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I t was the biggest day of my life.

I was a grinder. Someone who worked hard, never took anything for granted. For the past five years I’d been working non-stop towards today.

“Don’t fuck this up, Tilly,” I said to myself, checking my makeup in the car mirror. I’d done my normal “pretend to be a normal human” trick this morning. Somehow, I still managed to look a little unusual. I couldn’t help go a little more powder pink with the lip-gloss than was strictly normal.

Still. No time to worry right now. I had a once-in-a-lifetime interview to conduct.

The glass doors slid open with a whoosh, releasing a blast of frigid air that raised goosebumps on my skin. I stepped inside the Colorado Avalanche training facility, my heart beating like a drum solo in my chest. Glass trophy cases sparkled under the fluorescent glare. The click-clack of my heels echoed down the minimalist hallway, bouncing off motivational posters that looked more sparse than inspiring. I wasn’t used to wearing heels, and I felt a little unsteady on my feet.

I hugged my notepad tight, like a life preserver keeping me afloat. This was the assignment of a lifetime. A one-on-one with NHL bad boy Demian Pierce, the six-foot-something hockey prodigy who'd ghosted every reporter for the past four years. And somehow, he'd agreed to talk. To me. Little ol' Tilly Jameson, ink-stained cub reporter.

Why me? The question sizzled in my brain as a security guard ushered me deeper into the labyrinth of concrete and steel. Before I could ponder for long, a man in a charcoal suit intercepted me. He had the chiseled face of an action figure and the blank stare to match.

"Miss Jameson? I'm Mr. Pierce's handler," he said, pumping my hand in a vise grip. "Let's go over the ground rules. No personal questions, no off-ice photos, and his family is strictly off-limits. Capiche?"

"Got it," I said, bristling at his patronizing tone. Who did this stuffed suit think he was, telling me how to do my job? I snuck a glance at my notepad, where I'd scrawled potential questions in my loopy shorthand. What drives your perfectionism, Demian? How do you handle pressure on the ice? And the million-dollar stumper: Why start giving interviews now, after stonewalling for so long?

The handler droned on, but my mind wandered to the upcoming interview. Demian Pierce, in the flesh. My stomach did a flip-flop at the thought. I'd seen him on TV, all rippling muscles and brooding stares as he sliced across the ice. But in person? I had no idea what to expect.

I took a breath and plastered on my best professional smile. The handler might be a grade-A jerk, but I was determined to make the most of this chance. To dig deep and uncover the man behind the mask. The real Demian Pierce.

Nerves jangled through me as we approached a set of double doors. This was it. The moment of truth. I clutched my pen tight and sent up a silent prayer to the journalism gods.

Please, let me get something good out of him.

The handler swung open the door and ushered me inside. A windowless conference room greeted me, its steel gray walls seeming to close in under the buzz of fluorescent lights.

I was surprised by how clinical this place was. Most of the other teams I’d visited had facilities that were full of personality. Not here though.

I made my way to the rectangular table in the center of the room. Black leather chairs ringed it like sentinels. I chose one at random and sat, feeling the chill of the seat through my skirt.

With slightly shaky hands, I set up my recorder and checked the angle. The red light blinked at me accusingly. Get it together, Tilly. You've interviewed senators and CEOs. You got this.

Yeah but none of those bozos had the looks of a supermodel and the talent of a super-genius.

Plus, Demian had mega Daddy energy.

But I wasn’t going to let myself think dangerous thoughts like that. No way.

As I arranged my notes, I couldn't quiet the butterflies in my stomach. Demian Pierce wasn't just any subject. He'd burst onto the scene like a supernova four years ago and had dominated the NHL ever since, leading his team to back-to-back Stanley Cup victories. His on-ice moves were pure genius - even a sports illiterate like me could see that.

Off the ice though? That's where things got murky. Rumors swirled about his volatile temper, his clashes with teammates and coaches. He'd been spotted stumbling out of more than a few bars and clubs, a different clinging brunette on his arm each time.

All of which begged the question—why had he agreed to this interview? And why me, of all people?

The door clicked open and I sat up straighter, pulse thrumming. This was it. My eyes widened as Demian himself strode in, seeming to suck all the air from the room with his presence.

Even though I knew he was tall, his sheer physical presence surprised me. He was broad, too, his suit jacket straining against his muscular shoulders. A thin scar sliced through his left eyebrow, a souvenir from some on-ice battle. But it was his eyes that made me catch my breath. A stormy, intense gray that seemed to look right through me as they scanned the room.

For a split second, I swore I saw surprise flicker across his chiseled features as his gaze landed on me. Like he'd expected someone else. Someone older, probably. More seasoned.

The thought made me sit up even straighter, a flush warming my cheeks. I would show him I could play with the big boys.

"Mr. Pierce," I said, rising and extending my hand. "Tilly Jameson. National Post. It's a pleasure to meet you."

His eyes met mine as he clasped my hand in his much larger one. An electric zing shot up my arm at the contact. His skin was surprisingly warm, the calluses on his palm scraping my own soft skin. I caught a whiff of his cologne, something dark and spicy, with an undercurrent of . . . cold? Like he'd stepped straight off the rink.

"Ms. Jameson," he replied, his deep voice surprisingly soft yet commanding. "The pleasure is mine."

But even as he said the words, I sensed the wall slamming down. The way his shoulders tensed infinitesimally, his expression hardening into a mask of careful control.

He released my hand and slid into the chair across from me, every movement precise and measured. Like a big cat poised to strike.

I swallowed hard and flicked on my recorder. "Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mr. Pierce. I know you don't do many of these."

His lips quirked, not quite a smile. "First time for everything."

Clearing my throat, I glanced down at my list of questions.

“Shall we start?”

“No time like the present.”

"You've accomplished an extraordinary amount in a few short years - Stanley Cup victories, MVP awards, scoring records smashed left and right. To what do you attribute your . . . meteoric success?"

I cringed inwardly. Meteoric success? Really, Tilly? That's what you're going with?

But Demian merely leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Hard work," he said simply. "Dedication. A desire to be the best. My training routine is brutal. No excuses."

I waited for him to elaborate, but he remained silent, his gaze locked on mine. Waiting to see how I'd respond.

Challenge accepted, Mr. Pierce.

I leaned forward, pen poised. "And what fuels that desire?"

For the barest instant, I saw something flare in those gunmetal eyes. Something hot and intense and almost . . . hungry. But then it was gone, shuttered behind the mask once more.

"I don't like to lose," he said, voice low. "Simple as that."

Something about the way he said that made me squirm in my leather chair. I had a feeling nothing was ever simple with this man. But it was a start. I jotted his answer in my notes, along with a reminder to circle back to it later. To keep digging until I uncovered the real Demian Pierce beneath the polished facade.

The rest of the interview was equally tense and guarded, but I managed to coax a few interesting tidbits out of him. His post-game rituals (listening to classical music, strangely enough), his favorite snack on the bench (protein bars, of course), and even a rare smile when I asked about his teammates (who he referred to as "a bunch of knuckleheads" but there was affection there, I was sure of it).

But it was when we finally broached the subject of his personal life that things got . . . interesting.

"I know you're a very private person," I began, treading lightly. "But your fans are curious about the important people in your life."

His entire demeanor seemed to freeze. "My personal life is just that," he said, voice icy. "Personal. Private."

"Of course, but—"

"No buts, Ms. Jameson. My personal life is off-limits. Period."

I raised my hands in a placating gesture. "I understand, Mr. Pierce. I don't mean to pry."

"Good," he said, standing to leave. "Then we're done here."

"Wait!" I blurted, panic gripping my chest. This couldn't be it. I couldn't walk away with nothing but surface-level fluff. Not after how hard I'd worked to get here.

He turned, one eyebrow quirked in silent challenge. "Yes, Ms. Jameson?"

I’d come here to take a shot, and I was gonna take it.

I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of my career resting squarely on my shoulders. "I know you're a man of . . . practicality," I ventured, treading carefully. "So let me just come out and say it. I'm . . . intrigued, Mr. Pierce. In a way I haven't been about someone in a long time. And I think, maybe, if you'd give me a chance, and answered some of my questions, it might feel good. I don’t like to lose, either."

The silence that followed my confession was deafening. I'd never been so terrified or exhilarated in my entire life. Finally, he laughed, a deep, throaty sound that I felt down to my toes. "You're ballsy, I'll give you that," he said, smirking. "But you're also crazy if you think I'd ever—"

"I’m fine with being called crazy. My editor called me crazy for putting all the work I did into getting the interview. He told me you’d never agree to it. That I was—what did he call me?—bonkers. And yet, here we are, and here you are. And I’ve got a feeling that you’re about to answer some questions that go a little bit deeper than just softballs about your nutrition regime.”

He studied me intently, his eyes probing my own like he was searching for a hidden agenda. "I don't know if I can trust you," he said at last.

"Trust is a two-way street, Mr. Pierce. And I'm willing to take the first step, if you are."

He seemed to mull it over for a moment before reaching a decision. "Fine. Ask me some questions. I’ll answer.”

"Listen," I said, abandoning my notes entirely. "Your fans want to know the real you—not the carefully-curated image you—and your handlers—let them see. I'm not here to pry into your private life. I just want to understand what drives Demian Pierce, the man, not just the hockey player."

For a long, tense moment, he stared at me. I could almost see the wheels turning in that formidable head of his. Then, to my surprise, he huffed out a short, humorless laugh.

"I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone quite like you before, Tilly," he said, with a grudging respect in his voice.

Gently, as if I were made of glass, he reached out and tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was feather-light, but it sent shivers cascading down my spine. I told myself it was just the thrill of the chase, but deep down, I knew it was more.

"Fine," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'll give you five minutes. But after that, we're done, understood?"

"Understood," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his gaze held me captive, and I fought the urge to fidget under the intensity of it.

"Alright then." I cleared my throat, forcing myself to focus. "What do you do off the ice to center yourself?"

He shifted in his chair, those storm-gray eyes narrowing slightly as he turned to me. “Solitude is important. I value privacy.” His tone was measured, each word deliberate. It felt like he was offering me a tiny glimpse into a world he kept tightly closed.

"Privacy," I echoed, intrigued. There was something heavy in that single word, like it carried layers of meaning. My fingers brushed over the stickers on my notepad, feeling the playful designs beneath my fingertips. Did he even notice?

“What about you, Tilly?”

“Me?”

He fixed me with those steely eyes. “You said trust was a two-way street. You have a stressful job. I’m interested in how you unwind.”

My heart raced.

I couldn’t tell him, of course. Couldn’t let him know that my favorite way to unwind was to get out my stuffies, pull out the coloring books, and spend a couple of hours in Little Space.

“You know,” I said, blinking. “I like watching Netflix. True crime stuff.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Y-yes.”

For a moment, I thought he was going to push me more. “Fair enough.”

If he knew I was a Little, I’m sure he’d laugh me out of the interview room.

Our eyes locked, and time slowed. My heart raced, thumping loudly in my chest. I caught a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe?—in his gaze before it disappeared behind that familiar mask.

"So, do you ever have any fun routines or rituals before a big game?" I pressed, hoping to extract more from him. “Superstitions, perhaps?”

A hint of amusement danced across his lips, but it was gone in an instant. “I have routines,” he said cryptically, his voice dropping to a softer timbre. “Things that help me focus.”

In that moment, I could feel the tension shift, something warm sparking between us. I wanted to reach out, to close the distance, but his handler’s rigid posture reminded me of where we were.

"Like what?" I asked, leaning forward slightly, drawn in by the intimacy of his tone.

"Specific thins," he said, catching himself, the walls around him rising once again. “I’m a member of some private clubs—”

The handler cleared his throat, a sharp reminder of the boundaries we were skirting. I could see the discomfort etched on his face, but I wasn't ready to back down. Not yet. “Private clubs?”

“I think that’s enough questions about that,” the handler said, without hesitating.”

"Okay aside from the clubs, uh, everyone has quirks. What do you do? A lucky pair of socks? A favorite playlist?"

Demian's jaw tightened, but there was a flicker of something vulnerable beneath his stoicism. I saw it—a fleeting expression that hinted at the man behind the athlete.

"Sometimes," he said slowly, “it’s about finding your own space. Your own rhythm.”

"That sounds comforting," I replied, my voice softening. I leaned in, desperate to bridge the gap between us. My mind raced with possibilities, imagining the kind of comfort he might offer beyond the confines of this room. “What about personal relationships? Do you find comfort in those?”

"Comfort can be a double-edged sword," he countered, refusing to engage with my question. His expression grew serious. “It makes you weak if you're not careful. You always need to balance comfort with discipline.”

"Comfort can make you strong, too," I quipped back, trying to keep the conversation alive. "It all depends on how you look at it."

His gaze flickered over me, uncertainty mingling with intrigue. In that charged silence, I felt the air thicken, each heartbeat echoing louder than the last. What was he really thinking?

"Maybe," he conceded, his voice barely above a murmur. "But right now, it's just . . . complicated."

"Complication often leads to clarity," I said, my pulse quickening.

"Or chaos," he shot back, his tone firm, yet I sensed the underlying challenge.

"A relationship with the right person can help you find some order in that chaos," I urged, emboldened.

For a brief moment, I thought I saw a crack in his armor, a flicker of interest igniting in his eyes. But just as quickly, it vanished, replaced by that well-worn mask once again.

"Change the subject,” the handler demanded. There was no room for argument in his tone.

"Fine. Why today? Why grant an interview now, after all this time?"

He hesitated, a shadow crossing his features. For an instant, vulnerability flickered in his eyes as he searched for the right words.

"Sometimes," he said quietly, “you realize it’s time to let someone in. Even just a little bit. Even if it pushes you out of your comfort zone.”

I bit my lip as Demian’s gaze settled on me, the weight of his storm-gray eyes sending a shiver down my spine. I tried to focus on my notes, but my fingers betrayed me, doodling tiny flowers in the margins instead of the questions I’d rehearsed. It felt childish, yet somehow freeing in this tense moment.

"Demian," I started, forcing a steady voice, "do you believe in fate?" The question hung in the air, heavy and probing.

He leaned back slightly, assessing me with that cool intensity. "No," he replied, his voice low. “I believe in making your own fate. There was a softness there, a flicker of warmth beneath his stoic exterior. I could sense something deeper hidden behind those walls, but the handler shifted uncomfortably, ready to cut us off.

I hugged my arms around myself, feeling anxious. Why did I feel so small under his scrutiny? I straightened in my seat, trying to project confidence, but the flutter of embarrassment washed over me like a tide. His attention wrapped around me, both thrilling and intimidating.

"Hey, um . . ." My phone vibrated suddenly, jarring me out of the moment. The sound shattered the fragile connection we were building. I fumbled for it, heart racing as I silenced the interruption. "Sorry about that!"

Demian's lips twitched, almost forming a smile. It was subtle but enough to make my cheeks flush. I could feel the heat creeping up from my neck. Was he amused by my fluster?

"Time’s almost up," the handler interjected, his tone clipped. I felt a pang of disappointment, mixed with relief—the tension was almost unbearable. But I wasn’t done yet. I wanted more.

"Just one more question?” I asked, desperation creeping into my voice.

Demian’s gaze held mine, an electric current running between us. I could see him weighing his options, the slightest hint of a challenge dancing in his expression. “Make it count,” he said.

"Okay . . . what do you really want people to understand about you?" There it was—my chance to dig deeper.

For a moment, the room fell silent, the air thick with anticipation. He leaned forward, the intensity of his focus sending my heart racing faster. “People only see what they want,” he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. “But understanding takes time. There’s more going on beneath the surface.”

In that moment, I felt the world shrink around us. The handler faded into the background, and it was just me and him—two souls caught in an unscripted dance. There was a promise in his words, something that stirred the longing in my chest.

"Thank you, Demian," I said softly, the weight of our shared moment hanging between us. As he stood, the space between us crackled with unspoken possibilities.

As we wrapped up, my fingers fumbled over my notes, trying to capture every detail before they slipped away. My cheeks burned, and I could feel Demian's gaze on me—intense, curious. I gathered my things, hastily cramming my notepad into my bag.

Then he stood, towering and imposing. Strong arms flexed beneath his fitted shirt as he pushed back his chair. He moved with a confidence that made my pulse quicken. “You okay?” he asked, his voice low, tinged with a softness that made me want to lean closer.

I swallowed hard, caught off guard by how much I wanted him to ask me that. “Yeah. Just… uh, trying to get everything.” My flustered attempt at professionalism fell flat. I could feel a mix of excitement and anxiety swirling in my stomach.

Demian stepped forward, closing the space between us. The air shifted, crackling with an electric tension. “You did well in there, baby girl,” he said, genuine admiration lacing his tone.

I almost melted.

He’d called me baby girl. Probably something he called everyone.

There was no way he could know.

“Thanks,” I replied, surprised by the flutter in my chest. The way he looked at me, almost protective, sent shivers down my spine.

As I turned to leave, I felt his presence lingering behind me—strong and magnetic. Each step toward the exit felt heavier, the pull of wanting to look back almost unbearable. I glanced over my shoulder just in time to catch him watching me, those storm-gray eyes holding something unspoken.

My heart raced, thoughts tumbling over one another. Did he feel it too? The connection? The tension? I quickly turned away, reminding myself this was business. He had a thousand girls who probably threw themselves at him every day. He probably hadn’t even noticed me. Probably wouldn’t remember my name tomorrow. But the heat on my cheeks belied my internal struggle.

I walked through the sliding glass doors, my mind racing. The clatter of my heels echoed down the hallway, but all I could think about was him.

Outside, I took a deep breath, the crisp Colorado air hitting me in waves. I needed to transcribe my notes, but more than that, I needed to reflect on what had just happened. How could I have felt so drawn to him in such a short time?

I replayed his guarded answers, the flashes of vulnerability, and the undeniable chemistry. I wanted to see him again—not just as a journalist seeking a story but as someone intrigued by the man behind the public persona.

What was happening to me? I shook my head, trying to dismiss the thought. But it lingered, taunting me. The question hung in the air: Would I get another chance? And why did I want him to see me again so badly?

I walked to my car, each step heavy with anticipation. The door hadn’t closed completely; it was wide open, and I was itching to step through.