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Chapter Four

Connor

I adjust my cuffs in the mirror, analyzing my reflection with more scrutiny than I've given a pre-game tape review.

Coach Brody’s house smells like woodsmoke, barbecue sauce, and whatever ridiculously expensive aftershave he pretends not to wear. The mansion's warm lighting makes everything look better.

The fireplace crackles in the oversized stone hearth, casting a golden glow across the living room where the team is sprawled out like they own the place.

Ryder’s taken over the leather sectional, wings in one hand, beer in the other, already leaving a trail of napkins like a drunken breadcrumb path. Logan’s perched near the fireplace with a scowl, clearly still pretending this whole event is beneath him. Blake’s kicked back in one of the armchairs, tie draped around his neck, grinning like he’s just waiting for the chaos to start.

I’m at the edge of it all, in the hallway outside the guest bathroom, adjusting my cuffs in the mirror and trying to pretend I’m not thinking about Lucy.

The suit’s new. So are the shoes.

And… the clean-shaven jaw I haven’t seen since last year’s playoff run.

"Holy shit, Walsh actually has a chin!" Ryder's voice bounces off the vaulted ceilings of Coach Brody's ridiculous mansion. “So that’s what your face looks like under the beard.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t act like you didn’t see me last season, jackass.”

“Yeah, but that was practice gear and swamp hair. This?” He whistles low. “This is, like… date material. ” He pops a wing in his mouth and winks. “You tryna impress someone tonight?”

"Fuck off." I turn from the mirror, catching Blake's amused expression as he sprawls across the leather couch, one arm stretched along the back like he owns the place. He has a tray of wings balanced on his knee, tie already loosened like we've already been to the auction.

"Just saying what we're all thinking." Ryder grabs another beer from the bucket.

I shrug, fighting the urge to run my hand over my jaw again.

“Lookin’ sharp, Walsh.” Blake calls out from the living room. “Enjoy the spotlight while you can. My engagement nuked my auction value.”

I glance over. “Yeah, I’m sure Sophia’s crying into her ten-carat ring every night.”

“Heartbroken,” he agrees. “Said I used to be dangerous. Now I fold laundry.”

“Domestic hot,” Ryder mutters with a nod. “Girls love that shit.”

From the bar in the corner, Brody lifts his whiskey. “God help whoever bids on you , Ryder.”

Logan snorts. “There’s a reason Lucy had me take his profile to Emma at Chapter and Grind to be heavily edited.”

The laughter rolls through the room, but I’m only half-listening now. My eyes drift back to the mirror, to the sharpness of my jawline, the fresh shave, the unfamiliar vulnerability of seeing my full face again.

It’s stupid. It’s vanity. But…

I wonder if Lucy will notice.

I haven’t thought this hard about how I look since senior prom—and even then, I didn’t care. Teagan Miller wanted the perfect couple photo. I just wanted to make it to regionals.

She left me the second my stats tanked and the scouts stopped calling. Taught me real quick that love is conditional, and no one stays when you’re losing.

Since then, I’ve kept things simple: don’t get attached, don’t let anyone in, and never change for someone.

And yet here I am.

Wearing cologne. Shaving my jaw. Wondering what Lucy fucking Daniels will think when she sees me tonight.

“Alright, alright.” Ryder flops back onto the couch and grins. “Let’s take bets. What’s Walsh gonna go for tonight? Twenty grand? Thirty?”

“Is this real life?” I mutter, grabbing a beer and leaning against the wall.

Logan flips a page in the auction program. “You’ve got the top fan engagement score on socials this season. You’re basically auction gold.”

“Didn’t Blake used to be the golden boy?” Coach Brody asks from the bar.

“Yeah,” Blake says, holding up his phone to show a background photo of him and Sophia. “And then I got her. ”

Ryder groans and throws a bottle cap at Blake. “Big Mike and Greg like that you’re off the market. It’s part of your brand now. Walsh, though?” He gestures at me with a wing. "With Walsh all cleaned up like this? Come on."

Logan grunts. “Please. Half his fanbase thinks he lives in a cave during the season.”

Blake leans back, eyeing me. “Yeah, well. Women love a redemption arc.”

Hunter raises an eyebrow from across the room. “And what exactly is he redeeming himself from?”

Ryder answers for me. “The beard."

"And the attitude," Logan chips in.

I shake my head and drain half my beer. “You’re all idiots.”

“Hot ones,” Ryder adds, not missing a beat.

The music shifts, bass bumping low from the built-in sound system, and someone opens the front door just as headlights sweep across the wide circular driveway.

Hunter glances out the window. “Ride’s here.”

Outside, a black stretch hummer rolls up like we’re a bachelor party about to hit Vegas. The league sent it as part of the promo package for tonight’s event.

Ryder’s already halfway out the door yelling, “ Dibs on the tunes! ”

Blake grabs another wing and strolls out like he’s heading into battle.

I linger for one last second in front of the mirror, fingers brushing the edge of my clean-shaven jaw. If Lucy’s really planning to outbid everyone… I might as well make this auction worth the money.

Yeah. I hope she notices.

***

The ballroom at Icehawk HQ looks nothing like the place where we usually do media days and end-of-season interviews.

Tonight, it’s dripping in gold.

Literal gold—soft uplighting glowing from beneath sheer curtains, candles flickering in crystal holders, champagne flutes sparkling on mirrored trays. The Icehawks logo is embossed on everything from the cocktail napkins to the massive centerpiece floral arrangement at the front of the room. Above us, golden chandeliers glitter like we’ve stumbled into the NHL’s version of a royal wedding.

The transformation is unreal. When we walked in this afternoon after our workout, the space looked good then… but this now?

This is next level.

I scan the room, taking in details I know came straight from Lucy's imagination. The gold-rimmed auction paddles. How the team photos are arranged to tell last seasons championship story. Even the way she's positioned the bar to create a natural flow toward the stage.

The entire fucking room hums with energy.

Soft jazz blends with low laughter and the quiet clink of glasses. Sponsors. Fans. Players in suits, wives in gowns, media crews trying not to look too eager.

It’s a show —and we’re the headliners.

"Holy shit." Blake whistles low beside me. "Your girl doesn't mess around."

"She's not my—" I start, but stop when I spot her across the room.

Lucy's traded her earlier jeans and team shirt for a gold dress that makes her look like she belongs in this fairytale setting she's created.

Her hair's down now, those honey-blonde curls catching the light as she laughs at something Sophia's saying. The dress shows off curves that make my hands itch to touch her.

The curve of her ass should be illegal in that dress. I want to tear that damn thing off her. Bend her over one of these velvet-backed chairs and show her exactly what happens when she looks like that.

My cock twitches at the thought and she glances over, catches me staring. Instead of the eye roll I expect, she freezes.

Her body goes still. Her hands clasping a glittering clutch at her front pause. Her gaze locks on mine like the rest of the room has disappeared.

Her eyes flick down slowly, taking in the suit, the cufflinks she once made fun of me for in Vegas, calling them 'fancy ass thumbtacks', and then finally, the clean shave.

Her throat bobs with a swallow. I’d pay real money to know what she’s thinking right now.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel it.

I'm nervous.

Not game-day adrenaline. Not performance hype.

Just… her.

“ CONNOR! ”

Ethan barrels into my line of sight like he’s trying to intercept a goddamn pass.

He claps both hands on my shoulders, nearly knocking the air out of me, all teeth and smug energy. “Man! You scrubbed up real good just for me to win that date with a hockey player!”

I blink and chuckle. “Is that right, man?”

“Hey, I brought cash. You think these cheekbones pay for themselves?”

I glance around him—because Lucy’s recovering from the shock written across her pretty features. Fast.

Her expression shifts into something cooler, arms crossing over her dress, lips twitching like she’s deciding between a smile and homicide.

Ethan’s still talking—something about bidding strategy, his auction limit, probably a joke about my chin suddenly resembling an ass now it's not covered in facial hair.

But all of it fades to static.

Ethan says something else, but I don’t catch it.

Lucy’s skin is glowing like champagne under the lights, and I’m still picturing that dress pooled around her ankles.

She starts walking toward us.

Strolling, really. Like a fucking queen down the runway during Paris Fashion Week in those high heels. Her hair is up in one of those effortless twists that shows off the line of her neck. The long golden dress hugs every curve I’ve spent years trying not to think about.

There’s a new perfume clinging to her skin—something soft and floral with a sharp kick underneath.

It's not sweet.

It’s sharp . Like her.

And I’m toast.

“Well,” she says, strolling toward us like she didn’t just mentally undress me two seconds ago. “This is gonna be interesting.”

Understatement of the goddamn year.

Suddenly I forget every pre-planned media answer I’ve ever used, because she walks right past me without a second glance.

I pivot slowly, tracking her movement, completely useless now that she's flipped some internal switch I can't un-flip.

She checks in with a volunteer at the front table, pretending to straighten a stack of name placards like it’s the most important job in the building.

It’s not. It’s performative. She knows I’m watching her.

So dammit, I watch anyway.

The way she moves in that dress… graceful, deliberate, pure fucking sex wrapped in gold. She should come with a goddamn warning label.

I can’t decide if I want to worship her or ruin her for brushing me off like that.

Probably both.

Because Lucy Daniels is all class, and I’d sell my soul just to have one damn night with her.

A beat of silence settles behind me.

Too quiet.

I glance sideways. And sure enough, Ethan’s watching me.

Not laughing. Not talking.

Just… watching.

His smile's still there, but it’s different now. More edge than amusement.

“You good, man?” I ask, tossing on the casual smirk that gets me through most media scrums.

He lifts a brow, like he's not sure if he wants to call me out or wait for me to dig the hole myself. “You just looked like you were about to propose with your eyes.”

I snort. “Fuck off. You just wish I looked at you like that.”

He huffs a laugh, but I can see it— the shift. The protective big-brother energy stirring like smoke.

My stomach twists, just once, before I shut it down.

Because he’s not wrong. And I’m not sorry.

His sister is still standing there like she’s the only thing that matters in this room full of million-dollar donors and professional athletes.

I take a long pull of champagne from the glass a passing server hands me and move.

I don’t say anything to Ethan. Just walk away, steps slow, deliberate.

I fall into step beside Lucy, my voice low and easy like it hasn’t taken me six years to finally follow her like this.

My cock’s still half-hard from the way she looked at me. Like she was deciding whether to kiss me or kill me as she walked past.

Either way? I’d let her do whatever she wants with me.

“So, Lucy Lou,” I murmur, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she looks up from her clipboard, lashes dark and fluttering. “You gonna actually put your money where your mouth is?”

Her brows lift, and that perfect mouth curves.

“Bold words,” she says, “from a man still using hair gel like it’s 2010.”

I smirk, letting the heat of her words land. “You love it.”

“I tolerate it.” Her voice drops half an octave. “Barely.”

Behind us, I can feel Ethan watching.

But I don’t look back.

Because if Lucy’s really planning to outbid everyone tonight, then maybe I should have done more than shave to impress a woman like her.