Chapter 2
Chapter two
Bryce
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I say, watching Annabelle Hacker march out of the rink like she owns the entire building. Which, technically, she kind of does.
Five feet of attitude with a clipboard. A tiny, bossy thunderstorm wrapped in lipstick and executive authority. And apparently, my new babysitter.
Perfect. Just what I needed today.
I drag my eyes away from the doorway she disappeared through, but it doesn’t help. My brain replays every second: the unimpressed stare, the sarcasm, the chin tilt that said she wasn’t scared of me even a little.
Cute. Annoying. Cute again.
“Dude,” someone calls behind me, “your jaw is literally on the floor.”
I turn and whip my towel at Mason. He catches it and laughs.
“Shut up,” I say.
“She didn’t even look back at you,” he says. “Painful, man. Really painful.”
I pretend not to care, but the truth? I noticed. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t blush. Didn’t do the usual giggle women tend to do when they spot me shirtless.
She looked at me like I was a problem she had to solve.
And I don’t know what that says about me, but it did something.
I push into the locker room, peeling off my pads. The chirping starts instantly.
“So,” Dex says, eyebrows dancing, “you met the boss’s daughter before the rest of us? Bold move.”
“She definitely hates you,” Eli adds as he strips the tape from his stick.
“She hates him enough to marry him someday,” Colby hollers from across the room.
“Not happening,” I mutter.
But my brain is replaying her voice again; I’m your new problem. She didn’t even hesitate. She just threw herself into the ring with me like she wasn’t scared.
“Guys,” I say, rubbing a towel over my hair, “she’s the boss’s daughter. She’s here to lecture me, not flirt.”
The entire locker room looks at me like I just announced I think mayonnaise is a beverage.
Gabriel snorts. “She walked in, saw you shirtless, and forgot how to blink. That’s flirting.”
“That wasn’t flirting,” I say.
“That was spicy hate,” Eli says. “Which is even better, honestly.”
I toss a puck at him. He dodges it.
I try to focus on my gear. On the next game. On the pile of warnings from the league office I haven’t opened yet.
Instead, my head keeps drifting back to her.
Annabelle. Bossy. Smart. Pretty in a way that’s going to cause trouble.
The locker room door opens.
Every guy goes quiet.
She walks in.
Annabelle Hacker. Clipboard under one arm. Folder in hand. Hair in a bun. Eyes set to I’m not here to be charmed by any of you.
She turns her back toward the room, clearly giving the guys a chance to scramble for towels.
“Gentlemen,” she says, “you have two minutes to get decent. I’m not stepping over naked hockey players today.”
The guys scramble, cackling.
I don’t move. I just watch her.
After a few minutes she enters our locker area.
She pretends not to notice me half-dressed. She absolutely notices.
“We need to talk,” she says.
“Already?” I ask. “We just met. Maybe dinner first?”
Her stare could flatten a mountain.
“This isn’t a date,” she says.
“Could be,” I reply.
“It won’t be.”
The guys choke on laughter.
She steps closer and hands me the folder. “This is a list of your recent… issues.”
“Issues?”
“Violations.”
I flip it open. Curfew violation. Bar ‘misunderstanding.’ Verbal altercation with a reporter. Questionable TikTok live.
“Impressive, right?” I say.
“No,” she replies. “Concerning.”
I raise a brow. “Most of that is exaggerated.”
“That’s not the defense you think it is.”
Her sarcasm is lethal.
“So, what exactly are you here to do?” I ask.
“Fix you.”
I blink. Dex wheezes.
“Fix me?”
“Yes. Your behavior. Your image. Your… everything.” She lifts her clipboard. “Starting now.”
I stare at her. She may be small, but she looks like she’d fight a dragon with office supplies.
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” I say.
“That’s not the word I’d use.”
She turns to leave, tossing a final look over her shoulder.
“Be dressed and outside my office in ten minutes,” she says. “We’re not done.”
The door shuts behind her.
Gregory grins. “Future wife, dude.”
I throw a glove at his head.
But I’m staring at the doorway she just walked through, more intrigued than I want to be.
And I absolutely hate that.
***
Annabelle’s office looks like someone condensed authority, efficiency, and a vanilla-scented candle into one aggressively tidy space. I step inside and she’s already behind her desk, flipping through a folder like she’s preparing to ruin my day professionally.
“Have a seat,” she says.
I don’t sit. I lean on the doorframe instead, crossing my arms. Her eye twitches. Good.
"Let's discuss the list of violations I handed to you before, in the locker room."
“Like I said, some of it is exaggerated.”
“Great,” she says. “Then it’ll be easy for you to fix.”
She reaches for another sheet. “Here are the consequences if you don’t.”
Fines. Potential suspension. Sponsors pulling out. PR team threatening mutiny.
I whistle low. “Damn. All because I existed in public near a camera?”
“All because you behave like a toddler with a credit card,” she replies.
I grin. “You’re very bossy for someone wearing heels that small.”
“And you’re very confident for someone one infraction away from a possible long-term suspension.
I pretend that doesn’t horrify me.
She folds her hands. “Do you even read these reports?”
“Sometimes.”
“Be honest.”
“No.”
She sighs in a way that suggests she regrets having a working nervous system. “Bryce, you need to take this seriously.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” I counter.
“Barely.”
Her ponytail swings when she stands, moving around her desk. She’s close now, the kind of close that makes my pants tighten in ways I refuse to acknowledge.
Strawberries. Her perfume smells like strawberries. It shouldn’t be legal.
“Look,” she says, “I don’t care if you think this is a joke. My job is to keep the organization out of trouble.”
“And I’m the trouble?”
“You’re like a public-relations smoke alarm that won’t stop going off,” she replies. “So, yes.”
I try, really try, to focus on the words, but her mouth keeps getting in the way. Not literally, unfortunately.
She taps the file. “I need you to clean up your image. No more bar ‘misunderstandings.’ No more late-night drama. No more chaotic lives.”
“Lives?”
“Lives. Plural. You tend to create more than one at a time.”
I take a step toward her.
Most people step back. Most people trip over their own feet. Most people suddenly remember they have somewhere else to be.
Annabelle doesn’t move. Not an inch.
It throws me off so badly I forget whatever intimidating thing I was about to say.
“You’re not scared of me,” I say.
She lifts her gaze. “Should I be?”
“Most people are.”
“Most people don’t sign your paychecks.” she retorts, brushing past me to grab another file.
That… is a good point. An annoying point. A point I have no comeback for.
I inhale sharply. I hate that she smells good.
Annabelle sets a thick packet of papers on the desk between us.
“These,” she says, “are the owner’s terms.”
“Your dad’s terms,” I correct.
“Executive team's terms,” she repeats. “I’m executing them.”
Dominant. Controlled. Bossy. Trouble.
I cross my arms again. “Let’s hear them.”
“Number one: You will present yourself professionally in public.”
I snort. “Define professionally.”
“Not getting photographed outside a bar at three a.m. holding someone who might be eighteen.”
“She was twenty-three.”
“That’s not the reassuring detail you think it is.”
She continues. “Number two: No more fights with reporters.”
“He started it.”
“You threw his microphone into a trash can.”
“It slipped.”
Her eyes close like she’s praying for strength.
“And the final term,” she says, voice clipped and steady, “is that for the next eight to twelve weeks, you will include me in all public outings.”
I blink. “What?”
“You will not go anywhere public without clearing it through me first. Charity events, sponsor dinners, team functions, anything with cameras, anything with alcohol, anything that resembles a bad idea.”
“That’s my entire life.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re joking.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t joke about work.”
“Why you?”
“I’m the one my father trusts. And the one who has to clean up after you.”
I stare. Silent. Processing.
Annabelle ignores him. “You can complain all you want, but this is happening.”
I rub my jaw. “You seriously expect me to drag you to every event like… like some kind of chaperone?”
“Yes.”
“And you think that’ll fix things?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to follow me around taking notes?”
“If needed.”
This woman is terrifying. And weirdly compelling.
Annabelle moves toward the door, clearly done with the discussion.
“Be ready for the team charity event tonight,” she says and walks out without waiting for me to argue.
I stare after her. Annoyed. Turned on. Even more annoyed that I’m turned on.
“Great,” I mutter. “The boss’s daughter wants to ruin my life.”
But the truth sneaks in anyway.
And God help me, I kind of want to see what she does next.
Because one thing is very, very certain.
I’m not making her job easy.
Watching her get flustered might be the most fun I’ll have all season.