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Chapter Three

Lucy

T he ballroom at Icehawk HQ smells like polished wood, money, and just a hint of panic.

Kind of like my mother's house whenever she's hosting a party, now I come to think of it.

I stand in the center of the Icehawks’ newly renovated event space at The Nest —a section of the arena that’s been transformed into a glittering, gala-ready dream all thanks to the sparkling trophy that overlooks the room.

Gold uplighting shimmers along the floor-to-ceiling drapes, the Iron Ridge Icehawks logo glows against the far wall, and sleek black cocktail tables gleam under the dimmed chandeliers.

It’s giving award show meets luxury lodge , and honestly?

I think I've nailed it.

I tuck my hair behind one ear, take a slow spin, and breathe in the sweet, linen-crisp scent of everything going exactly according to plan.

Okay, so maybe I don’t know what I’m doing with my life … but this? Branding. Aesthetic. Perfectly-angled sponsor signage?

This I can do in my sleep.

“Okay, where do you want the paddles?” Natalie’s voice calls from behind me, followed by a series of chaotic thuds.

I turn to see her and Sophia stumbling in with two full boxes each, faces flushed from hauling them across the icy parking lot.

“Set them near the welcome table. We’ll sort by number later,” I call, already halfway to the AV table to triple-check the lighting presets. Again.

“Ugh,” Natalie groans, dragging her box the last few feet. “I swear, this auction better be worth it. I mean, at least every time I see Hunter, I just… sigh . Have you seen that man in a suit?”

I spin back around with a look of mock horror. “God, please don’t start.”

Sophia grins, flicking her long blond ponytail over one shoulder. “You’re just mad because you don’t have a hockey boyfriend of your own to bid on.”

I toss a pair of gold-edged place cards at her. “Yeah, because that’s what I need. To spend my own money on more testosterone in my life.”

My stomach does a weird little somersault, probably still recovering from the painfully awkward family dinner my parents hosted the other night.

Ethan showed up forty minutes late, Mom interrogated him like she was auditioning for the FBI, and Dad spent the entire meal polishing his wine glass and pretending not to be scandalized by my career in social marketing .

The vibe was less 'reunion' and more 'hostage negotiation with canapés.'

“Careful,” Natalie warns, tugging her sleeves down. Her engagement ring glints under the lights as she gestures dramatically. “That’s how it starts. One sarcastic comment, and then boom—you’re planning a wedding with someone who calls you darlin’ during press conferences.”

My chest squeezes—not in a bitter way, just… wistful.

Natalie and Hunter are disgustingly in love. Sophia and Blake are a chaotic, slow-burn dream team that's never going to end.

And me?

I spend more time arguing with Connor Walsh than I do flirting with anyone else. Which is probably a good thing. Probably.

“Anyway,” I say quickly, straightening a stack of auction brochures that outline which players will be available for a 'dream date' later tonight. “I’ll stick to being the hot, emotionally unavailable girlboss, thanks.”

Sophia cackles. “Just say you haven’t gotten laid since Vegas and you're starting to get desperate.”

I freeze, slowly looking up at her. “If I throw this vase at you, do I still get my staff discount at the cafeteria?”

Natalie gasps. “ Vegas?! ”

“I swear to God , if either of you—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sophia smirks. “Stop the act. Your face screams guilty hookups and unresolved tension every time Connor is near.”

I press a hand to my chest. “Rude. Slanderous. And not even a little accurate.”

Okay, so technically I’m not lying.

Vegas was a mess of hands and heat and one very public mistake away from becoming an actual scandal—but it wasn’t the last time I got laid.

That honor belongs to a painfully forgettable New York finance bro with more opinions on crypto than on foreplay.

Still, the fact that my best friends are roasting me for it?

Yeah. Hits a little too close to the truth.

Natalie giggles and nudges me with her elbow. “You okay though? I know all the gala pressure, plus the Ethan stuff... it’s a lot.”

I nod. “Yeah. It’s just been a weird week. I’m fine.”

It’s not a lie.

I am proud of this event. I am holding things together. And I do love the Icehawks—especially the way they’ve taken over this small town like a sports soap opera in real life.

But there’s still that quiet ache. That invisible string tugging at me while everyone else is pairing up, figuring it out, finding their people. And I’m... here. Wearing black boots, a fitted blazer, and a too-tight ponytail that’s trying to suffocate my soul.

I'll just keep telling myself that work is my priority. My safe place. My distraction.

Even if he keeps showing up in the middle of it.

Before I can spiral any further, the sound of boots echoing across the marble floor cuts through the air like a starting whistle.

Natalie turns first. “Uh-oh. The storm has arrived.”

I brace myself and look toward the entrance just in time to see a wall of tall, broad, annoyingly attractive men walking through the doors like they own the place.

And right in the middle, smirking like he invented ice skates, is Connor Walsh.

He’s in his practice gear—black compression shirt clinging to every unfairly defined muscle, joggers slung low on his hips, and a towel draped around his neck.

His eyes find mine instantly.

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave and blows a whistle through pursed lips. “Nice lighting, Lucy Lou. You angled those uplights just to highlight my best side, didn't you?”

I swear my eye twitches.

It’s like someone hit fast-forward on a testosterone-drenched reality show. The Icehawks stroll around the ballroom still riding high from their workout—sweaty, loud, cracking jokes and stealing canapés off the catering trays like grown men who’ve never been fed before.

“Blake!” Sophia grins as her fiancé beelines for her, bag slung over one arm, grin crooked, and hair a total disaster.

I try to look away as he kisses her like they’re the only people in the room, not surrounded by glittering signage and horrified caterers trying to fight enormous hockey players from the arrangement of delicious hors d'oeuvres.

I snort at Natalie's eyebrow wiggle, both of us trying to look away as Sophia melts into Blake’s arms.

I roll my eyes. “Do we really have to do this in front of the branding?”

“Relax, Lucy,” Blake calls out, his big arms still wrapped around Sophia. “Just giving the fans what they want.”

“Your tongue on her tonsils?”

He grins. “Exactly.”

Natalie snickers and nudges me. “I’m just saying… Hunter may be hotter in a suit, but Blake’s got strong pickup truck and ruin-you-in-the-backseat energy… don't you think?”

I groan and slap a hand over my eyes.

From the other side of the room, I hear Connor laughing. He’s now leaning against the catering table like he didn’t just body-check my emotional stability on the way in.

I don’t look at him.

I refuse to look at him.

Because if I do, I’ll notice the way that compression shirt is clinging to his chest, or how his practice joggers sit dangerously low on his hips. Or the stupid towel that’s somehow made him look both sweaty and good enough to fool around with in a stairwell somewhere close.

Nope. Not today.

I need to make sure this charity auction goes off without a hitch.

I turn away from Connor and grab the stack of nameplates for the auction display, carefully sliding them into their acrylic holders. One by one. Alphabetical order. Focused. Productive. Definitely not picturing that towel being used in ways that violate workplace health and safety policies.

I adjust Blake’s placard, then Connor’s—maybe just a little more crooked than the others—and step back to double-check the spacing.

Ryder flops dramatically into one of the stools and flexes, because of course he does. “So, where’s the auction signup? I’m thinking I open with twenty grand.”

Connor raises a brow. “For yourself?”

Ryder shrugs. “I’m the youngest. Fresh face. Hot body. I’ve got rookie appeal .”

“You have the maturity of a goat,” Connor says dryly.

Blake’s already laughing. “Still might get the highest bid, though. Some fan out there probably has a whole Pinterest board dedicated to his chiseled features.”

Ryder nods solemnly. “It’s called Ryder or Die . She DMs me inspirational quotes daily.”

I nearly choke on my water. Natalie slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle a laugh and Sophia leans into Blake and whispers, “Tell me that’s not real.”

Ryder just winks.

I duck my head and busy myself with the name cards again, adjusting the placements even though they’re already perfectly aligned.

I don’t say a word. Because I am not engaging today.

Then, Connor strolls closer, his voice far too dangerous and amused behind me.

“Come on, Luce,” he says. “Don't pretend like you're ignoring us."

I sigh dramatically and start rearranging the name cards for the third time, like shuffling cardboard rectangles will protect me from his bullshit.

“I’m working, Connor. You should try it sometime.”

He hums. “Nah. Watching you pretend not to listen is way more fun.”

He takes one more slow step forward, close enough that I can feel his heat behind me. My sharp inhale catches the subtle trace of his cologne, all clean citrusy-cedar and something darker that makes my skin prickle. The heat curls low in my stomach… sharp, sudden, and completely unfair.

“You’re not even a little curious what I’ll go for?”

I glance at him. Mistake. His smirk is pure torture, and those amber eyes are laser-focused on me . My blood heats instantly.

“I’m saying I hope the auction ends before someone starts stripping.”

Connor shrugs, unbothered. “Well, that depends on how generous the bidders are feeling.”

Ryder's still talking shit to Logan and Blake and soon he's barking across the room. “I bet I go for more than you, Walsh.”

Connor’s eyebrows lift, his grin going shark-level. “Excuse you? I’m a Stanley Cup champion. That’s, like, premium auction material.”

“I’m younger. Funnier. Less damaged.”

Ryder high-fives Blake who glares over at Connor.

"And we're all champions you fucking moron!" Blake laughs.

Sophia collapses into laughter as I try not to scream.

“God,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Please let this auction be over already.”

Connor moves closer, his voice dropping to a low, infuriating murmur. “Why? Afraid you’ll have to bid on me, baby?”

I whip my head toward him, face on fire. “In your dreams.”

He leans in, smile lazy. “Every night.”

Before I can think of a suitably scathing response, Ethan strides into the ballroom like he owns the place. Which, knowing my brother, he's probably already calculated exactly how much it would cost to buy.

His dark jeans and black Henley are deceptively casual, but I recognize the designer label. His jaw is freshly shaved, hair slightly wind-tousled in that perfectly imperfect way that screams 'private jet arrival.'

He flashes that million-dollar smile at the team and they light up like my brother is one of their own. I've seen that smile work magic at society events, watched it charm even the most hardened cynics.

But here? With the Icehawks?

I didn't expect this.

The team moves over and clap him on the back. Ethan grins through multiple handshakes, bro-nods and manly back-slaps. Logan, of all people, even yells “ Finally decided to visit the peasants, huh? ” before getting pulled into a one-armed hug.

I shouldn’t be surprised.

Ethan may have disappeared into the luxury abyss of yachts and boardrooms, but he did grow up in Iron Ridge too. And the guys clearly still consider him one of their own.

“Wow,” he says, scanning the room before landing on me. His grin widens. “This is impressive. My little sister playing event planner. Does Mom know you’re using your powers for good instead of social climbing?”

The entire team chuckles in unison.

Connor, of course, doesn’t miss a beat and he pops up beside me and crosses his arms over his chest. “She’s got hidden depths, bro. You’d be amazed what she can pull off under pressure.”

My eyes narrow and my voice snaps, “Connor! Shut it.”

He winks.

Ethan raises a brow. “Wait, you did all of this?”

“She’s running the auction,” Natalie chirps, entirely too helpful. “And she’s very organized about it.”

Ethan chuckles. “Here I was thinking you spent all your time hiding in that little bookshop retreat. So, my baby sister finally decided to join the rest of society?”

“Maybe I decided to contribute for once,” I say, sweet as poison.

Sophia pops a hand on her hip. “Translation: she was forced.”

"And it's her job." Connor nudges me with his elbow, smirking. “Be honest, Luce. You’re just here for the power trip, right?”

I toss a napkin at his head. “I’m here to make sure you don’t turn this into a circus.”

“Oh, it’s too late for that,” Ethan drawls. He strolls over and snags a paddle off the stack I just organized. He twirls it in his hand like it’s a toy, looking around the decorated room. “So how does this thing work again? You, what… wave it around and buy a date like it’s an eBay listing?”

I blink at him. “Are you serious right now?”

He shrugs. “Seems kind of… stupid. What are we bidding on? A ‘fan experience’ package? Is that, like, code for something?"

Connor snorts. “Told you rich people don't understand charity.”

I slap the paddle out of Ethan’s hand and jab a finger at the display board beside me.

“It’s a silent auction, Ethan. Each player gets a package. Some are private skate sessions. Some are dinner dates. Some are game-day passes with exclusive locker room access— calm down, they’re supervised . Anyone can bid. Even spouses and girlfriends. Highest offer wins. All proceeds go to Blake’s youth program.”

He blinks, expression infuriatingly blank. “Wow. That sounded very rehearsed.”

“I planned the damn thing.”

“Yeah, but are we sure people are bidding for the experience,” he says, smirking. “Or just for a shot with the player?”

Connor leans closer to Ethan. “Speak for yourself. I hear Lucy’s already prepped a war chest for yours truly.”

My jaw drops. “I have not .”

Sophia fake coughs: “ Vegas .”

Connor smirks wider. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. If you win me, I’ll even let you pick the date.”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs. “I’m just saying. You bid big, I’ll make it worth your while.”

I stare at him, stunned into silence, as the team collectively loses their minds.

I hold up both hands, refusing to surrender. “That’s it. I’m outbidding everyone. Then maybe you'll all see it's about charity , not… whatever this is.”

"You'll outbid everyone?" Ethan whistles through his amusement. “Even me?”

“Especially you.”

There’s a beat of silence before the team explodes again. Ryder’s pounding the table, Blake’s cracking up, and Logan just mutters to himself.

When I look to Connor, he's just standing there, looking downright smug.

“Well then,” he says, following Ethan and the rest of the team toward the locker room. “Guess I’ll try to look extra cute on stage.”

And as he walks away, he tosses one final look over his shoulder.

“You know, Lucy Lou… if you want a date with me so bad, you could've just asked.”

Ethan curls an arm around his shoulder and pulls him in a headlock as I'm left staring at the empty space they leave behind.

I should feel victorious, like I won the argument.

Instead, all I can think about is that stupid towel. And that stupid smile. And how I just accidentally volunteered myself to bid on a man who absolutely knows I won’t be able to help myself.

Natalie breezes past me, patting my arm. “Ah… you’re so screwed.”

Yeah.

Yeah, I am.