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Chapter Two

Sophia

S itting in the boardroom as the powers that be gather around the long, polished table, I'm trying to focus on the stats on my tablet, but everything is just blurring together.

Attendance figures, merchandise sales, social media engagement.

Even through the haze of nerves, I can see everything is trending downward.

Everything except for one bright spot: Blake Maddox .

The adrenaline from the game last night still pulses through my veins as I sit here, waiting for the board meeting to start. The power players at Icehawk Stadium will be here any second, waiting for me to deliver my answer to all their problems.

I glance down at the ice rink below and try to suck in some deep, calming breaths.

The arena is empty now, but I swear I can still hear the echoes of last night’s game. The pounding of the boards, the blaring music, the zip-lining hawk-looking-dude hanging from the roof…

It was a festival. A show like I've never seen before.

I look back to my tablet, and there it is again. The answer to all their problems.

Blake Maddox.

The captain, the hero, the untouchable face of Iron Ridge hockey.

Too bad he’s also about to become my biggest headache.

I force myself to take a sip of water from the glass in front of me. I can’t stop fixating on the spread of food laid out down the center of the table.

There's a platter of fresh fruit so perfectly arranged it could be a magazine cover, glossy croissants piled high on a silver tray, and a mountain of maple-glazed pastries that look so decadent, they practically scream we’re rich enough to eat dessert at 9 a.m.

I haven’t touched a single thing, not that anyone’s noticed. The men slowly filtering into the room are far too busy adjusting their ties and helping themselves to the smorgasbord dished out with no expense spared.

Big Mike Hawthorne, the owner and chief investor of the Icehawks, grumbles about last night’s ' bullshit ' penalties as he reaches for a sticky bun the size of my face. Greg Mathers, the CFO, carefully selects a slice of some kind of artisanal quiche, muttering something about the referee's actions affecting the budget while taking a bite.

Even Dave Carlson, the ex-enforcer, snatches a muffin and polishes it off in two bites before he’s fully seated. A few more figures pile into the room and with each new suit settling around the table, I’m sitting here like a deer in headlights, gripping my tablet like it’s a life raft.

This is so far out of my depth, it’s not even funny.

I straighten my spine, drawing on memories of my mother walking into rooms just like this. How many times had I watched her, a lone woman among suits, ties and burly beards, commanding attention with nothing but sheer determination and razor-sharp intelligence?

"They'll try to make you feel small," she'd told me once. "That's when you have to have the biggest balls in the room."

The memory brings a smile to my face.

Big balls? I can do that.

"Thank you for all being on time," I announce to the room, catching the sole vacant seat at the end of the table. "It seems we're just waiting on one more?"

Michael Hawthorne's gold watch catches the light as he leans forward, resting both elbows on the table. “Oh, don’t hold your breath for that one, Ms. Hart. Maddox never shows up after a game day.”

I grit my teeth, my grip tightening on the tablet in my lap.

The star player absent ? Of course.

It figures. The player they claim is the heart and soul of this franchise, the one whose face is plastered in every shop window in Iron Ridge, his name on the back of every kids jersey, can’t be bothered to show up for a meeting that directly affects the team’s future.

I press my lips together, swallowing my frustration. "Well, I suppose we’ll proceed without him then."

Big Mike chuckles under his breath, muttering something to Greg about “classic Maddox,” while Greg smirks and sips his coffee.

I inhale deeply, squaring my shoulders as I bring up my presentation on the whiteboard to my side. Maddox may not think this meeting is worth his time, but I’ll be damned if I let his absence derail me.

Because unlike him, I don’t have the luxury of skipping the hard parts.

I tap the screen, bringing up the first slide. "So, as you all know, the Icehawks have been Iron Ridge's heart for forty years. But to survive the next forty, we need to evolve."

I pause and take breath, gauging the table for any sign of encouragement.

Big Mike grabs another pastry and slurps his coffee loudly. Greg ogles over the pastry tray like it's his last meal and Tim Riley, the PR 'specialist' is checking on the state of his fingernails, presumably having destroyed them during last nights gripping hockey match.

Right the length of the table, not one set of eyes is on me.

"To boost engagement off the ice, my proposal is simple, yet effective: we showcase the human side of hockey. Behind-the-scenes content featuring our players, their personalities, their stories. Starting with our captain."

Greg's chews through his third pastry, golden flakes falling from his lips as he barks down the table, "And how much will this 'evolution' cost us?"

"For a full digital transformation... Professional videography, content creation, social media management-"

"We're barely breaking even as is," Greg cuts in over me. "And you want to blow the yearly budget on... what did you call it? Content creation ?"

I stare at the pastry avalanche tumbling from his mouth. The struggle not to let my face morph into the universal expression for 'ew gross' is real.

Thankfully, Dave Carlson leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "Look, Ms. Hart. I played here fifteen years. This town doesn't need fancy videos or whatever the hell a TikTok is. They need hard hits and game winning plays."

"With respect, Mr. Carlson, that mentality is exactly why we're losing younger fans. Our research shows-"

"Research?" Dave scoffs. "I'll tell you what Iron Ridge needs. They need their team to play hockey, not prance around for cameras."

Big Mike's chair creaks as he leans forward, his expensive suit stretching across broad shoulders.

Perfect. The man who hired me to do exactly what I'm proposing is about to come to my rescue. The man in power of this whole operation will put all these nay-sayers in their place and get them to listen to me.

"Let me be crystal clear, Ms. Hart," he says, leaning forward on his chair directly opposite me. "We're not some startup burning through venture capital. The Icehawks are bleeding money. And we bought you here to help fix that problem."

Or… maybe not.

My throat tightens.

The numbers flash through my mind again. Declining merch sales, sponsorship contracts hanging by a thread, fancy fucking platters at board meetings.

"Without a serious turnaround," Mike continues, tapping his watch against the polished table, "we're looking at staff cuts. Maybe worse."

The weight of his words hits home. Hard.

This isn't Seattle anymore, where I had backup plans and connections. Iron Ridge is my shot at proving everyone wrong - my former boss who said I was "too ambitious," the network executives who passed me over, every man who suggested I stick to "lifestyle content" and let the boys take care of the sports pages.

My mother's voice echoes in my head again. She was always my biggest supporter.

"You're a woman. They'll try to make you doubt yourself. Don't let them."

I stand, smoothing my blazer down and drying the moisture on my palms while doing so. "Mr. Hawthorne, I understand the financial pressure. But modern sports fans aren't just buying tickets to games - they're investing in stories."

I swipe through my presentation to the engagement metrics.

"Look at the NHL teams thriving right now. They're not just selling hockey - they're selling personalities, journeys, emotional connections. When fans feel personally invested in players, they buy jerseys. They fill seats. They bring their families."

The room is silent for a moment, and like the damn 'hawk' I became when I accepted this job and turned my life upside-down by moving halfway across the country to prove myself, I make sure to capitalize on my moment of opportunity.

"The Nashville Predators doubled their social media revenue last quarter with behind-the-scenes content," I continue, my voice growing louder, stronger. "The Carolina Hurricanes' ticket sales jumped twenty percent after their player spotlight series. This isn't just marketing fluff. It's proven strategy."

Suddenly the overloaded food tray in the middle of the table isn't getting all the attention.

Big Mike's expression remains unchanged, but I catch the slight tilt of his head. The first sign he might actually be listening.

I keep going. "Listen, I get it. Iron Ridge loves hockey. I can see that when I walk down Main Street, when I stood in the box last night and cheered the team on to victory. But they'll love it even more when they see the real stories behind the players they cheer for."

Greg Mathers' lips curl into a smirk. "Fascinating strategy, Ms. Hart. Tell me… how exactly do you plan to execute these... intimate player profiles when our captain treats media attention like it's the plague?"

My jaw clenches.

Blake Maddox's empty chair might as well have a sign reading 'too important for marketing meetings.' Not a good fucking start.

"Speaking of," Dave chimes in, crossing his thick arms. "Blake's got a strict 'game-only' policy with press. Has since he made captain. Good luck getting him to open up about his breakfast choices, let alone his personal life."

I tap my stylus pen against my tablet, irritation building.

They're right, though.

The Icehawks captain is notorious for dodging interviews, showing up late to mandatory press events, and giving one-word answers that make reporters want to tear their hair out.

And yet he's the cornerstone of my entire strategy.

Like my mother, who led the way as the countries finest sports agent despite being female, I've dealt with stubborn athletes before. If Blake thinks his brooding act will derail my plans, he's about to learn exactly how persistent I can be.

I've fought too hard to let one uncooperative, hockey player - captain or not - stand between me and proving my strategy works.

Last night's memory flashes before me. That challenging stare from across the arena, like he was daring me to try changing his precious team.

Well, Captain Maddox, two can play that game.

I straighten my spine, meeting Greg's smug expression. "Leave Blake Maddox to me."

***

After six hours trapped in my office wrestling with spreadsheets after that headache of a board meeting this morning, the need to stretch my legs is burning about as hot as a much needed boost of caffeine.

I've heard good things about the Player's Lounge, so I head that way first.

The hallways of Icehawk Stadium are long, lined with artifacts from eras gone by. My heels echo against concrete floors as I scan old team photos hung along the walkway. Memorabilia from hard fought games, the precious few highs of this huge franchise that has never exactly tasted what most would class as 'success'.

I'm almost at the Player's Lounge when a burst of laughter draws me toward the practice rink nearby. Through the glass, I spot a cluster of kids in mismatched Icehawks gear circling the ice. Their helmets wobble, sticks wave wildly—

And there's Blake Maddox in the center of it all.

He drops to one knee, gesturing a tiny player over with a wave of his hand. The kid's skates scrape across the ice and Blake's massive hands work quickly, retying loose laces while the child steadies themselves on his shoulder.

"There you go, buddy." Blake's deep voice carries through the glass shielding the hallway from the rink. He taps the kid's helmet. "Now show me that crossover again. Both feet this time."

The same man who put Roberts through the boards last night now guides a wobbly seven-year-old through basic footwork with infinite patience.

But he couldn't make the damn meeting this morning?

"Keep those knees bent!" Blake skates backward, demonstrating the move he requires. "Like you're sitting in a chair. There you go! You got it, you got it!"

The kids hang on his every word. When another one falls, Blake helps them up with a strong hand - those massive, capable fingers that could probably span my entire waist if I let him.

I can't help the smile that curls on my face when he slaps the kid on the back and gets him to try again. When another boy nearby nails a drill, Blake's proud smile lights up the entire rink.

And holy hell… what a smile that is.

Devastating. Like it should come with its own warning label: Caution, may cause spontaneous ovulation.

It transforms his whole face, softening those sharp cheekbones and making his steel-gray eyes sparkle in a way that sends heat pooling low in my belly.

I've never seen anything like it.

This can't be the same media-avoiding grouch the board warned me about. The Blake Maddox I've heard about doesn't ruffle helmets or high-five kids or show off those impressive thighs in workout gear or...

Shit.

He's spotted me through the glass.

Within seconds, he's skated off the ice, his broad frame cutting a path through the kids who scatter like ducks on a frozen lake. He steps off the practice rink and tugs his helmet off, his messy ash-blond hair damp with sweat as he stalks towards me, shaking the wild mane from over his eyes.

Oh my… Why was that so hot?

"Ms. Hart," he says, his tone clipped as he looks down at me like I’ve wandered into his kingdom uninvited. "If you’re here to critique my skating, you’re about twenty years too late."

Credit where it's due, even for an asshole, he's very, very good looking.

His practice jersey clings to his chest, soaked with sweat, which should be totally gross, yet somehow… he's like a human glacier that's pulling off 'sweaty' like it's a cologne ad.

"Right." I fold my arms, refusing to be cowed by the 6'4" hockey god in sweat-soaked workout gear. "Because it looks like you’ve got that under control."

His brow lifts. "Was that sarcasm?"

"You’re quick."

I give my head a shake, trying to ignore the way his short sleeved training top does absolutely nothing to hide the way his biceps flex as he crosses his arms over his broad chest.

His mouth curves, a smirk that’s equal parts annoying and… okay, fine, distracting . "And here I thought you were all about positivity. Hashtag team spirit and all that."

I'm just standing here, trying not to stare at the Icehawks tattoo on his forearm. Great. Now I’m wondering if the Icehawks tattoo is part of some Iron Ridge initiation ritual, or if it’s just another excuse to show off those arms.

Either way, it’s working.

There's another tattoo peeking out from his sleeve - something dark that disappears beneath the fabric, making me wonder just how far it extends.

Stop wondering about his tattoos, Sophia. For God's sake, get it together.

"For your information, I’m here because this—" I gesture toward the kids flailing across the ice, one of whom has just face-planted for the third time—"might be the most engaging thing the Icehawks have going for them right now. But I guess community engagement wasn’t high on your priority list this morning when you skipped the board meeting."

Blake’s jaw tightens, and I swear his shoulders get broader. "This has nothing to do with the Icehawks."

"They’re literally wearing Icehawks jerseys," I point out, tilting my head toward the kid struggling to pick himself up. "Am I hallucinating? Is this an illusion? Are you an illusion?"

He narrows his eyes at me, feigning boredom despite stepping closer, his sheer presence making my pulse skitter. "You’re awfully bold for someone who’s been here all of, what, three days?"

"Two and a half," I shoot back, standing my ground. "And if you’d bothered to show up to the meeting, you’d know I’m trying to help you. Help this team connect with your fans. But instead, here you are, Mr. Maddox, king of the rink, avoiding all the hard conversations."

His head tilts slightly, his gaze sweeping over me in a way that makes my stomach flip. "You think I’m avoiding you?"

"Well, you’re certainly not making my life easier."

He steps even closer, the heat of him making my cheeks flush. "Let me be clear, Ms. Hart. These kids aren’t a marketing ploy. They’re not here to sell tickets or give your spreadsheets a bump."

The hint of a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth, and I realize he's caught me being all flustered.

"Typical. You corporate types think everything’s a campaign. This isn’t for show. It’s for them." His eyes sweep over me, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "Looks like you’ve got a lot to learn about Iron Ridge, Sophia. "

"Yeah… well…" I stutter, sounding more like a tantrum-throwing tween than a proud professional. "It looks like you’ve got a lot to learn about teamwork, Captain ."

For a moment, we just stare at each other

Then he steps back, tossing his helmet back onto the bench and moving on the ice again, holding a hand out to his fallen soldiers scattered around the ice, not once looking away from me.

"And for the record," he calls over his shoulder, his voice echoing across the rink. "You're dreaming if you think I'm letting cameras anywhere near these kids."

He pauses for a beat, turning slightly as if something just occurred to him.

That smirk returns.

Damn that smirk.

“If you’re planning to lecture me about teamwork again, Ms. Hart, maybe you can save it for later tonight. I’m sure the entire team will love hearing your thoughts at the party.”

I blink. “Party?”

“Yeah. In the Player’s Lounge. You know, where the teamwork happens,” he says, grabbing a pile of cones by the practice net. “Try not to get lost on your way there, Ms. Hart. And don't forget your mask!”

I stand there, staring after him like I’ve just wandered into a parallel universe.

What party? And why would I need a mask? Oh God… this is some weird hockey ritual, isn't it?

I might need to Google this.

And just like that, he's gone, skating away from me like he owns the rink, the town, and apparently my evening plans.