite again.
She looks flustered, rolling her eyes dramatically.
“Ugh, my mother,” she mutters to me, dropping into one of the plush chairs.
“She’s going on and on about how I should be spending my time more wisely, not traveling so much.
She acts like Striker’s a bad influence or something. ”
I pat her shoulder. “She’s probably just worried about you.”
Fiona snorts. “Could’ve fooled me.” Then she waves it off, her annoyance dissipating quickly. She notices my flushed face. “Hey, you okay? You look, I don’t know, a little overheated.”
I stiffen. Does she suspect? “I’m fine. Just, you know, champagne plus excitement.” I force a smile and point to the rink. “The game’s intense.”
Fiona shrugs. “Cool. Don’t let me worry you. I’m just here to watch my man score more goals.” She leans toward the glass, hyper-focused on Striker, who’s skating near the opponent’s net.
My attention drifts across the suite, searching for Oliver. He’s on the phone near the door, his face a mix of concentration and mild irritation. He gestures with one hand as he talks, and even that casual motion is enough to make my stomach flip. I scold myself silently. This is out of control.