Chapter 5
Chapter five
Annabelle
“Idid not kiss Bryce Blackhorn. That was wind. Or physics. Or a neurological event.”
That is the sentence I whisper to myself as I speed-walk back into the charity venue with all the grace of a woman fleeing a crime scene. My face is on fire. My heart is sprinting. My brain is somewhere in the parking lot throwing itself against a wall.
I snag the first drink from a server's tray. It's something pink, fizzy, and absolutely disgusting but it gives my hands a job, so I cling to it like it’s emotional support champagne.
What. The. Hell. Was. That.
Why did I let that happen? Why did HE let that happen? Why did my spine turn to noodles the second his stupid perfect mouth touched mine? I am a grown woman. A professional. I have a clipboard. People with clipboards do not melt under hockey players on balconies.
He’s trouble. He’s my assignment. He’s my dad’s player. He’s literally the worst possible choice in the entire building. And God help me, he smells good. And his hands were warm. And I swear the universe must hate me.
I refuse to look toward the door in case he walks back in.
So naturally, I immediately look toward the door.
The guys see us return from the balcony one after the other, and the way their heads swivel makes it obvious they sense drama. Hockey players can detect chaos like sharks detect blood.
Colby raises an eyebrow. “You alright, Annabelle? Your face is… glowing.”
Dex leans forward, wide-eyed. “It’s not even cold enough outside for your cheeks to be that red.”
Eli smacks him in the back of the head. “Shut up.”
I give them all a stare so lethal that three of them straighten like I just announced surprise fitness testing.
Then Bryce strolls back in.
Smug. Relaxed. Sinful.
His eyes meet mine across the room. A jolt shoots straight through my bloodstream. My entire soul short-circuits.
I immediately swivel away, pretending to be deeply invested in the silent auction sheet for a signed guitar I absolutely do not want.
Behind me, the boys explode into quiet laughter.
From across the table, Coach Ryder's wife, Harper, catches my eye and gives me a soft, knowing smile.
Wonderful. Even the adults know.
I decide the night is over. I need my bed. My comfy sweatpants. A brain transplant.
***
The next morning, I arrive at the arena early. Very early. Before-most-humans-are-conscious early. It’s a survival tactic.
When I was little, Dad used to bring me here before school.
He’d drop me in the stands with a hot chocolate and let me watch the ice crew finish resurfacing.
I loved the quiet back then, the kind that filled the whole space.
The chilled air would hit my face the moment we walked in, and it always felt like the world hadn’t started yet. Like the rink and I shared a secret.
It still hits me the same way now. It's cold, sharp, and familiar. And for a minute, I let myself breathe.
An hour later, the guys are on the ice for practice.
The rink is echoing with pucks hitting boards and it’s still a little slice of home. I pick a spot in the stands and clamp my clipboard to my chest like an emotional shield.
One by one, the players notice me. And then they start whispering and looking between me and Bryce like this is an episode of a trashy dating show.
Dex skates by, leaning on the boards. “If you hurt Bryce’s feelings, we can’t win. He’s emotionally delicate.”
I stare at him. “Bryce doesn’t have feelings.”
Dex grins. “He does now.”
I consider throwing my clipboard at him.
Below, the team circles Bryce like vultures. Mason pats him on the helmet with dramatic pity. Gregory points at me. Bryce shoves him playfully, but also not.
“Look, he’s skating smoother,” Mason calls. “Must be love.”
“Blackhorn’s glowing, boys,” Gregory adds.
“Did someone get a kiss last night?” Dex sings.
Bryce snaps, throws elbows, and clearly loses focus.
I try not to smile.
I fail.
He deserves every second of this, and yet the sight of him getting chirped sends an involuntary spark of satisfaction through me. Not the satisfying kind. The dangerous kind.
The kind that means my life is about to get complicated.
And of course, that’s exactly when Bryce glances up at me.
And smirks.
I grip my clipboard and pray for strength.
Coach blows the whistle and calls for a shooting drill. Bryce launches into full show-off mode like someone cranked his ego dial to maximum.
He digs in for a hard turn, showers the ice with snow, and fires a wrist shot that rings off the crossbar. Then he follows it with a slapshot that could break the sound barrier.
The guys ooh like he’s performing in a talent show. Bryce doesn’t acknowledge them. He is too busy pretending he isn’t looking directly at me.
I take notes so aggressively I might snap the pen.
He skates by my side of the glass. Slows. Looks up.
And winks.
I choke on my own spit.
Dex immediately collapses on the ice behind him in the most dramatic fall I’ve ever seen. “Oh no,” he moans, clutching his chest. “The romance is killing me.”
Bryce whips around and flips him off. Dex blows him a kiss.
I am losing control of this situation. Rapidly.
By the time practice ends, I’ve decided to avoid Bryce for the rest of my life… which lasts approximately fourteen seconds, because he corners me in the hallway.
He blocks my path with one arm braced on the wall. It would be obnoxious if he weren’t still slightly damp from practice and smelling like clean soap and adrenaline.
“Are you going to pretend last night didn’t happen?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say.
He lifts a brow. “You kissed me back.”
“It was an accident.”
He steps closer, not enough to crowd me, just enough to raise the temperature of the entire building. “Accident? You sure?”
I cross my arms. “Your flirting is unprofessional.”
He smirks. “Your denial is adorable.”
I glare. “Grow up.”
“Stop thinking about it and I will.”
“I’m not thinking about it.”
“You’re thinking about it right now.”
I make a noise that is definitely not human and definitely not dignified, then storm past him.
He absolutely watches me walk away. I don’t have to look to know.
When I spin back around, he’s still leaning against the wall like the smug menace he was born to be.
“I’m heading out with the guys Friday,” he says. “Concert in town.”
“No,” I say. “Absolutely not. Too many cameras. Too much risk.”
He shrugs like I’m adorable again. “Going anyway.”
“Fine. Then I’m going too.”
His grin is slow and victorious. “Fantastic.”
Perfect. Now I have to supervise Bryce Blackhorn at a concert. In public. Surrounded by alcohol, fans, and chaos.
What could possibly go wrong?
***
The backstage security gate beeps as I scan my pass, and the first words out of my mouth are, “This is fine. Everything is fine. This is a perfectly normal work assignment.”
It is not fine.
Because the moment I step inside the loading dock entrance, I’m immediately swallowed by a storm of stagehands, instrument cases, tangled cords, and frantic people wearing headsets who look like they haven’t slept since the Jurassic era.
The building vibrates with warm-up bass from the arena beyond, and somewhere overhead, someone is shouting about a missing spotlight.
This is chaos. Pure, unfiltered chaos.
And right in the middle of it stands Bryce Blackhorn.
Great.
He’s leaning against a stack of equipment crates with one hand in his pocket and the kind of ease men only have when they are extremely aware of how good they look. Jeans. Boots. Black T-shirt. The kind of outfit designed specifically to render adult women useless.
His eyes land on me the moment I walk in.
My brain promptly forgets how to function.
“Well,” Colby says loudly to the group, “Annabelle made it. And she looks… prepared for battle?”
“I am not battling anything,” I lie. “I’m supervising.”
Bryce lifts a brow at me. “Didn’t know supervising required that much red lip gloss.”
I ignore him. Or I try to. My body does not cooperate.
Mia beams and gives me a quick hug. “You look amazing,” she says. “Don’t listen to him.”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” I say, but my voice is embarrassingly breathless.
Harper stands near the wall, smiling like she can read every inappropriate thought I’m trying not to have.
Security hands out the backstage passes. Mine is big, red and laminated.
Bryce squints at it. “VIP Manager Access,” he reads. “Fancy. Does it come with pepper spray?”
“Stop giving me ideas,” I tell him.
He grins, slow and devastating.
We all fall into idle conversation as a stagehand ushers us toward the pre-show lounge area. Bryce ends up walking beside me, and I can feel the heat of him even though we’re not touching.
Perfect. Exactly what my self-control needs.
***
The lounge looks like the inside of a whiskey commercial. Exposed brick. Dark leather. Amber lights. A bar stocked like someone won a shopping spree.
Dex immediately gravitates toward a platter of miniature pies. Colby chats with a guitarist in the corner. The women gather near the bar.
I plant myself near the far wall and remind myself to focus.
This is work.
Professional work.
I am here to supervise Bryce’s public image, not to notice how good he looks laughing with the guys. Not to notice how the women backstage were just glancing at him like he’s the main act.
Not to notice how he keeps drifting closer to me.
“Annabelle,” Mia says gently, appearing by my arm. “You’re allowed to breathe, you know.”
“I am breathing.”
“In tiny, panicked sips,” she replies. “And you’re standing like someone who’s about to either faint or propose.”
I make a choking sound. “I am not proposing anything.”
“Good,” she says. “Because while Harper would plan a beautiful wedding, I think you should at least survive tonight first.”
I groan. “Please stop talking.”
Mia nudges me with her elbow. “Just admit he gets under your skin. It’s cute.”
“It is not cute,” I say. “It is unprofessional heartburn.”
She laughs. “Sure. Let’s call it that.”