Totally Power Played (Nashville Outlaws #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Annabelle

“Absolutely not,” I tell my steering wheel. “We are never dating musicians again. If a man owns a guitar, I’m leaving the room.”

The Nashville skyline rises ahead of me, glittering like it wants to apologize for ruining my life. Cute. Not happening. The city may be beautiful, but it also witnessed my worst breakup in history, so I am granting it temporary visitation rights only.

“Never trust dimples, cowboy hats, or a guy who calls music his ‘first love.’ Because apparently his second love is sneaking backstage to cheat on you during soundcheck.” I flick my blinker on, determined to lecture myself all the way into the parking lot.

My phone sits face down in the console, silent as a saint. No texts from my ex. No notifications about the sappy breakup ballad he probably released last night. I already lived through the real thing. I do not need the acoustic version.

I pass Southside Station, the bar where we had our first date. My face tightens like Spanx on Thanksgiving.

“That bar owes me emotional damages and at least three cocktails.”

One block later, I pass the coffee shop where he used to write lyrics and “pretend” I inspired him.

Then the tiny venue where I used to stand in the wings and clap like a supportive idiot.

Romantic memories feel less romantic when you discover the man writing love songs for you is also writing them for two backup singers.

Again, I mentally cancel every country singer in Nashville. If you own a guitar, a smooth voice, and a tendency to cry on stage for attention, you are banned. Permanently.

I even consider filing a restraining order against the entire music industry. “Dear Nashville, it isn’t you. It’s my absolute taste in men.”

Finally, I turn off the main road and follow the signs for the Nashville Outlaws Arena. The moment the building comes into view, a knot in my chest loosens. The arena looks exactly the same. Bold. Cold. Loud. Comforting.

Home.

I pull into the executive parking area and slip into a spot with my name freshly painted on the concrete.

ANNABELLE HACKER EXECUTIVE OPERATIONS

Seeing it written like that hits me harder than I expect. I’m not just the owner’s daughter anymore. I’m officially part of the front office. I swallow around the tightness in my throat.

“Okay,” I tell myself, grabbing my bag. “No more crying over men who can’t keep their pants zipped. No more chasing someone else’s dream. This is your reset.”

The air outside smells like asphalt and fryer grease. The air inside smells like popcorn, sweat, and ice. My favorite combination. It hits me full in the face as the sliding doors open, and I swear my spine straightens like it recognizes home too.

I did homework in these halls. I learned to skate before I could spell my last name. When other kids were on the playground, I was counting goals through the glass.

“Annabelle?” a voice calls.

Tasha at the reception area jumps up, rushes around the counter, and hugs the life out of me.

“You’re back,” she says. “For good this time?”

“For good,” I say. “Unless everything collapses again, in which case I’m moving to a cabin and raising goats.”

She laughs. “You look incredible. Very big boss energy.”

“I practiced in the mirror. Still working on my terrifying glare.”

“You sure you want to see your dad right away? He’s been pacing. The forehead vein is happening.”

“Perfect. I love when we start with anxiety-related blood pressure.”

She snorts. “He said to send you straight in.”

I walk the long hallway toward his office.

My boots click against the polished floor, echoing off banners of Outlaws players.

Captain Colby Hayes with a grin that belongs on cereal boxes.

Eli Vargas, our star goalie, with his mask pushed back.

And then, hanging right outside Dad’s office, Bryce Blackhorn.

Shirt clinging to his chest, eyes burning even through glossy vinyl.

I roll my eyes before I can stop myself.

Bryce’s reputation is legendary. Bar fights. Tabloid photos. Rumored hookups with half of Nashville. Amazing on the ice. Absolute chaos everywhere else. The stories about him could fill a book called “Men To Avoid If You Want To Keep Your Sanity.”

Exactly the kind of trouble I don’t need or want anywhere near my life.

I knock once and push open Dad’s door.

He stands behind his desk, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, hair sticking up like he’s been stressing all morning. His face softens when he sees me.

“Belle,” he says, pulling me into a hug.

I breathe in aftershave and coffee, and for a moment I almost cry. I nearly talked myself out of coming home. Out of starting over. Out of admitting that I needed help.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

“Define okay,” I say. “I didn’t run him over with my car on the way out of town, so I think that counts.”

He laughs under his breath. “Good. I prefer my daughter without a criminal conviction.”

He guides me into the chair across from him and sits again, this time with his serious GM face. Hands folded. Brows drawn. It’s the face he uses before he trades someone or drops bad news. His name plate “Erwin Hacker, Owner” stares at me.

My stomach drops. “That is not a ‘welcome home’ face. That is a ‘the building is on fire’ face.”

“In a sense,” he says. “But first, I’m glad you’re here. The front office needs stability. And you’re the right person for the job.”

Warmth rushes through my chest. I straighten. “Thank you. I want to help. I want to be useful. I’m ready.”

He nods slowly. “Good. Because I need you on something specific.”

Here it is. My first assignment. Something normal. Something manageable. Maybe a scheduling issue. Maybe merchandise. Maybe...

“Your first big task,” he says, eyes leveling with mine, “is Bryce Blackhorn.”

I blink once.

Then twice.

My soul briefly leaves my body.

***

“I swear,” I mutter to myself as I leave Dad’s office, “men with inflated egos and zero impulse control should come with warning labels. Preferably neon ones.”

I march down the corridor toward the practice rink. Every staff member I pass gives me the same look, a mix of pity and amusement, like they’re watching someone wearing lip gloss willingly walk into a tornado.

“Bryce is in a mood today,” one whispers.

“Good luck,” another adds, like I’m heading into a battlefield.

Fantastic. My first day back and I’m about to meet the Outlaws’ resident disaster.

The sounds hit me before the cold does. Sticks cracking against the ice. Pucks slamming into the boards. Players shouting drills like their lungs depend on it. It’s the most chaotic, perfect soundtrack.

My stomach flips. Not because I’m nervous. Okay… maybe I’m nervous. Maybe dealing with a six-foot-three human hurricane who punches reporters is not the soothing distraction I promised myself.

“We do not fall for hockey players,” I remind my heart. “We do not flirt with them. We do not check out their biceps. We especially do not ogle anyone named Bryce.”

I push through the door that leads to the rink and step into the cold.

Practice is wrapping up. Players skate toward the bench, ripping off helmets, hair wet, cheeks flushed. They’re laughing, chirping each other, and spraying ice everywhere.

I scan the rink, hunting for the tattooed menace I’ve been assigned to wrangle.

Then it happens.

Bryce Blackhorn shoots down the ice like he owns physics, stops on a dime near the boards, and lifts his helmet off with one hand.

His jersey clings to shoulders made of stone and questionable decisions.

His eyes sweep the rink with the bored intensity of a man who could ruin your life and not lose a minute of sleep.

Oh no.

He hops over the boards in one smooth motion. Effortless. Powerful. A little too graceful for someone with his disciplinary file.

He walks right past me without noticing. Then he stops.

He turns. Slowly.

His gaze locks on me like he’s trying to decide if I’m real.

Great. Now I’m being inspected by a walking PR crisis.

Bryce grips the hem of his jersey and lifts it over his head. My brain short-circuits. He drops it on the bench and grabs a towel, dragging it across a very shirtless, very glistening torso.

“Nope,” I whisper to myself. “Absolutely not. I am not attracted to chaos wrapped in muscle.”

He tilts his head. “You’re new.”

“I’m your new problem,” I reply before my mouth can think better of it.

A slow, amused smile curves across his face. One of his teammates skates by and calls, “Good luck with him, princess!”

Bryce steps closer. Close enough that I can see a faint scar near his collarbone and the wicked amusement in his eyes. He looks at me like I’m interesting. Like I’m a puzzle he wants to take apart.

I straighten, pretending I’m immune.

He isn’t buying it. His smile turns lazy, sinful, confident.

“Name?” he asks, like I’m checking in for an appointment with trouble.

“Annabelle Hacker,” I say. “Executive Operations.”

His brows lift. “Owner’s daughter.”

“Very observant.”

“So why are you my ‘problem,’ Annabelle Hacker?”

“Because my father assigned me to keep an eye on you.” I lift my chin, trying not to notice that he smells like winter and sin. “Apparently you need supervision.”

He laughs under his breath. “Do I?”

“That’s what I’ve been told.”

“So, you’re here to babysit me?”

“Think of it more like… professional oversight.”

“That sounds like babysitting.” He leans in a little, studying my face, amused and infuriatingly confident. “You don’t look like a babysitter.”

“And you don’t look like someone who needs one,” I say. “But here we are.”

He studies me like he’s trying to figure out which part of me is bluffing.

“You always this confident?” he asks.

“Only around grown men who act like unsupervised teenagers.”

He laughs, low and warm, like he finds that charming instead of insulting. “Careful. You keep talking to me like that, and I might start to like you.”

“I’m not here to be liked.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m terrible at liking people anyway.”

I lift my chin. “Then this should work out perfectly. You stay out of trouble, and I stay out of your way.”

He steps just a little closer, enough that my heart does something embarrassing. “Something tells me you’re not great at staying out of anything.”

“Please,” I say, lifting a brow. “If trouble were a doorway, you’d run into it face-first and blame the architecture.”

His smile widens. “This should be fun.”

Perfect. My first assignment is a shirtless headache with a criminally good smile.

And I have no idea how I’m supposed to handle him.