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Caleb

Jeezelouizemothertrucker. If I paid attention, this wouldn’t be a problem.

“Hold the elevator,” I yell, right before I careen through the closing door, crashing into the back wall, and narrowly missing the poor woman pushing the button for me. Hands on my knees, I try to catch my breath.

I need a plan.

The question is, how far am I willing to go to save Lucky from Mr. Dimon’s wrath? Do I offer to be traded? No, that’s stupid. There has to be a better solution. But nothing pops into my head to make this better. If my carelessness jeopardizes Lucky’s sobriety, I will never forgive myself.

Son-of-a-biscuit.

The elevator dings, and there’s no plan or compelling plea. I guess I’m storming the castle.

This is probably a terrible idea. The worst I’ve ever had.

But…I take a deep breath, smile, ignore Mr. Dimon’s assistant, Wes, and swing his door open, announcing, “It’s totally my fault. Don’t blame—” I stop short because standing there larger than life is not my friend, Dylon Felix, a.k.a. Lucky.

It’s Leo Griffin.

The man I’m obsessed with—my best friend’s father.

My brain combusts into a million pieces, individually dripping all over the very expensive plush carpeting with the team’s logo in the middle.

My favorite hockey icon, in person, melting my skeletal frame along with my common sense.

In the decade of friendship with Mason, Leo and I have only been in the same room a handful of times.

He’s never had me in his sights, never this close, never without my pads as armor.

Leo Griffin is intimidating with his shrewd eyes, jet-black hair that looks blueish in the light, and broad frame an inch or so taller than me. The few grays at his temples make him mouth-wateringly distinguished, and I pale in comparison like a kid interrupting the grownups.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Dimon, he…he…” Wes tries to find an appropriate way to describe how I charged past him without making me look like a dimwit.

Too late.

There’s no recovering from this. The boss is going to fire me in front of my idol, Leo Griffin. I can’t stop saying his name in my head. It’s stuck on a loop but still not real.

Mr. Dimon waits with one eyebrow raised. He’s a formidable force on a regular day and extra on the day I barge into his office unannounced… What the hell is Leo doing here?

My mouth drops open. “I just saw Mason. Is everything okay? Is he hurt? What happened?” I turn to Leo. Can’t call him that, as if we’re friends. My brain has concocted a personal relationship we absolutely don’t have. “How could something happen so fast? How did you get here?”

“Mr. Benz,” Mr. Dimon snaps, and thankfully, I shut up.

“Sit,” Leo—no, I have to call him Mr. Griffin—commands, and in an effort to obey, my knees bend, but I’m in the middle of the room and sitting on the floor would be silly, so it’s like some weird genuflection.

“Over here.” He points to a chair right next to him.

His amber eyes track my movements like a lion assessing its prey.

This is how I die.

My mushy brain has enough power to drag my feet closer to him while knowing this is a terrible idea because I am not in control of myself.

“Mason is fine. Leo and I have other business.” Mr. Dimon clears his throat. “I take it you are not here to object to Leo joining the Enforcers?”

“No,” I practically shout. “Wait… What?! Does Mason know? I can’t know before him. I gotta go.” Backtracking, I almost trip because basic human function is beyond me.

It will crush Mason if I find out something as important as this before him. Leo can’t work here. Mason’s finally making a name for himself out from under his father’s shadow.

This can’t be happening.

“Sit.” Leo points again, then says to Mr. Dimon, “I’ll call Mason and give him a heads-up while you sort this out.” He waves in my direction. Mr. Dimon agrees, and as Leo stalks by me, I drown in his cedarwood scent.

My limbs would like to follow him, but the tiniest fraction of my working mind helps me cross the room and flop down into the seat across from Mr. Dimon.

The best way to fix this situation is to man up, look Mr. Dimon in the eye, and explain what happened at Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, I drop my head between my knees to breathe and lace my fingers behind my neck to steady myself.

“Do you need something?” he asks between my deep breaths.

“No, sorry.” I steel myself and sit up. “I wasn’t expecting him.” Saying Leo’s name out loud would give away my fixation.

Mr. Dimon doesn’t make this easy on me. He waits for me to defend myself.

“I heard Lucky, I mean Dylon, had a meeting with you, and I hope you understand what happened was my fault.” Finally, a coherent sentence.

“You gave him an alcoholic drink?”

“N-o-o-o,” I sputter. “I set my drink down, and he accidentally picked it up. But I shouldn’t have put my glass there.” Lucky has worked hard to maintain his sobriety and stay on the team after being hospitalized for an accidental overdose.

He sighs. “Mr. Benz, do you think I would punish a man for a simple mistake? Is that what you think of this organization?” His fingers steeple with his elbows on the desk.

This feels like a trick question—no matter how I answer, it’s wrong. I don’t think that, but then why would I barge into his office. I can’t lie. A small part of me did believe it because really, why, in-all-the-calming-crystals-in-the-world, am I here?

I’m an idiot.

“It seems you’re having an epiphany regarding your behavior.”

“No excuses. I didn’t think.” My chin hits my chest, and I stare at my fingers twisting in my lap. If only I could learn how to control my impulses. “I feel so guilty, and I’m afraid of being the reason something bad happens to Lucky.”

Lucky is an All-Star and our first-line right winger. I’m the backup goalie. A nobody. This team needs Lucky to win The Cup. They don’t need me.

“Mr. Benz, look at me.”

My eyes flick up, but I keep my head down.

“I am trying to create something new. I don’t believe degrading or punishing grown men will bring out the best in them.

As long as I’m here, no one will be reprimanded for mistakes such as accidentally picking up the wrong drink or bypassing my assistant and interrupting a confidential meeting.

” He stares, and when I gulp, every muscle from my neck to the hollow of my throat tightens, making it hard for my Adam’s apple to get back to its rightful place.

“Do you understand?” he asks, tapping his finger pads together.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m happy to speak with you, but you must allow my assistant to do his job.”

“Of course.”

And on cue, his intercom buzzes. “Mr. Dimon, can I send Mr. Griffin back in, or do you need a minute?”

“Send him in,” he instructs, and I stand on shaky legs.

“You and Mr. Griffin should have a discussion. Stay.” He motions for me to retake my seat as Leo enters.

“I have practice,” I say lamely. The drive is over forty-five minutes, and in my panic, I didn’t plan ahead and order a ride. Coach is going to kill me. Playing time won’t be an issue because I’ll be benched. Worse, not allowed to dress.

“Even better. You and Leo can practice one-on-one in the arena.” He picks up the phone to confirm the ice is free, then calls Coach. My heart works overtime at the thought of being alone with my dream man. I do breathing exercises to calm myself down.

Leo stands beside my chair with his hands behind his back and stoically doesn’t object to this insane whim.

If I can’t walk like a normal person in Leo Griffin’s presence, there is zero chance I can function as a goalie.

The spontaneous aneurysm I experienced when I burst in uninvited should’ve killed me, but now I’ll suffer, again, as he witnesses me embarrassing myself.

Some divine being hates me. It’s the most logical explanation.

After his phone calls, Mr. Dimon focuses on Leo. “Is Mason on board with the plan?”

Leo nods but doesn’t verbally respond. If I know my best friend, he’s not okay with whatever this is. I’ve always been able to pretend that Leo, Mason’s dad, is separate from Leo Griffin, the hockey legend who led me to my bi awakening.

Beads of sweat form on my forehead. If my worlds are colliding, Mason will feel blindsided. The press attributes his success to his father and has only recently given him credit for his accomplishments. With Leo here, it will be a step back for Mason.

My loyalties lie with my best friend, not his hot, insanely talented dad.