Page 1

Elena

I swirl the wine in my glass, watching it catch the low light of the hotel bar. Just one drink to steady my nerves. That's the promise I made to myself when I stepped off the elevator fifteen minutes ago.

The lobby bar of the Palmer House gleams with old Chicago money—lots of mahogany wood and brass fixtures with soft jazz playing in the background.

I take another sip, letting the wine's warmth spread through me. It’s definitely helping to take off the edge of anxiety I’m feeling about my first day of work tomorrow.

"Another glass, ma'am?" The bartender appears before me.

"No, I'm good." As much as I’d like another one, it’s not a good idea. I’ve got to be sharp tomorrow.

The bartender nods and moves away. I check my watch. Only 8:30 p.m. I really should head back up soon. My temporary home—room 714—waits fourteen floors above. Just a little more time until I can move into my apartment. I can’t wait. Living out of my suitcase is definitely not ideal.

Chicago feels both familiar and foreign. I haven’t lived here for almost eight years. Long enough to build a life in San Francisco. And long enough to see that new life crumble.

My phone buzzes with a text.

Dad: Ready for tomorrow? Don't be late.

No "good luck" or "glad you're home." Just Dad, aka Coach Martinez, giving orders. I type back a quick "Yes" before putting my phone face-down on the bar.

The San Francisco memories bubble up even though I’d rather forget them for good.

My boss’s hand on my shoulder. His fingers lingering too long.

His voice dropping to a whisper when he asked me to stay late.

The way he'd cornered me in the equipment room, breath reeking of scotch. "We work so well together, Elena."

I’d filed a complaint. Administration had hemmed and hawed. By the time they promised to "look into it," it had happened again several times and I'd already packed my apartment and submitted my resignation.

Working for my father hadn't been the plan. I'd left Chicago to escape his reach, and to prove I could succeed on my own. But when I called to tell him about what had happened in San Francisco, he'd cut me off mid-sentence.

"The Blades need a sports psychologist. Position's yours if you want it."

I'd resisted at first. "I appreciate that, Dad, but I can find something on my own."

"Elena, don't be stubborn. It's a great opportunity." His voice had softened, a rare occurrence. "And I need you back in Chicago."

That last part had been the hook. Anthony Martinez almost never admits to needing anyone.

Mom would have told me to trust my gut—that’s how she always rolled. But Mom has been gone for twenty-one years.

I remember sitting near my dad at Blades games when I was six, the year after my mom died. The crowds, the cold air, the thunderous cheers when a goal was scored. Dad's voice carrying above it all as he shouted instructions to players who couldn't possibly hear him from the bench.

I wasn’t supposed to be at the games with him, but he didn’t care. Hockey became our language, the thing that connected us when grief made words impossible.

Until I turned eighteen and decided I wanted to go to college in California. The arguments had been explosive. My father couldn't understand why I would ever leave Chicago. And him.

"There are plenty of great schools right here in the city. Or close by."

"I know, Dad. But I need space to figure out who I am."

But now I’m back and about to dive headfirst back into my dad’s world. Tomorrow morning, I'll walk into the Chicago Blades training facility as the newest sports psychologist, not Coach Martinez's little girl.

I check my phone again. Two texts from her best friend Reese.

Reese: You back in town yet?

Reese: Dinner this week? I can’t believe you live here again!

I smile. At least Reese is still in Chicago. We’ve known each other since elementary school and I can’t imagine what my life would be like without her. Even though we’ve lived far apart for quite awhile it’s rare a week goes by without a phone call that can last for hours.

Me: Just got in yesterday. And yes to dinner—I desperately need some Reesey time.

I’ve called her Reesey, short for Reese’s Cups, since I watched her eat eight of them when we were ten years old. She pretends to hate it but I know she secretly loves it.

She hearts my text and sends back a laughing emoji.

I glance around the bar which has filled up a lot in the last ten minutes. Businessmen with their ties loosened. Couples leaning close over cocktails.

I finish my glass of wine and debate getting a second even though I’ve already decided I absolutely will not. Tomorrow looms larger with each passing minute—player assessments, team dynamics, and my father's scrutinizing gaze.

"Just water, please," I tell the bartender when he returns. I refuse to show up on my first day with a wine headache and bloodshot eyes.

A notification pings on my phone. It’s an email from the Blades' general manager, letting me know how to get my parking pass and security badge. It's real now. No backing out.

I’m reading another email when I hear a deep voice beside me. "This seat taken?"

I look up to find a man in his forties standing next to me. He’s in an ill-fitting gray suit and he smells like bad cologne and desperation.

"Actually, I'm waiting for?—"

"Just for a minute." He sits before I can finish my sentence. "I'm Marcus. I’m in town for a pharmaceutical conference." He waves his drink toward me. "Let me buy you another."

"I'm good, thanks." I shift my chair slightly away from him.

Marcus leans closer. "Come on, beautiful. Don't be like that. What's your name?"

"Elena." I offer nothing more, hoping my curt response sends a message.

It doesn't. Marcus inches his chair closer, his knee now touching mine under the table. "Elena. Pretty name for a pretty girl. You from Chicago?"

I move my leg away. "I need to review some work files." I pick up my phone, unlock it and pray he’ll get the message and leave me alone.

"You know what they say about all work and no play, Elena," His hand lands on my forearm. "Conference runs through Friday. My room's on the twelfth floor. Great view of the lake from up there."

I extract my arm from his sweaty grip. "Not interested, Marcus."

"You haven't even given me a chance." His smile hardens. "One drink. That's all I'm asking."

"Hey, babe. I finally got the car parked." The voice is deep, confident, and aimed directly at me.

I look up to find a man standing next to me—a man I’ve never seen before. Tall, broad-shouldered, with dark wavy hair. He’s wearing dark jeans and a black leather coat.

"Oh!" the stranger says, reaching into his jacket pocket. "Before I forget."

I watch in disbelief as he pulls a pair of black lace panties out of his coat pocket and hands them to me.

"You left these in the car earlier." His voice drops to a stage whisper. "After our little... detour."

What the actual fuck is happening here? The stranger's eyes meet mine, an understanding passing between us. I give a nearly imperceptible nod.

The handsome man slides into the chair beside me, casually draping his arm across the back of my seat. He turns to Marcus with an expression of polite confusion and then returns his gaze to me. "Friend of yours?"

"He was just leaving," I say.

Marcus's face contorts through several expressions—confusion, anger, embarrassment. I fight to keep a neutral expression on my face.

"I didn't realize you were... together," Marcus mumbles, already standing. He grabs his drink and slinks off in search of his next victim.

As soon as Marcus is gone I hand the panties back to the stranger.

"Are you going to explain those?" I nod toward the lingerie.

He leans back in his chair with a smirk on his face, confidence radiating from him. "I grabbed my roommate's jacket instead of mine. And realized on my walk over here those were in the pocket." He shrugs. "Lucky coincidence."

"So you figured you’d just hand them to me?"

"I like to rescue beautiful women from creeps." He grins, and I feel an unexpected flutter in my stomach. "I apologize for the theatrics, but guys like that usually only back off when they think they're encroaching on another man's territory."

"Well, thank you for the rescue, but I could have handled it."

"I have no doubt." He pockets the underwear. "Just thought you might appreciate a little backup."

His eyes hold mine—deep sea blue, framed by lashes that are way too long to be a man’s. A dimple appears in his left cheek when he smiles. I feel myself responding to his charm despite my usual wariness of overconfident men.

"Can I buy you a drink? To apologize for the unorthodox introduction." He gestures to my empty glass. "Just a thank-you for letting me play the hero."

I should say no. But something about this stranger makes me want to stay.

"One drink," I agree. "But you haven’t told me your name yet."

He extends his hand. "Nate."

I shake his hand and feel a jolt of electricity. "Elena."

Nate signals the bartender with two fingers.

"Two Don Julio shots, please. The anejo.

" He turns back to me with that easy smile that makes something low in my belly tighten.

"Unless you prefer something else?" The question hangs between us, weighted with double meaning.

I know I should walk away, retreat to the safety of my room. Instead, I meet his gaze directly.

"Tequila works. But just one. I have an early morning tomorrow."

"Don't we all?" He leans in just a little, close enough that I catch the delicious scent he’s wearing. It’s clean and masculine but subtle.

The bartender delivers two shot glasses filled with a golden liquid. Nate pushes one toward me.

"To chance encounters." He lifts his glass and smiles. Damn, that dimple…

"To heroes with questionable items in their pockets." I clink my glass against his.