Page 10

Chapter Ten

Sophia

I am not hiding.

I am strategically managing my workload from the safe, enclosed confines of my office.

There’s a difference.

If I were hiding , I wouldn’t have my laptop open, spreadsheets neatly color-coded, a fresh notebook filled with the latest PR initiatives, and a very important report on community engagement that I am definitely reading and not just aggressively highlighting to distract myself.

I sip my latte - extra caramel drizzle, extra foam, extra everything. It’s lukewarm now, but that’s not the point. The point is that I am fine . I am professional. I am focused .

Like Ross Gellar from Friends would say, I'm fine.

My phone vibrates.

Mom: So what if you haven’t made your impact yet? That just means they haven’t seen what you can really do.

I scowl and drop my phone facedown on the desk.

Easy for her to say. My mother is a legend. A woman who could negotiate a hundred-million-dollar contract before her first cup of coffee in the morning.

She’s the type to own every room she walks into, and for the past week, I’ve been venting to her about the pushback from the board, the resistance, the way this team operates like a goddamn fortress with Blake Maddox standing guard.

What I haven’t mentioned?

That I let the team captain shove me up against a wall and kiss me like he was trying to rewrite my DNA.

Yeah. That little detail has yet to make it into our mother-daughter career chats.

I spin my chair toward the window, my gaze automatically drifting down to the town square below.

And there it is.

The exact spot where my brain short-circuited, my dignity crumbled, and Blake wrecked me with his mouth.

The festival is gone now—no twinkling lights, no swirling snow, no cheery brass band playing festive tunes to distract me. Just the bare cobblestone walkway and the very normal, very innocent wooden booth where I lost my grip on reality.

Then, as if the universe itself has teamed up to torment me, my office door flies open without a single knock.

“Okay, this is getting sad.”

Great. Natalie.

“Not now. I'm busy.”

She strides in like she owns the place anyway, closing the door behind her before flopping dramatically into the chair across from my desk. Her sharp green eyes flick across my pristine workspace.

Her grin spreads even further.

“Oh, we are doing this now,” she says, voice far too amused.

She leans forward, plucking my highlighter out of my hand like I’m a child who shouldn’t be trusted with markers.

“It’s been days, and you’re hiding in here like a hermit crab.”

“I’m working.”

Natalie arches a brow. “Sweetheart, you’re color-coordinating spreadsheets.”

I snatch my highlighter back. “It’s called organization.”

She glances at the open tab on my screen. “And this new system of yours… tracking the Icehawks’ social engagement by which emojis fans use in the comments section? ”

I hesitate. “…It’s important data.”

Natalie crosses her arms. “Right. And it has absolutely nothing to do with avoiding a certain six-foot-four, hockey-playing menace who kissed you stupid at the festival?”

I tense. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Natalie snorts. Then, because she is the actual worst, she reaches across the desk, plucks up one of my dark chocolate truffles, and pops it into her mouth like she hasn’t just personally attacked me.

"Hey!"

“Mmmm… this is good chocolate,” she says, chewing thoughtfully. “You’ve been stress-eating these in solitude, haven’t you?”

“I— No. ”

She grabs another. “Liar.”

I glare. “Those cost me twenty bucks.”

“And I respect your coping mechanisms, but we need to talk about this. And if you're going to binge eat, I recommend Clara's Eclairs from Summit.”

“There is nothing to talk about. And they do sound amazing.”

“Oh, they are. Light, fluffy, filled with just the right amount of cream. Like eating a cuddle in dessert form.”

I groan. “Stop it.”

Natalie levels me with a suddenly serious look. “Sophia. You’ve been holed up in here for days. You haven’t been down to the rink, you haven’t said a word about your totally-not-a-moment with Blake at the festival, and now you’re drinking a $7 latte like it holds the answers to your personal crises.”

I clutch my cup tighter. “It might.”

She sighs, exasperated, then leans back in her chair, studying me like I’m a particularly difficult puzzle.

“You like him.”

I choke on my sip of coffee. “I—what? No. Absolutely not.”

Natalie just grins. “Oh, babe. This is so much worse than I thought.”

Before I can protest, the door bursts open again.

Big Mike.

And Greg.

And they both look far too pleased with themselves.

Greg claps his hands together. “Great. You’re here. Grab your coat.”

I frown. “What?”

Big Mike grins. “We need you rinkside.”

Natalie, all of a sudden sipping from my damn latte, smirking over the rim. “Oh, this is gonna be good. See ya!”

Greg and Big Mike lead me straight toward the rink, moving too well for two giant men in suits.

Greg grins at me as we approach the boards. The team is already on the ice, and I can hear Coach Brody barking out instructions.

"We had a fun idea," Greg says, his corporate voice far too chipper.

Big Mike nods enthusiastically. "Yeah. League is on at us again to lift our online presence. Not cutting it at the moment. And that's your job, right? That why I hired you?"

I dig my heels into the floor, throwing them both a very skeptical look. "Uh, yeah, I guess. But perhaps one of you should define 'fun' before I commit to whatever this is."

But Big Mike, already calling across the ice as we reach the boards, doesn't wait for me to agree to anything.

"Maddox! Get over here. We need you."

I freeze. Oh no.

From across the rink, Blake skates toward us, slow and easy, his powerful stride effortless. God help me. He’s been impossible to shake from my mind, and now, after days of avoidance, there he is.

Broad. Confident. Smug as sin.

The cut of his jersey stretches over his shoulders, the fabric clinging to muscle in a way that is truly, objectively, unfair. His masculine scent, a mix of fresh ice and pure male heat, reaches me even from here, making my pulse quicken traitorously.

I don’t know what I expected being dragged down here, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

This should be illegal.

Blake’s gaze finds mine, and for a split second, something flickers behind those storm-gray eyes.

It’s fast, barely there. But I see it.

Surprise.

Then something sharper.

Pissed? Annoyed? Conflicted? I can’t tell.

All I know is the weight of his stare pins me in place, pressing against my skin like a touch I can’t escape.

Then, just as quickly as it appeared, the hesitation vanishes - buried beneath that maddening, cocky grin that he wears too damn well.

“Morning, gentlemen.” His voice is smooth, easy. Too damn controlled. He nods at Greg, then at Big Mike, completely ignoring me. “What’s the big idea?”

I exhale sharply and roll my eyes.

Because of course .

Blake Maddox might be rattled for half a second. But he’s still the same aggravating, overconfident bastard who kissed me breathless and walked away, leaving me with nothing but a slap me on the shoulder.

Asshole.

Big Mike smiles at Blake, but slaps me on the back. "You're gonna give Ms. Hart here a skating lesson. Show her the ropes."

I choke on my own absolute horror. "You're what now?!"

Greg nods, like this is a completely reasonable thing to ask. "Yeah. It'll be great for engagement. We'll take some footage, and you can post it later, Hart. Show a different side of the team, a real camaraderie behind the scenes."

Blake crosses his arms, obnoxiously pleased with this sudden development. "I don't know, boss. Think she can handle it?"

I hate how much I feel that challenge right between my ribs.

"Think I can handle it? What, because I'm a girl?"

Blake holds his hands up. "Didn't say that."

"That's what you meant."

"Did not."

"Urgh! This cannot be happening!"

Big Mike barely acknowledges my very reasonable objections. He’s already grinning at Blake, clapping him on the shoulder. “So Maddox, you good with this?”

Blake, suddenly obnoxiously relaxed, doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t even pretend to consider it.

“Oh, I’m good with it.”

That's it. I'm quitting.

I'm moving to another country, starting a new life somewhere far, far away where hockey doesn't exist.

Blake gestures toward the ice, the smuggest bastard alive. "After you, sweetheart. "

I glare as I yank off my boots, swapping them for a pair of borrowed skates because of course they already had some waiting for me. The cold metal bites against the rubber flooring as I lace them up, each tug on the strings an aggressive, murderous venting session.

A jury would justify murder right now. I'm sure of it.

The moment I step onto the ice, I regret everything. I regret ever applying for this job, moving to this stupid hockey-obsessed hellscape. I regret every life decision that has led to me standing here, wobbling like a newborn deer, while Blake-freaking-Maddox grips my waist like he's the only thing stopping me from eating ice for breakfast.

"Shit," I whimper, my legs suddenly feeling all wobbly. I clutch Blake's arms, which, unfortunately for me, are rock solid. "It's slipperier than it looks."

Blake chuckles. "Yeah, that tends to be the case on ice."

I shoot him a glare as best as I can without falling ass-over-tit. "Oh, ha-ha. Hilarious. You should quit hockey and do stand-up."

His smirk deepens. "And miss this ? Not a chance."

Blake’s grip tightens on my waist, steady and sure, his fingers flexing slightly like he knows exactly how to keep me upright. Even if my legs have turned into absolute traitors beneath me.

"Just relax. I've got you."

I don’t dare move.

I barely breathe .

Because of course he’s good at this.

Of course he’s the type of man who can hold me like I weigh nothing, like it’s no effort at all to keep me steady when my entire world is slipping out from under me.

A quick glance toward the boards confirms my fear. Greg, phone in hand, looking far too smug about this whole thing is filming every painful second of this.

Then there's the rest of the team. They aren't much better.

Water bottles are being chugged, arms are folded, and there’s way too much attention on the way Blake is currently holding me together.

I try to step back, to create some kind of space, but Blake doesn’t budge.

“Eyes on me, Hart.” His voice is calm, but firm. “Not them. You focus on them, you’ll fall on your ass.”

I huff. “You're not exactly encouraging me right now. I hope you don't coach those kids with that tone."

His smirk is infuriating. “Fine. You want encouragement? Stop fighting it. You’re thinking too hard.”

“Thinking too— Blake !”

He let's me go. He fucking lets me go!

My stomach lurches as the solid warmth of Blake’s hands disappears from my waist.

"Trust me, Sophia. You can do this."

"Blake, no-"

Panic claws up my throat, but before I can flail like an idiot, my skates glide - actually glide - across the ice, the momentum carrying me forward with surprising ease.

A startled squeak escapes me as I wobble, arms flailing. Somehow I don’t immediately faceplant. It's a miracle.

From the boards, a few of the guys let out exaggerated whistles and cheers.

“Atta girl, Hart!” Ryder whoops, banging his stick against the glass along with the rest of the team.

"Blake, I hate you. I hate you!" I cry out, my skates still sliding on their own accord.

Blake, skating backward in front of me, smiles right at me. “See? Told you you can do it.”

My skates carry me forward faster than I’m ready for, momentum taking over, and shit , I don’t know how to stop.

“Blake,” I warn, flailing. “How do I— how do I stop?! ”

“Bend your knees,” he instructs, skating backward in front of me, like this is all one big game. “Shift your weight. Angle your—”

“Too late— too late! ”

Panic claws up my throat as the boards rush closer, and I do the only thing my traitorous survival instincts allow: I pivot straight into him.

I collide with Blake’s chest, gripping his jersey in a desperate attempt to stay upright. He lets out a low grunt, arms snapping around me, his strong frame absorbing the impact as we spin, his skates carving a sharp arc into the ice.

Everything slows.

For one awful, suspended moment, I feel everything.

His arms around my waist. His body beneath mine. The heat of his breath, still slightly winded, warming my ear.

And worst of all? The way his hands stay put, firm on my hips, like he has no intention of ever letting go.

“Y’alright, sweetheart?”

His voice is low. Too low.

I feel it more than I hear it, his grip steadying me, keeping me upright when my legs are still wobbling beneath me.

But I can’t be grateful .

Not when the entire Icehawks roster is watching.

Not when Logan is already wolf whistling from the bench, Ryder is nudging Connor like this is the best damn thing he’s ever seen, and Greg - oh God, Greg is still filming this.

Mortification floods me. I overreact instantly.

“This is your fault!” I blurt out, shoving at his chest.

Blake blinks. “My fault? Wh-”

“You let go of me! Who lets go of a beginner skater? That’s—” I wave wildly at the ice, where my dignity is currently melting into the surface. “That’s negligent coaching!”

His lips twitch. The asshole is trying not to laugh.

I shove at him again, untangling myself, still breathless, still burning, but I need to get the hell out of here.

Blake’s voice follows me as I storm off the ice, hobbling like a toddler while chuckles ripple across the sides of the arena.

“Sweetheart, if I didn’t know better…” His tone is amused, teasing, but something else lingers beneath it. Something darker. Something that makes my pulse rate spike.

“…I’d think you just wanted me to catch you.”

I whip around to glare at him.

But the only thing worse than Blake Maddox catching me on the ice?

Is the fact that he might not be wrong.