Page 5

Chapter Five

Lucy

T he ballroom at Icehawk HQ sparkles like something out of a dream… and for once, it’s mine.

Not my mother’s doing.

Not some black-tie fundraiser for one of my father’s corporate friends.

Mine.

So far, the night has been perfect. My vision come to life.

The Icehawks logo gleams on the screen behind the stage, rotating through player highlights and sponsor shoutouts. The air hums with low laughter and the delicate clink of champagne flutes. Velvet chairs. Mirrored tables. Candlelight dancing in every corner.

It’s all intentionally curated. Strategic.

And it’s working.

Special guests and fans in gowns and sharp suits are already angling for the best seats near the front, eyeing the lineup of auction paddles placed neatly at each table. Servers circulate with trays of drinks, and the buzz of excitement is almost electric.

I double-check everything with the team now stationed at the AV booth one last time, and finally slip into my assigned seat at the marketing table.

I take a deep breath, trying not to make eye contact with the giant projection screen currently flashing Connor Walsh ’s headshot in soft cinematic lighting like he’s starring in a hockey-themed perfume ad.

I ignore the twist in my stomach. The low thrum of awareness humming under my skin since he walked through the doors an hour ago.

God, he looked good .

Suit tailored within an inch of its life. That clean-shaven jaw I hadn’t seen in months.

God . Why did he have to do that tonight?

The beard was always ridiculous. Hot, sure… but messy. Wild. Like him.

But this?

This was dangerous.

Now I can see the sharp cut of his jaw, the way the light grazes his cheekbones, how smooth and stupidly perfect his skin looks. And all I can think about is sliding my hands down his face. Maybe lower. Seeing how soft that skin would feel between my thighs.

I press my knees together under the table.

Nope. Absolutely not.

Of all nights, when I need to be sharp, focused, in control of every damn detail… of course that's when Connor chooses to look at his absolute best.

I glance toward the stage, pretending to study the run sheet again, when a familiar voice booms behind me.

“Hell of a job, Daniels.”

I turn as Big Mike—the Icehawks’ CEO and the closest thing the league has to a lovable grizzly bear in a suit—claps me on the shoulder hard enough to jostle my glass.

“Thank you,” I say, heart skipping a beat. “Seriously. That means a lot.”

His gaze sweeps the room, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Board’s impressed. Sponsors are happy. And you didn’t even go over budget. Damn miracle.”

I grin. “That’s because I negotiated the linen sponsor to include chair sashes for free.”

He lets out a short, impressed laugh. “Smart. Remind me to never go head-to-head with you at contract renewals.”

Then he’s off again, shaking hands, doing his rounds—and I’m left blinking, a little stunned. Because praise from a guy like Big Mike?

That’s not fluff. That’s respect.

My parents have never looked at me like that. With genuine pride, no strings attached. And that's exactly why I pour everything into my work.

Here, success is measured in results, not stupid family expectations.

I glance toward the front of the room, where Sophia’s already curled into Blake’s side, whispering something that makes him laugh so hard he nearly spills his champagne.

Natalie’s up near the coaching staff, tucked in beside Hunter. His hand is already resting low on her waist, like he's one moment away from grabbing her ass and taking her out of here.

And me?

Alone.

Of course.

Until a body drops into the empty seat beside me and I catch a whiff of something expensive and familiar.

Unfortunately for me, it's just my brother.

“Gotta pay it to ya, sis, you made this place look like a goddamn Oscars afterparty,” he says, plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray. He looks like he's had a few already. "It's almost like you've been doing this all your life."

“Because I have been doing this all my life,” I mutter.

He lifts a brow and tilts the flute to me. “Touché.”

I glance at him sideways. His black suit’s sharp tonight, the collar crisp, the cufflinks subtle but definitely not cheap. He looks more like the brother I remember—poised, present, polished. A far cry from the man who stumbled into the bookstore last week like a ghost, or the one who couldn’t meet our mother’s eyes over dinner.

Tonight he’s relaxed. Glowing, even.

Maybe it’s the lighting. Maybe it’s the suit.

Or maybe it’s the champagne—because he’s already four flutes in, and eyeing a fifth.

I don’t say anything. Not yet. Because for once, he’s not sniping or checking his phone.

Then right as I let myself breathe… the spotlight shifts to the stage and the speakers blast the entry music to kick off the auction event.

“HELLOOOOOOOO IRON RIDGE!”

The crowd jumps as a sequined blur struts out from behind the velvet curtain, arms wide like they’re about to host the Oscars.

“Are we READY to bid? Are we READY to raise some MONEY? Are we READY… for SWEATY HOCKEY MEN IN SUITS?!”

I choke on my champagne.

“Oh, God,” I whisper.

I found our host online at two in the morning after downing three cups of stress tea and panicking about making this event more 'memorable.' According to his website, he’s a former magician-slash-reality-TV-host-slash-Elvis impersonator who now works corporate events and charity galas.

He's ' flexible ,' it said.

Shit. This might be my first mistake of the night.

“Welcome to the Icehawks Annual Dream Date Auction!” the emcee yells, voice bouncing off the glittering chandeliers. “My name is Troy Starbeam—yes, that’s real—and tonight, we're raising funds for the Iron Ridge Youth Hockey Program. And I don’t know about you, but I plan to make it sexy, scandalous, and just a little bit dangerous.”

The audience erupts into laughter. Big Mike takes the stage with a smile that says he definitely did not sign off on this energy level.

Hmmm. Maybe Eli would have been the better choice after all.

Big Mike clears his throat and maintains a safe distance away from the energy of Tony Starbeam as he steps up to the microphone.

“We want to thank all our fans, sponsors, and especially our fearless marketing team—led by the incredible Miss Lucy Daniels—for tonight’s event.”

Applause rises like a wave and I smile, my cheeks warming.

Big Mike’s praise means more than I want to admit. Because for once, I earned it. Not my family name. Not my connections. Just… me.

Troy Starbeam gives Mike a thumbs-up as he gives him a wide-berth and leaves the stage. Tony turns to the crowd, his eyes wider than I've ever seen on any human before.

“And now, let’s get this auction started! First up… the rookie himself. The baby of the Icehawks. The man who flexes in every mirror he passes—RYDER SCOTT!”

The crowd woos and whistles.

Ryder practically cartwheels onto the stage. He’s already undone his tie and is flexing like he’s posing for a calendar shoot. The bidding starts right away and paddles start flying in the air.

“One thousand!” a woman in the front row yells.

“Fifteen hundred!” another one shouts.

“Three thousand!” comes from the back.

Ryder eggs them on, doing a spin and blowing kisses like he’s on The Bachelor . He offers a signed jersey as well as the date. It does the trick, and the bids eventually finish up on a very, very healthy start.

“TWELVE THOUSAND DOLLARS!” Troy bellows as Ryder fist-pumps like he just scored the Cup-winning goal.

Blake claps slowly, shaking his head.

Next up, Logan.

The mood changes. Less wild. More focused. He walks up like a soldier to a mission—calm, collected, expression unreadable.

The bids come slower. More refined. Until, from the corner of the room, I see my best friend from Chapter and Grind, Emma, raise her paddle.

I choke on air.

Sophia shoots me a look that tells me she's as shocked as I am. I shake my head fast, swearing to God that I knew nothing of this.

Emma stays expressionless, her paddle steady as the bids climb. Until someone from the VIP table—some guy with a designer suit and Silicon Valley aura—raises it to fifteen-five and takes the win.

Emma lowers her paddle without a flicker of emotion. Logan leaves the stage looking less than thrilled.

Ethan gives me a look and raises a brow. "What's all that about?"

“I have no idea. But you bet I’m gonna unpack that later,” I mutter.

“Next, we have THE SILVER FOX HIMSELF. THE STRATEGIC SEX GOD. THE MAN WHO INVENTED THE SMOLDER—COACH HUNTER brODY!”

Natalie hides behind her hands as Hunter walks onstage, stoic as ever. There are cheers and whistles as Coach Brody shakes his head and waves of the unwanted attention.

The moment the emcee says 'dream date,' a woman bathed in jewelry screams, “I’ll pay twenty thousand!”

Another shouts, “Thirty!”

Hunter holds up a hand, his cheeks flushing bright red. “Thirty-five. I’m bidding on myself.”

Troy Starbeam staggers. “I—what? Can we allow that? We can ? Oh. Okay. Well. Coach Brody has bought himself!”

Natalie’s cry-laughing in the front row. “That’s my man, ladies!”

Then the lights shift again. The music changes.

Dramatic. Tense. Theatrical.

“AND NOW—THE MOMENT YOU’VE BEEN WAITING FOR. THE MAN WHO COULD BLOCK YOUR HEART AS EASILY AS A SLAPSHOT. THE ONE, THE ONLY… CONNORRRRRR WALSHHHH!”

My entire bloodstream evaporates.

Connor steps into the light, adjusting his cufflinks like he hasn’t just turned my body to ash . The crowd goes wild . Screams. Cheers. Champagne glasses raised.

Beside me, Ethan leans in with a devilish grin as he rubs his hands together. “Oh boy. This is gonna be fun.”

I narrow my eyes. “You better hope you brought your wallet.”

He raises a brow. “Planning to back out?”

I grip my paddle. “Not a chance. I’ve got one goal tonight.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

I don’t blink. I just look my brother in the eyes and say, “To win the auction—and rub my hands all over that clean-shaven face like it’s my birthright.”

Ethan snorts so deep he nearly inhales his champagne through his nose.

Connor reaches the center of the stage, giving the crowd one lazy, devastating smile. My paddle's in my hand, ready as Ethan stumbles to regain his composure.

Round One of this stupid sibling rivalry goes to me.

The auctioneer spins on his glittering high-heeled boots, arms flung wide like he's presenting a Broadway finale. "Iron Ridge, are you READY for your MAIN EVENT?!"

The crowd roars. The lights dim just enough to make the moment feel charged. The screen behind the stage flashes with dramatic graphics, a montage of saves and post-game smirks and shirtless locker room footage.

Because of course it does.

"I did not approve of that highlight reel," I say to no one in particular.

Ethan gives me a pointed look that I choose to ignore.

"Ladies, gentlemen, and hockey enthusiasts of refined taste," the emcee croons, voice dripping with showmanship as he roams the stage with confident steps. "Feast your eyes on the man of the hour. Your reigning Stanley Cup champion, your Icehawks goaltender, your social media obsession—Connor. Freaking. Walsh!"

The room erupts one last time.

And I forget how to breathe.

His jaw, freshly shaved, is sharp enough to kill. He adjusts his cufflinks with that same cocky precision he uses to catch pucks, then flashes a grin that makes me want to fling my paddle like a weapon right at his smug face.

I grip the edge of my seat.

And then—from the corner of my eye, I see Ethan lifting his paddle before anyone else in the room.

"You’re kidding me," I hiss.

He doesn’t even look at me. Just leans back, smirking, and lifts it again when someone else bids. It’s small at first. Playful. But then the number jumps.

Someone calls out $10,000.

Ethan lifts his paddle again. $15,000.

His smirk doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. And when the bid climbs again, I catch it.

Barely a shift, but there’s something tight in his jaw. Something strained. Like he never expected the price to get this high.

But for a man with more money than sense, why would that matter? Somehow, I get the feeling he’s not playing this like it’s just a joke anymore.

My heart spikes as another bid flies in.

And then… I—I snap .

Because of course Ethan is doing this. Of course he’s swooping in like the golden child, throwing money at something he doesn't even want. Like this is just another boardroom, another family dinner, another reminder that Lucy Daniels will always come second.

Fuck that. Not tonight.

I raise my paddle.

Gasps ripple through the crowd.

"A NEW BIDDER LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!"

Connor’s grin turns dangerous as his eyes lock on mine across the room. My skin heats under his gaze.

Ethan finally turns to me, voice low. “Are you really doing this?”

I don’t blink. “Yes.”

His jaw flexes. Another bid comes in from a stranger in the front row—$25,000.

Ethan's fingers tense around the paddle like he's feeling it now. What the hell is going on with him? Money's never been an issue for him.

I match the next three bids.

$30,000.

$35,000.

$40,000.

The room is dead silent now, the air thick with tension and disbelief as the bids crawl higher and higher. Cameras click. Whispers fly. Somewhere, I think I hear Natalie whispering, "Oh my god. She’s actually going to win."

Ethan leans toward me, eyes dark. “Stop, Luce. You're being ridiculous.”

I smile sweetly. “I learned from the best.”

He hesitates.

And then, with a sharp exhale and a muttered, “Fucking hell,” he tosses the paddle down.

The auctioneer doesn’t miss a beat.

“SOLD!” Tony screams, spinning with theatrical flair on the stage. “For a record-breaking bid of $50,000—CONNOR WALSH IS YOURS, MISS LUCY DANIELS!”

The crowd loses it .

I don’t even hear the applause. My pulse is a riot in my ears.

For once in my life, I didn’t fold.

I didn’t back down.

I won. I fucking won.

Connor jumps off the stage like he’s walking on air. He doesn’t even break stride as he makes a beeline for me—his smile is lethal, his eyes locked on mine like he’s been waiting all night for this moment.

Before I can brace myself, he grabs me by the waist and lifts me off the ground, spinning me in a slow, stupidly romantic circle that makes the crowd around us cheer like we just scored in overtime.

I let out a breathless laugh, my arms flying to his shoulders, heart crashing into my ribs.

His cologne hits me first. Then the warmth of his hands. The clean scrape of his jaw as I nearly bury my face in his neck.

And the heat .

God, his hands on my waist feel dangerous. Possessive. Like they belong there.

As the room spins, my eyes catch on something— Ethan .

Still seated. Still watching.

But something in his expression has changed.

His jaw is tight. His brows drawn. The champagne flute in his hand trembles slightly before he slams it down, unfinished.

Connor lowers me back to the floor with a grin that could melt steel, but he doesn’t let go. His palms stay right where they are, firmly planted on my waist, fingers splayed like he dares anyone to question it.

“Lucy, jeez . I told you, if you wanted a date that bad, you just had to ask.”

I can’t breathe through the smile on my face.

I also can’t speak. Because I might actually combust if I do.

I glance up just in time to see Ethan pushing back from the table and stalking off toward the bar, muttering something under his breath. I watch him go, but he doesn't stop at the bar like I expect.

Instead, he slams a fist into the door and disappears out of the venue without even looking at me again.

Connor, on the other hand, looks like he’s having the time of his fucking life.

His smile is lethal. His eyes are all mine .

I’m flustered, breathless, completely unprepared for whatever comes next. But apparently, I just paid fifty thousand dollars to find out.

And Ethan hasn’t even stuck around to see it unfold.