Page 15 of Second Chance with the Enemy CEO (Second Chance Hockey Players #1)

Chapter eleven

Hazel

T he conference room buzzes with low chatter and the soft shuffle of papers.

My heart thuds in my chest as I stand by the large screen, waiting for the slideshow to begin.

The team settles in; partners included with all eyes on me.

It is like being on stage with no script.

My fingers toy with the small remote in my hand, slick with nerves.

The soft murmur of voices fills the room as the presentation ends, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat, willing the focus away from me to the pictures on the screen. We are reviewing the first pictures we’ve taken, and I’m the last to present, so cue the nervous feeling of overconfidence.

Coach Mark leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “These are good. Really good.”

A few nods ripple through the group. “This is incredible work,” Mr. Townsend, one of the senior partners, says, holding up one of the final images from the campaign. “Exactly the kind of come-alive look we need.”

“That’s the one,” one of them, a man with slicked-back hair and a Rolex gleaming on his wrist, says, pointing at an action shot of the team mid-game. “It’s raw, dynamic, and full of life - the kind of photo that tells a story.”

Coach nods. “You’ve got an eye for this, Hazel.”

A ripple of agreement spreads around the table. Even Liam, sitting at the head of the table, looks somewhat impressed.

I offer a polite smile as heads turn toward me. My cheeks burn under the attention, but I keep my expression calm. Inside, though? I am screaming.

They continue reviewing the pictures, tossing out suggestions, some insightful, others barely worth the breath.

I nod along, scribbling in my notebook, and after a little while, thankfully, the meeting wraps up.

Everyone leaves, and I gather my things quickly, ready to slip away, but Mr. Rolex intercepts me near the door.

His smile widens, the kind that borders on creepy, but I keep my expression neutral.

“Miss McKee,” he says, voice oozing with charm… “Great work. You have got fantastic skills.”

“Thanks,” I reply, keeping my voice polite, hitching my bag higher on my shoulder. My eyes flick to the door. Almost free .

“I was thinking we should celebrate a little. How about dinner tonight? My treat.”

I blink at him, caught off guard by the abrupt invitation. “Dinner? For what exactly?”

His grin does not falter. “To talk about your passion for photography, of course. I would love to hear more about your process, your inspirations… and maybe discuss some opportunities.”

“Opportunities,” I repeat, my tone skeptical.

“Yes,” he says, his tone dripping with faux sincerity. “You are talented, Hazel. I can tell. I think we would have a lot to talk about.”

I give him a flat look. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

He leans in a little, undeterred. “Do not dismiss me so quickly, Hazel. At least think about it.” He slips a sleek, embossed card into my hand. “Call me when you change your mind.” He winks before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive cologne.

I glance down at the card. Decker Calloway, Sports Consultant. I shrug, barely suppressing a sigh, and shove it into my bag.

Just as my fingers graze the door handle, someone grabs my arm and spins me around.

Liam.

His jaw is tight, his eyes dark and furious. "Using them now, huh?"

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me," he says, stopping in front of me. His eyes narrowed on mine, “what the hell was that?”

“What was what?” I ask, already annoyed.

“That guy,” he says, his voice low and angry. “Decker. What did he want with you?”

I shake my head, yanking my arm free. “None of your business, Liam.”

“It is when it’s happening under my roof,” he shoots back, his voice biting.

I laugh bitterly. "Wow," I say, folding my arms. "Jealousy looks ugly on you, Liam."

"Jealous?" He barks out a cold laugh. "Please. I’m just calling it like I see it."

“Oh, give me a break. I am allowed to talk to people, Liam. You do not own me.”

His nostrils flare, and for a moment, he looks like he is battling with himself, struggling to hold back whatever he really wants to say.

“You don’t know guys like him,” he says finally, his tone softer but no less intense.

“And you do?” I shoot back.

“I know his type,” Liam growls. “He is not interested in your photography, Hazel. He is interested in you.”

“Even if he is, so what?” I challenge him, stepping closer, my voice rising. “What’s it to you?”

His jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You’re better than that.”

I laugh again, harsh, and sharp. “You do not get to decide what I am, Liam. After all, I believe I am much worse in your eyes.”

“Yes,” he bites out, stepping closer to me. There is little to no space between us. “You are much worse…, and I hate that you are forcing yourself into my life.”

“ Forcing myself ?” I scoff, crossing my arms. “Do not flatter yourself. I am here for work, remember? Not you. You are a past tense in my life…, I want you to get that in your thick skull. I have moved on…”

The words are barely out of my mouth when his hand wraps around my waist and presses me close to him.

“You haven’t moved on,” he growls, his voice rough, almost broken. “Don’t stand there and lie to my face, Hazel.”

“Let go of me.”

“No!” His other hand moves to my waist, and suddenly, he is looking at me like I’m both the solution to his problems and the cause of them all. “You don’t get to walk away after saying that.”

“I can say whatever I want, Liam,” I snap, my heart racing. “Because it is the truth. You just cannot handle…”

His lips crash against mine, stealing my words and my breath in one swift motion. For a second, I freeze, my mind struggling to catch up with what is happening. Then, instinct kicks in, and I shove against his chest, breaking the contact.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss, glaring at him, my voice shaking with anger.

His breathing is ragged, his eyes searching mine. “You.”

“Are you out of your damn mind?”

He does not respond, his eyes burning with something I can’t quite place.

“Don’t ever…”

Before I can respond, his hands slide to my waist again, and this time, his lips find mine with a fierceness that matches my anger.

I want to slap him, to push him away, but the fire between us is too intense, too consuming.

My hands curl into his shirt, clutching it tightly as the kiss deepens, messy and unrelenting.

I hate how my body responds. Hate how my anger melts into heat, pooling low and fast. My fingers tingle in his hair, and I pull hard, eliciting a low growl from him that sends shivers down my spine.

His hands are firm but not rough, holding me close as if daring me to pull away again. My fists press against his chest, caught between shoving him off and giving in, and damn it, I give in.

My fingers curl into his shirt, clutching the fabric tightly as his lips move against mine. His tongue slides against mine, and for a second, just a second, I forget about everything else. The anger, the hurt, the tension, the years of unspoken words—it all burns between us, messy and unrelenting.

The taste of him, the feel of him, is too familiar. Too sharp. Too everything.

I hate him.

And I want him.

It is infuriating how both feelings can exist at once, tangling and suffocating me until I can’t think straight.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his breathing ragged. His forehead rests against mine, and I am still trembling, though whether it’s from anger or something else entirely, I don’t know. I am still holding his shirt, fingers curled tight in the fabric.

“That,” he breathes, his voice rough like gravel, “was a mistake.”

I nod, but I do not let go.

“Big one,” I agree.

“Yeah,” he says, his eyes flickering to my lips one more time.

The only sound is our breathing, loud in the space between us.

“You drive me out of my mind,” he whispers, his voice raw.

“And you,” I whisper back, my voice trembling with emotion, “make me wish I’d never met you.”

For a moment, we just stood there, caught in the aftermath of a storm neither of us saw coming.

“I hate you,” I say, but my words lack the venom I want them to carry.

His lips quirk in a humorless smile, his voice gravelly as he responds, “Good. The feeling is mutual.”

Brushing his lips on mine again, he whispers. “I hate how much I still want you.”

My eyes flutter open, meeting his stormy gaze. I push away from him, my heart still racing, and glare at him as I take a step back. “This doesn’t change anything.”

"Stay away from me, Hazel," he mutters.

"Same goes to you, Liam," I shoot back.

He walks away first, but I know it is not over. It never really is.