Chapter 3
Lacey
By the time the third period starts, the Desperadoes are clinging to a narrow lead.
Tension thrums in the air. Guests in the suite edge closer to the glass.
Oliver stands not far behind me, arms crossed, gaze sharp as he watches his team.
Every time I glance at him, I see that same intensity he brings to every aspect of his life.
It stirs something in me, a longing I can’t quite quell.
Striker takes a pass down center ice, elegantly weaving around defenders.
The crowd noise builds into a crescendo.
He shoots—and scores. The suite erupts in chaos.
Champagne splashes, someone drops a glass, and I find myself squealing in delight with Fiona.
She jumps into my arms, nearly knocking me over. I laugh, hugging her tightly.
“Yes!” she yells, tears of joy brimming in her eyes. “He did it!”
Oliver steps in, a broad smile lighting up his features.
“That’s my star player,” he says, pride resonating in every word.
Fiona basically lunges at her father, hugging him too, and he ruffles her hair fondly.
My chest tightens in a swirl of admiration, envy, and excitement.
It’s such a sweet moment—father and daughter, celebrating a huge goal—but I can’t ignore the flicker of yearning in my own heart. I want to be closer to him.
“Final minutes,” Oliver announces, his voice booming with adrenaline. “Let’s finish this.”
The Desperadoes hold the lead, and the final buzzer blares, confirming their victory.
The suite becomes a whirlwind of cheering, handshakes, and jubilant toasts.
Fiona is already scrambling for her phone to text Striker, who will surely have to do media interviews before he can come up to celebrate.
Oliver disappears briefly, likely to address some team business, and I’m swept into small talk with Fiona and a few other guests.
We congratulate each other like we all personally scored the winning goal.
It’s the thrill of being part of something bigger—yet I can’t deny the hollow pang in my chest, waiting for Oliver to come back.
When he finally returns, most of the suite occupants are dispersing, heading to the lounge or making their way home. Fiona glances between Oliver and me. “Dad, we’ll meet you downstairs in a bit, okay? I’m dying to see Striker. Lacey, want to come with me?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Oliver interjects. “I actually need Lacey for something real quick. Just for a minute. Why don’t you go ahead? She’ll be right behind you.”
My heart vaults into my throat. Fiona looks between us, shrugs, and decides there’s nothing odd about it. “All right, but don’t keep her too long,” she teases, wagging a finger at her dad. “We have to celebrate with Striker.”
Oliver gives her a winning smile. “I won’t.”
She flounces out, the door closing behind her. Suddenly, the suite feels much larger and quieter. I can still hear the distant roar of the arena, the echo of departing fans. Oliver and I are alone.
He takes a breath, turning to me, his expression shifting from the polite businessman to something more… raw. “I wanted to check on you,” he says softly, stepping closer. “You seemed a little off tonight.”
My heart pounds so loud I’m sure he can hear it. “I’m fine,” I manage, though my voice cracks. I clear my throat. “Really, it’s just… I mean, seeing you, and Fiona so happy, it’s—”
He lifts a hand, hesitates, then gently brushes the back of his fingers against my cheek. The touch sends a hot current down my spine. “You can be honest with me, Lacey.”
I inhale sharply. My lungs feel tight, my skin burning where he touched me. “I don’t know what to say,” I confess, my voice trembling with the weight of the moment. “I’ve always… I’ve always looked up to you, Oliver.”
He searches my eyes. “Is that all?”
My lips part, but no sound comes out. Because the truth is, it’s not all.
I’ve harbored this ridiculous crush since I was a teenager—a crush that became something deeper as I grew older.
He’s always been out of reach, a fantasy I never dared voice.
I swallow hard. “No,” I whisper, my cheeks blazing.
His gaze darkens, and for a moment, his composure falters. “Lacey, I… this might be wrong. I know that. But I can’t ignore how I feel when I see you.”
I feel hot tears threaten to sting my eyes, but not from sadness—from sheer, overwhelming emotion. “How do you feel?” I ask, my voice barely audible above the pounding of my heart.
He takes a careful step forward, closing the distance.
My entire body tenses, bracing for something monumental.
His scent wraps around me—wood and spice, mingling with the remnants of whiskey on his breath.
“Protective,” he murmurs, “but not in a fatherly way. I feel… drawn to you. And I can’t seem to control it. ”
His honesty slices through me, thrilling and terrifying. “You’re Fiona’s dad,” I say, the words trembling on my lips, as if reminding us both of the impossibility. “We can’t—”
He exhales shakily. “I know. But I also can’t keep pretending this attraction doesn’t exist.”
My mind is spinning. There’s so much at stake—our friendship, Fiona’s trust, Oliver’s reputation.
But when he looks at me like this, when his voice turns husky with need, it’s impossible to summon logic or reason.
I draw a shaky breath, heart pounding, and let myself feel the waves of desire crashing through me.
Gently, Oliver cups my cheek in his palm, and I swear the world tilts. My instincts scream at me to lean into his warmth, to let this happen, consequences be damned. So I do. My eyes flutter shut, and the slightest pressure of his touch sends a shiver through me.
“Lacey,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my lips. “Tell me to stop if this is too much.”
I open my eyes, meet his steady gaze. Every nerve in my body urges me forward, yet a sliver of doubt remains. The boundary we’re standing on is so fragile. Still, my yearning eclipses caution in that instant. “Don’t stop,” I whisper.
He doesn’t need more encouragement. Our lips meet in a rush of pent-up longing—soft at first, tentative, then bolder as the tension we’ve both been suppressing spills over.
My hands grip the lapels of his jacket, and his arms slide around my waist. Heat floods my veins, and the taste of his mouth—whiskey and something indescribably Oliver—sends my thoughts spiraling.
The kiss deepens, a low sound rumbling in his throat as his hand slips up my back.
It feels so right, so perfect, I almost forget how wrong it is.
A spark of reality intrudes when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
My eyes fly open. We break apart, breathing hard, gazing at each other with equal parts desire and panic.
I fumble for my phone. It’s Fiona. A text reads: Where r u guys? Striker’s free soon, come on!!
Oliver and I lock eyes. Guilt courses through me, followed by an even stronger wave of longing. How can a moment feel so undeniably right yet be laced with so much complication?
He brushes a thumb across my swollen lower lip, his expression a knot of concern and want. “We’ll figure this out,” he says, voice low.
I nod, fighting to steady my breath. My heart is still pounding, my skin tingling everywhere he touched me. The suite door feels a mile away, but I know I have to walk through it, back into reality, back to Fiona and Striker and an entire world that doesn’t know what just happened here.
With one last look—one that conveys everything we can’t quite say out loud—Oliver steps back, letting me go. His chest rises and falls rapidly, as if he’s run a marathon. I straighten my shirt, swipe at my hair, and swallow hard to steady my voice.
“Okay,” I say softly, phone clutched in my hand. “I’ll… I’ll see you downstairs.”
His eyes flicker with longing, but he nods. “Go,” he whispers. “I’ll come soon.”
I force myself to move, to cross the threshold and leave him behind.
My legs feel shaky, but I manage to keep my composure.
The hallway is quiet as I head to the elevators, my thoughts in a complete uproar.
My lips still buzz from the taste of his kiss, and my stomach twists in anticipation and dread.
I don’t know what happens next—but I know my life just changed in ways I never imagined possible.
Because for better or worse, I’ve given in to the longing I’ve hidden for years.
And there’s no turning back. The door to the VIP suite closes with a soft click behind me, but the rush of Oliver’s kiss lingers, hot and heady, reminding me that sometimes the heart wants what it shouldn’t have…
and sometimes, we give it permission to indulge anyway.