Chapter 4
Chapter four
Bryce
"If one more guy in skinny jeans sings about heartbreak, I am taking the mic and ending everyone’s suffering." I mutter it as I kill the engine and step out of my truck.
Cameras are already flashing outside the venue. Reporters hover near the entrance, clutching mics and phones and wearing that hungry look they get when they smell a sound bite. I pull my jacket straight and tell myself I will behave. At least for the first twenty minutes.
A black sedan glides into the reserved spot beside me. It is annoyingly graceful. Of course it’s hers.
Annabelle Hacker steps out like she is stepping onto a stage she owns. Black dress. Long legs. Hair pulled back in a way that should look severe but somehow makes her look even better. For a solid two seconds, my brain forgets how to function.
She shuts her door and gives me a once-over.
"Hello, Bryce. Please do not start the night with violence," she says. "It is a charity event. Cameras everywhere. Donors everywhere. My patience nowhere."
"Gotcha. No fights. Probably."
She exhales slowly. "Wonderful. That sounded reassuring in absolutely zero ways."
A reporter spots us and points. Flashes go off like lightning. I move without thinking, shifting closer so my body blocks the worst of the lights from hitting her face.
She stiffens, just for a second.
"Relax," I say quietly. "They are here for me. You are collateral damage."
"That is not comforting," she replies, but she walks beside me toward the doors anyway.
Inside, the venue is all exposed brick and warm string lights. Whiskey barrels have been turned into high-top tables. The small wooden stage up front is bathed in soft amber. Someone tuned a guitar recently. I can hear it in the air.
The place already hums with conversation. Sponsor banners. A silent auction table lined with signed jerseys and guitars. Media scattered around like vultures in designer jackets.
Our crew is impossible to miss.
Coach Ryder Hale and his wife Harper stand near the bar, talking to a cluster of older donors.
Colby Hayes, our captain, is in a suit that probably cost more than my first car.
Eli Vargas is laughing at something his wife Mia just said.
Dex Miller bounces on his heels near the stage like someone fed him espresso.
Mason Barber, and Gabriel Shelly are already gathered near our table, which is set for ten.
Colby spots us first. His grin is instant. "Blackhorn brought a date."
"I am supervising," Annabelle says before I can open my mouth.
Dex leans toward Mason and stage whispers, "She is really pretty for a supervisor."
"Dex," I warn.
He holds both hands up. "Complimenting management. That is growth. Coach should be proud."
Mia gives me a look as we reach the table. "Bryce, please do the organization a favor and stay out of the tabloids tonight. Just this once. For the children."
"I am perfectly behaved," I say.
Mason snorts. "That’s a scientific lie."
Annabelle pulls out her chair and sits with perfect posture, like she is hosting a board meeting instead of a fundraiser with an open bar. I take the seat next to her, sprawling in a way that probably makes her eyes twitch.
"You remember the rules," she murmurs without looking at me. "No swearing at reporters. No arguing with the MC. No spontaneous speeches. One whiskey, maximum."
"You wound me," I say. "I am a delight at events."
"You’re a liability," she replies.
The lights dim slightly as the first act walks onstage. He sits on a stool, guitar in hand, and launches into a song about losing his truck, his dog, and his girlfriend, in that order.
Dex wipes an invisible tear from his cheek. "Art."
Gregory elbows him. "You don’t even listen to country music."
"I do now," Dex says. "I am supporting the cause."
Annabelle doesn’t laugh, but I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of her mouth. She looks straight ahead, hands folded around her glass of sparkling water. Her shoulders are tight. Too tight.
I lean back and scan the room. People are swaying. Nodding. Pretending this is the greatest song they have ever heard because there are cameras and social media managers present.
The first set ends. Dinner is served, and the atmosphere is bustling with conversation while the next artist sets up.
About twenty minutes later, another male country singer is introduced.
"This one," he says as he adjusts the mic, "is for anyone who has ever had their heart ripped out in public."
Annabelle goes still.
The room quiets.
He starts playing. The melody is slow and clean. The lyrics hit hard.
Found you backstage, kissing someone else, he sings. I was standing in the wings with your name on my mouth.
Next to me, Annabelle drops her fork and her fingers tighten around her glass. Her throat works like she is forcing something down. She keeps her gaze locked on the stage, but her eyes are not really there anymore.
My chest tightens.
I shouldn’t care. I am here to sit, look pretty, and not destroy the franchise’s reputation for a couple of hours. That is it. That is the assignment.
But watching her pretend that lyric is not slicing her open makes my jaw clench.
She inhales sharply. Sets her glass down. Stands.
"Excuse me," she says to no one in particular.
She walks toward the rear doors, back straight, chin high.
I push my chair back, ready to follow.
A hand lands on my arm.
Harper.
"Be kind to her," she says quietly.
I look down at her, surprised. "What?"
Harper’s eyes are gentle and sharp at the same time. "She looks strong tonight. But she is holding herself together with thread. Don’t pull at it."
My throat feels tight for reasons I do not like.
"I am not going to break her," I say.
"Good," Harper replies. "Then go make sure no one else does either."
I don’t know when I became the guy people trust with someone else’s feelings. I punch things for a living. I spend most of my off-ice time making bad decisions with decent intentions.
But I follow Annabelle anyway.
The balcony behind the venue is quieter. The muffled sound of music filters through the wall, turned soft by brick and distance. String lights run along the railing, making everything glow faint gold.
Annabelle stands at the edge, hands braced on the rail, shoulders drawn tight. Her heels wobble slightly on the uneven planks.
For a second, I just watch her.
She looks smaller out here. Not in a fragile way. In the way of someone who is letting themselves sag for the first time all day.
"Annabelle," I say, keeping my voice low.
She does not look back. "I am fine."
"You are lying," I say. "And you’re a terrible liar."
She huffs out a humorless breath. "That is rude. And accurate."
I move closer, leaving enough space that she does not feel trapped.
The night air is sharp and cold, the kind that sneaks under clothing and bites at exposed skin.
She did not bring a jacket, and the breeze lifts goosebumps along her arms. From here, the parking lot looks far away. The noise of the event is just a hum.
"Songs like that hit harder than they should," she says, staring out at nothing. "It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. I just didn’t want to fall apart in the middle of the room."
"It’s not stupid." The words come out before I can stop them. "You don’t get to schedule when something hurts."
She turns her head slowly, eyes finding mine. For once, there is no scowl. No sarcasm. Just tired, raw honesty.
"Have you ever been humiliated in public, Blackhorn?" she asks.
I think of losing a fight on the ice in front of twenty thousand people. I think of a video of me shoving a reporter’s camera making the rounds online with slo-mo captions and angry think pieces.
"More times than I can count," I say. "Not like you, probably. But yeah."
Her mouth twists. "My ex wrote a song about me.
Thought that was romantic. Then he wrote another about me.
And that one was definitely not for me." She looks back at the lights.
"I found him behind the stage with someone else while that second one was climbing the charts.
So now every time someone strums a guitar and cries about betrayal, my nervous system files a complaint. "
I want to put my fist through a wall on her behalf.
"He sounds like a coward," I say.
She shrugs, but the movement is stiff. "He sounded like a star. For a while."
Silence stretches between us. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things we are not saying.
"For the record," I say, "anyone who cheats on you is an idiot."
Her lips twitch. "You don’t know anything about me."
"I know you read me my disciplinary file from memory," I say. "Which means you care enough to do your homework. I know you walked into a locker room full of half-naked players and didn’t flinch. And I know you left a whole life behind to be here. That’s enough data to conclude he is an idiot."
Her throat works. She looks away quickly.
"You noticed all that?" she asks.
"Unfortunately." I exhale. "I was trying not to."
That makes her look back. There is heat in her gaze now, mixed with confusion.
"You’re not nearly as charming as you think," she says.
"Thank you," I reply. "I am aiming for infuriating."
Something like a laugh escapes her, quiet but real.
She shifts her weight, turning like she is about to head back inside. Her heel snags on a warped board.
She stumbles.
I catch her around the waist before she can pitch forward. Her hands land on my chest. Her body collides with mine, soft and solid at the same time.
For one suspended heartbeat, we freeze.
Her face is inches from mine. Her eyes are wide. Her lips part on a shaky breath. I can feel her pulse racing under my fingers.
"Great," she says softly, mortified. "Add public clumsiness to my resume."
"This one is on me," I murmur. "Should have warned you about the deck."
"Since when do you warn people before causing chaos?" she asks.
"Since you started looking at me like that."
She blinks. "Like what?"
I do not answer. I cannot. The air is suddenly different. Thick. Electric. Her perfume smells like strawberries and something I can’t name.
She opens her mouth, probably to snap at me.
I lean in before she can.
And kiss her.
It is not the reckless, hard-press, shove-you-into-the-wall kind of kiss I recently imagined I would have with her, if I ever let myself imagine that.
It is slow.
Careful.
I brush my mouth over hers, testing. Waiting for her to shove me away.
She doesn’t.
Her lips part on a soft inhale and I deepen the kiss just a fraction. My hand at her waist tightens. Her fingers curl into the front of my jacket and my world suddenly tilts on its axis just a little more.
The muffled music from inside turns distant. The only thing I can focus on is the heat of her mouth and the way she tastes. Sweet. A little sharp. Entirely addictive.
For one impossible second, everything goes silent in my head. No games. No penalties. No warning letters from the league. Just her.
Then she breaks away.
Her breath comes out in a sharp rush. "This cannot happen."
Her voice wobbles, anger laced through every word. She steps out of my hands like my touch burns.
My heart is pounding against my ribs. "Too late."
Her eyes flash. "You are impossible."
"You kissed me back," I say quietly.
Color floods her cheeks. "That was a reflex."
"Good reflex. You must be an athlete, or were one," I say.
She glares at me like she would like to staple my mouth shut.
Inside, the crowd erupts in applause for the next performer. Out here, there is only the sound of her breathing hard and my pulse thudding in my ears.
She smooths her dress with shaking hands. "We are going back in there. We are going to sit down. You are going to behave. And we are going to pretend this did not happen."
"You really think I can pretend I did not just kiss you?" I ask.
"You will," she says. "Or I will personally ask my father to trade you to a team in Alaska."
I huff out something that is almost a laugh. "There's no team in Alaska."
"Try me."
She turns and walks back toward the door, spine straight, head high. To anyone inside, she will look composed again. Untouched. Untouchable.
I stay where I am for a few seconds longer, hands still tingling, mouth still remembering the feel of hers.
I came out here to make sure she was alright.
Instead, I kissed my boss’s daughter.
And now I can’t think about anything else.