Page 13 of Break the Ice

I sigh as I start my Audi and give myself the reminder I need.

It’s not the time to get heart-eyed and soft, craving men and relationships.

Now is the time to work harder than ever and shatter glass ceilings.

“Break the ice,” I mutter under my breath, pulling out of my parking space.

I’ll do what I have to do to succeed.

The Onyx Hotel sits a touch outside of Seattle’s bustling downtown. Known for its wealthy clientele and decadent luxury, its reputation is unmatched. The hotel resembles the stone it’s named after, a sleek building twenty stories high, comprised entirely of dark glass. A black mirror of the city that drips of overindulgence and greed. A stark reminder of the haves and have nots. At almost two grand a night, it’s no question why.

Even climbing the velvet carpeted steps leading inside seems expensive. Breathing the air makes you feel like you’re spending money.

I walk through the revolving glass doors to prompt nods from the doormen on staff. I’m swept away by one of them, a mustached middle-aged man with a belly that barely fits into his buttoned-up uniform. He has kind eyes and a welcoming smile as he shepherds me toward the closest elevator in the sparkling lobby.

“Wait a minute, I’m here for the Wolves Preseason din?—”

“Yes, yes. I am aware, Ms. March. You’re on the VIP list. Come this way.”

We ride an elevator up to the top floor, where the doors ding as they part down the middle, and he leads me out into a plush hallway.

Everything in the Onyx is a glossy black. Often trimmed with gold. The floors, the walls, the ceilings.

My eyes adjust in time. My brain does not—I’m taking in the extravagant vibe of everything, feeling like I should escape while I can.

“Here we are,” says the man. He gives me his friendliest smile yet as he pushes open double doors.

Finally, other life!

A real opportunity to network.

The banquet room where the event is being held feels like any other industry party I’ve been to. Though it’s still early in the night, the room’s crowded with an array of important people.

Players. Coaches. Investors and advertisers. The owner himself, Jasper Hawk.

He spots me right away. His dark-green eyes gleam as he waves me over. The tall man he’s with eyes me with equal interest.

I hesitate a second to collect myself.

A second I use to put my networking hat on, push my shoulders back, and tip my chin up.

Time to work the room.

I strut forward like the confident, capable PR manager I present myself as. Within seconds, I’m turning heads and garnering glances—or my Valentino number is.

The leggy, cutout dress makes me feel as sexy as I must look. I’ve kept everything else simple, opting to leave my large mane of auburn hair wild about my shoulders. I’ve barely accessorized, sticking with hoops and my favorite piece of jewelry—the gold link necklace Dad gifted me when I was selected to be part of the U.S. female speed skating team for the Winter Olympics.

I slink through the crowd of who’s who in not just the NHL world, but in the broader sports world, recognizing three-time PGA winner Woodrow Channing and infamous NFL coach Everett Combs. Most of the players on the Wolves are present, socializing either among themselves in ironic packs or with Ice Girls in barely there dresses that fit Jhene’s earlier definition of thotty. These are the girls out for husbands… or an athlete to entertain for the night.

Mr. Hawk wears the toothiest grin I’ve ever seen once I’m within a few feet. I respond with a modest little smile of my own, as if I’m hesitant to join him and his very important friend, Quigley Blackman.

“There you are!” He slides an arm around my shoulders to bring me into the fold. “The woman of the hour!”

“That’s generous of you, Mr. Hawk, but the Wolves are a team. Everything we do is a team effort.”

He croaks out a laugh, then squeezes his arm tighter around my shoulders. “See? See how brilliant this girl is! She’s gonna be the one to save the Wolves. Just you wait.”

Quigley Blackman raises both of his smoke-gray, bushy brows. His expression’s vague, almost studious, like he’s trying to figure me out. “I’m sorry… but who is this?”