Page 4

Chapter Four

Sophia

B ig Mike's booming voice cuts through the tension. "Alright, folks! Masks off!"

My fingers tremble as I reach for the tie at the back of my mask. The silk feels slippery, and for a moment, I wonder if I’m imagining the tension coiled between me and the man standing inches away. His broad shoulders block everything else out.

The glow of the chandeliers, the couples swaying on the dance floor, the laughter bubbling from the bar from the people watching this all unfold.

Even the soft hum of jazz fades beneath the sound of my own heartbeat.

A loud crack of thunder rolls through the speakers, building the drama as masks start to fall around us, the bass reverberating in my chest.

I flinch, and his hand - the one still planted firmly at my waist - tightens.

Whoever he is, his touch is warm, grounding, and annoyingly intoxicating.

The band swells into a dramatic flourish as I tug the strings loose. My mask slips away just as his does, the silk falling from his face. His stupidly handsome, smug face.

His steel-gray eyes burn into mine, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.

“I knew it was you.” My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

His lips curve into a slow, arrogant smirk. “What’s the matter, Ms. Hart? Disappointed?”

I take a deliberate step back, but his hand doesn’t leave my waist. If anything, his giant man-paw grip tightens, pulling me back into his orbit. My body, traitorous as ever, doesn’t seem to mind.

“Hardly,” I shoot back, tilting my chin up. “I’m just surprised you decided to show up for something tonight. Must be a new record.”

He huffs out a laugh, low and rough. “And here I thought you’d be too busy plotting your next big takeover to enjoy a little tradition.”

“This coming from the guy who couldn’t even bother to show up to the meeting that literally defines the future of this team?” I fire back, my voice sharper now. “Tell me, Captain. Are you always this hands-on, or do you just pick and choose when it suits you?”

Blake leans in, his face impossibly close. Close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint hint of whiskey and something inherently him .

My breath catches as his hand slides lower. Just barely. Close enough that I can almost feel his fingers on my ass.

I don’t know what’s worse: the fact that he stops just shy of inappropriate, or the way my body betrays me by wishing he didn’t.

My pulse skitters wildly, and for a split second, I hate him. Or maybe I hate myself.

Or maybe… I don’t even know what the hell I feel anymore.

“Careful, Ms. Hart,” he growls, his voice a dangerous, velvet drawl. “You’re starting to sound jealous.”

“Jealous?” I laugh, though it sounds more like a desperate squeak than the confident scoff I was aiming for. “Of what, exactly? Your winning personality?”

“Or maybe,” he says, his lips quirking, “it’s because you don’t like how good you feel in my arms.”

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “You’re delusional.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he counters smoothly, his gaze dropping to my lips for half a second too long.

“Blake!” Big Mike’s hand claps down on his shoulder, breaking whatever spell had locked us in place. “Glad to see you’re making our newest star recruit feel right at home.”

Blake’s jaw tightens, and he lets out a low huff as he finally backs away from me. "Yes, yes. What a surprise."

Big Mike’s booming laugh fills the space, almost swallowed by the low hum of jazz and the lively murmur of fresh conversation now the dance has finished.

A champagne flute clinks against glass nearby, and a burst of warm, golden light flickers across Blake’s sharp features as a waiter passes with a silver tray of drinks.

Big Mike squeezes Blake’s shoulder, holding him there like a proud dad corralling his most unruly son. “You know, Sophia here’s got some big ideas for the future of this team. She’s sharp as a tack, don’t you think, Maddox?”

Blake forces a tight smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Sure. Sharp.”

I bite back a grin. He’s seething, I can feel it. Good .

Big Mike doesn’t seem to notice his irritation. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t care.

Behind us, couples twirl under the low-hanging fairy lights strung across the dance floor. A passing guest brushes past me, their sequined mask glinting in the candlelight as they snag a flute of champagne.

“We’re lucky to have her,” Big Mike continues, turning his attention to me with a warmth that makes me stand a little taller. “I’ll tell you what, Sophia, it’s not often I bring someone in who gets this much buzz from the board right off the bat. After our meeting today, you’ve got Greg talking about TikTok like it’s the second coming of Gretzky. Hell, that’s a damn miracle in itself, right Maddox?”

Big Mike gives Blake a hearty slap on the back as we move towards the bar. Blake grabs the closest drink and nearly downs it in one go.

“And don’t you worry, Cap. By the time you’re back from the road trip, Sophia’s gonna have this whole club thinking bigger. Fresh ideas, new faces in the stands. It’s about time we caught up with the rest of the league.”

"Looking forward to it."

Blake's strangling that poor glass like it personally insulted his mother's cooking. His voice dripping with a sarcasm Big Mike either misses or chooses to ignore.

Either way, I'm beaming.

A couple stumbles past us, laughing, masks slightly askew. Somewhere across the room, Logan is deep in conversation with a woman in an elaborate peacock-feathered mask, while Connor’s already found his way to the high-stakes poker table near the back.

The Players’ Lounge is buzzing, but all I feel is this , the tension thick enough to lace into the air between us.

I decide to lean into the moment, turning to Big Mike with a bright smile. “I’m just excited to work with the team. I’ve already got a few ideas I think Blake will absolutely love .”

His eyes snap to mine, and oh, the look he gives me could melt the ice rink below. I can practically hear the words he’s holding back.

“Oh, I’m sure of it,” Big Mike says, oblivious to the silent war raging between us. Another waiter approaches with a fresh round of drinks and we all grab one. “You two are gonna make a hell of a team, I can feel it.”

Blake’s lip twitches, but he manages to keep his expression neutral. Barely. “We’ll see.”

“Oh, I know it.” Big Mike slaps his shoulder again. “Alright, I’ll leave you two to it. Blake, don’t scare her off now.”

As Big Mike moves to rejoin the crowd, I glance up at Blake, letting my smile shift into something a little sharper. “Well, that sounded promising. A hell of a team, huh?”

Blake exhales through his nose, a short, humorless laugh. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Why not?” I tilt my head, my tone light, teasing. “I thought we were off to such a flying start. ”

His gray eyes darken, his voice dropping low. “Don’t push your luck, Ms. Hart. ”

“And Captain Maddox ,” I reply sweetly, batting my lashes and stepping just close enough for my shoulder to brush his. “Don’t forget who’s calling the plays off the ice. Have fun on your trip, Cap. ”

He huffs, mutters something under his breath about 'star recruit my ass,' and stalks off, leaving me standing there, victorious and maybe, just maybe , a little breathless.

***

The Icehawks lost.

I knew it the second I opened my inbox this morning and saw the post-game summary. But it’s even more obvious in the tone of Iron Ridge today.

The whole town feels… off. Like the energy’s been sucked out of it, replaced by a quiet frustration that lingers like a storm waiting to break.

The people of Iron Ridge feel their hockey team’s losses, especially when the game was a close one. And knowing Blake Maddox?

He’s going to be unbearable when the team arrives back later tonight.

I exhale, shifting my focus back to the very different view in front of me.

My office is a glass-walled fortress on the top floor of Icehawk Stadium, the highest vantage point in the whole building. Below, the town of Iron Ridge stretches out in a picture-perfect postcard scene.

Snow-capped mountains, winding streets, the towering old clock tower in the square. Even the practice rink to the side of the town center sits in full view, the surface gleaming under the morning sun.

It's the ideal setting for a small-town hockey revival.

If I pull this off.

I flick my pen against my notepad, staring at the digital renderings of upcoming campaign ideas on my tablet. Some are decent. A few are good . But none of them feel big enough. None of them feel right .

A sharp knock sounds at my door.

Greg Mathers doesn’t wait for an invitation—he just walks in , dropping a thick folder onto my desk with a thwack that makes my stomach jump.

His charcoal suit is crisp, paired with a navy tie that screams I make the budget cuts around here . In one hand, he clutches a coffee mug emblazoned with the Icehawks logo, steam curling from the top like he’s fueling up to bulldoze through whatever resistance I might throw his way.

“You’ve got something here, Hart.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He plants a hand on the file, tapping it once. “This. This is the winner. We need to do this.”

My spine stiffens. There’s only one thing that could make him this enthusiastic.

I stare at the file like it’s about to self-destruct. I know it because I felt it too. For days, I've been scouring the competition, searching for ideas, inspiration to get things going here at the Icehawks.

Slowly, carefully, I reach for the file, flipping open the top page. And sure enough—

Blake’s youth program.

The Iron Ridge Youth Hockey Program, in bold across the top. My own notes scrawled in the margins, red pen underlining key themes. Personal growth. Overcoming adversity. The raw, emotional power of real stories. The kids of this town and their stories are at the heart of my biggest idea.

Greg is still talking, oblivious to the way my stomach has completely dropped .

“This has everything corporate’s been asking for,” he says, gesturing at the document like it holds the meaning of life. “It’s heartwarming, it’s gritty, it’s human . And best of all… Maddox is at the heart of it.”

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Maddox is… not going to like this.”

Greg barks out a laugh. “Maddox doesn’t like anything that isn’t hockey and punching people, but he’s the brand , Hart. Whether he likes it or not, he’s ours to market.”

I stare at the document, my pulse pounding in my ears.

This is it. This is the pitch that could change my career. It’s the kind of emotional storytelling I excel at. It’s the reason Big Mike hired me. The reason my mother refused to let me do anything except this.

It’s also the one thing that will make Blake Maddox hate me more than he already does.

Greg slaps the desk, standing with a grin. “I’ll set a meeting with Big Mike. We’ll roll this out before the month’s over.”

I nod automatically, my fingers gripping the edges of the folder so tight my knuckles go white.

Blake is going to kill me.

And the worst part?

I still want to see how he looks when he's furious.