Page 3

Chapter Three

Blake

T he fucking stupid mask itches against my face as I lean against the bar, watching the party unfold. Logan's already three drinks in, spitting shit about last nights game beside me.

"Look, all I'm saying is if Roberts tries that shit again—"

"You'll what?" Connor cuts in, reaching past me for his fourth beer. Not that I’m counting, but if he starts chirping me after five, I’m taking receipts. "Take another penalty like Blake over here? Real smart."

I run my finger around the rim of my glass, half-listening half-ignoring their usual back-and-forth. The Players' Lounge is packed tonight, the music just loud enough to give everyone the illusion of private conversations.

The traditional masquerade party transforms our usual hangout into something straight out of a dream every year. Crystal chandeliers cast honeyed light across the lounge, turning everything golden. Green and gold streamers drape from the exposed beams, and someone's scattered glittered gold rose petals across the leather couches.

A jazz quartet plays in the corner, their soft notes wrapping around couples already swaying and dancing on the makeshift dance floor overlooking the ice rink below.

The usual sports memorabilia has been draped in silk, transforming our players sanctuary into something almost mythical. Even Logan looks less intimidating with his wolf mask, though the way our massive defenseman towers over everyone still gives him away.

Through my venetian mask, I catch glimpses of familiar faces hidden behind feathers and glitter. There's something about the anonymity of masks that makes everything feel possible, dangerous even.

Like maybe, just maybe, people might take risks they wouldn’t otherwise take.

Connor slouches beside me, flipping a poker chip between his fingers. “Ryder actually tried to toe-drag last practice,” he says, his lips twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “Almost fell on his ass.”

“Did not!” Ryder’s voice cuts in from behind, the rookie shoving Connor’s shoulder as he squeezes between us and grabs a flute of champagne. “I nailed it.”

Connor snorts. “You nailed the boards.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Logan chimes in from across the room, lounging on one of the leather couches like he owns the place. “At least the kid’s got ambition. God knows the rest of you don’t.”

Connor nudges my arm and I see his eyes roll from behind his mask. "He's starting to sound like Coach Brody."

I smirk back as the group erupts in a mix of groans and laughter, but even with all the noise, I catch it - the soft creak of the door opening across the room.

My instincts kick in before I even turn, every muscle tensing with a strange, inexplicable pull.

She's here.

I don't know how I know it, but I do.

The door swings open, and everything stops.

Sophia Hart glides in wearing a dress that somehow makes my fingers itch to touch her. Deep emerald silk hugs every curve, catching the light with each step. A delicate gold mask frames those sharp hazel eyes, crystals scattered across it like stars.

She looks untouchable. Like a queen holding court. My queen.

No. Not my anything.

My grip tightens on my whiskey glass. Logan whistles low beside me, and I fight the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

"Damn, new chick in marketing's looking fine tonight," Connor mutters, and something hot and territorial roars to life in my chest.

She moves through the crowd like she owns it, pausing to chat with Dave near the buffet. The slit in her dress reveals a flash of leg, and I catch Coach Brody's new rookie project openly staring.

My jaw ticks. Every guy in this room has their eyes on her.

She doesn't notice, but I do.

And it’s taking every ounce of restraint not to rip that mask off her face, pin her against the nearest wall, and remind everyone exactly who they’re fucking dealing with.

"You gonna talk to her, Cap?" Logan nudges me, grinning behind his basic black mask. "Or just glare holes through anyone who looks her way?"

I drain my whiskey in one go, ignoring the burn.

"What's the deal, Maddox?" Connor presses, leaning on the bar beside me. "You're staring at her like she stole your favorite stick."

"Maybe he’s just admiring the view," Ryder quips, smirking over the rim of his champagne flute. "I mean, she does clean up nice."

"Shut up, rookie," I mutter, my grip tightening on my empty glass.

Connor grins like the relentless shit-stirrer he is. "Oh, come on. She's not that bad, right? Let me guess… She’s still on your shit list for running the show this morning?"

"Word in the locker room says she had Big Mike eating out of her hand," Ryder says unhelpfully.

My jaw tightens. "She doesn't belong here."

Logan barks out a laugh. "Yeah? Could've fooled me, man. She looks like she owns the place."

Sophia laughs at something Dave says, the sound carrying across the room. The diamonds at her ears catch the light when she tips her head back, exposing the elegant line of her throat.

Fuck.

My fingers crush the empty glass. I should look away. Should remember all the reasons she's trouble - her plans to change my team, her corporate mindset, her ability to get under my skin.

She’s here to fix what doesn’t need fixing. To turn this team into something it’s not.

But fuck if I don’t want to…

"You're so screwed," Connor adds, laughing softly.

"I said, shut up."

A sudden clink, clink, clink of a glass being tapped draws attention toward the center of the lounge. Big Mike stands near the bar, raising his drink, his deep, gravelly voice booming over the music.

“Alright, folks, listen up!” I can't miss that it's the Icehawks' owner, despite the mask. Hardly anyone in the whole nation matches his bulky figure. His grin is mischievous, shown in the way his eyes twinkle beneath his own mask. “As always, tonight’s about tradition, so you know what that means. If you’re an Icehawk, or if you’re dating one, you’ve gotta participate.”

The room breaks into murmurs.

Coach Brody, standing beside him, smirks. “That's right. So for our new faces tonight, allow me to introduce the annual Midnight Masquerade Dance .”

More murmurs. Someone whistles from the back of the room.

Logan groans beside me. “God, not this again.”

Connor nudges him. “You’re just mad because you always get stuck with someone’s grandmother.”

“It was one time ,” Logan growls.

Big Mike grins. “Mask on, pick a partner. One rule: No talking. Just let the music guide you.” His gaze sweeps the room. “You never know who you’ll end up with until the music stops at midnight. Then, and only then, can you reveal your face to your mystery dance partner.”

The lights dim, the jazz music shifts into something slower, sexier .

Fuck. I hate this shit.

A rustle of movement spreads as people turn, scanning the room, choosing. The anonymity of the masks makes it all the more dangerous.

I should step back.

But I don’t.

Because Sophia is already shifting toward the floor, her delicate gold mask hiding just enough of her expression to make me desperate to know what she’s thinking.

I swore I’d keep my distance from her. That I don't care about the entrance she'd made at my team.

But then some asshole moves toward her.

Some cocky second-string player, all charm and bravado, stretching out his hand like he's got a fucking shot.

No way asshole. Not happening.

Before I can think, I moving. Fast.

I cut through the crowd and my hand clamps around hers, firm, decisive, mine . A bolt of heat zaps up my arm and her sharp gasp cuts through the air. I pull her against me, her delicate frame nearly stumbling into me from the force.

The rookie freezes, I see his jaw move. His mouth has opened behind his mask like he's about to say something.

I shoot him a glare that stops him cold.

Sophia exhales with a long, unsteady breath as my fingers curl around hers, pulling her towards the center of the dance floor before she has the chance to realize what’s happening. Her mask tilts up, sharp hazel eyes flashing behind it.

I don’t let go. My grip only tightens, the heat of her hand sparking something primal in my chest.

Mine.

I slide my hand around her waist, drawing her closer as the music picks up. I'm close enough to hear the sharp breath she takes in as my fingers press into the silk at her lower back. Close enough to know she’s just as affected by this as I am.

She sways against me, her body warm through the silk of her dress. I let her settle, my grip firm. Just enough to remind her that she’s in my arms now.

A new song starts. Slow. Intimate.

Her other hand finds my shoulder, but she hesitates - her fingers hovering before pressing lightly against my suit.

For a moment, I think she might say something. But she doesn’t.

She can’t .

Not with the rules. She's not a rule-breaker.

But I am.

I dip my head slightly, my lips near her ear. “Who are you supposed to be tonight?”

She exhales a soft laugh, something unsteady in it. “Someone who doesn’t take orders from a stranger.”

My grip on her waist tightens. Fuck.

She doesn’t even know who she’s taunting.

I slide my thumb against the silk at her lower back, just barely there, but enough to make her shiver.

She feels that. She feels me.

“Strange,” I murmur, voice low, gravelly. “You follow my lead just fine.”

She tilts her head, just enough for me to catch the faintest hint of a smirk beneath her mask. Cheeky. I like that.

“That’s because I don’t know who you are.”

I chuckle, dark and low. “You could always take a guess."

“And spoil the mystery?” Her nails dig into my shoulder.

I let the silence stretch, let the heat coil between us, slow and dangerous.

Then I lean in, just enough that my lips almost skim her jaw.

“Let me guess then.” My lips linger near her temple, the scent of her skin filling my lungs. “You’re the woman who thinks she can walk into my world and change everything.”

Her fingers tighten slightly on my arm. “And you’re the man who thinks he owns it.”

My lips curve. “I do.”

She exhales, her fingers tightening slightly. “ You think you do.”

"You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"Maybe. But neither do you."

A hand brushes my forearm - Connor, passing by with his own mystery partner. He leans in slightly, murmuring, “Don’t get attached, you two. Those mask comes off at midnight.”

As if I don’t already know who she is.

Sophia tenses slightly at Connor’s words, her fingers flexing against my shoulder. The reminder that this is temporary. That when the dance ends, we’ll go back to fighting, to pretending we don’t feel this heat simmering between us.

But right now?

She’s mine.

And I’m never letting her forget it.

The clock above the bar ticks down, each passing second coiling the tension tighter between us.

The longer I hold her, the harder it gets to ignore the way she fits against me. The way her body moves in sync with mine, like she was meant to be here, in my arms, nowhere else.

My fingers flex against the silk at her waist, fighting the instinct to hold tighter, to keep her here just a little longer.

I shouldn’t want this.

But fuck , do I ever.

Her breath is shallow now, her pulse hammering beneath my fingertips as my thumb brushes over the exposed dip of her spine, so damn close to the swell of her ass.

Soft. Smooth. Too fucking tempting.

The world narrows. The party fades. It’s just her, just me, lost in the pull of something neither of us should want as the clock ticks down.

Then—

Clink, clink, clink.

A glass taps against a bottle.

Big Mike’s voice rumbles over the music. “Alright, folks. Midnight’s here.”

A murmur rolls through the lounge. Laughter. Excitement. Anticipation.

Sophia’s fingers curl into my jacket, gripping it tight. Like she doesn't want this to end, like she's hanging on for more.

Big Mike grins. “Time for the reveal.”

Her eyes lock onto mine, searching, hesitant… like every fucking fiber of her already knows .

I lift a hand to the tie at the back of my mask.

The silk loosens. The clock strikes midnight.

Her lips part, then…

"Alright, folks! Masks off!"