Page 6 of Second Chance with the Enemy CEO (Second Chance Hockey Players #1)

Chapter five

Hazel

S tanding outside NextPhase Performance Technology, I cannot help but admire the building.

I am not one to get impressed easily by buildings, but even I have to admit, it’s got presence.

Sleek, modern, and screaming money. The glass panels stretch skyward, reflecting the golden hues of the morning sun.

The place looks more like a futuristic palace than an office on Autumn Cove’s outskirts.

For a moment, I wonder if I should have dressed up more…

, appropriately. You know, a pencil skirt and an office-worthy shirt, which I have seen from the ladies moving up and down so far, is the appropriate dress.

Instead, I am dressed in a fitted black blazer over a sky-blue shirt paired with tight black skinny jeans, and black ankle boots.

Oh well, to each their own style. My blazer adds just the right touch of corporate, and frankly, I look good.

Unapologetically…, me.

It is time to get this over with. Squaring my shoulders, I tug the lapels of my blazer into place and take a deep breath.

“Confidence is key. Hazel, you are who you portray yourself to be. You have faced worse and come out shining. Today’s just another step.

Own the room, own the moment, and let them see you .

Let’s do this,” I mutter my self-motivating mantra that Edna made me repeat in the mirror every day she was alive.

Sliding through the sleek glass door is like entering another world. As expected, the lobby is a picture of elegance, holograms here and there, and a front desk that looks more like an art installation than a place where people work.

I cannot wait to meet the CEO in charge of this amazing building.

I make my way to the receptionist, who has a painfully tight bun and the fakest, brightest, well-rehearsed smile I have ever seen.

“Good morning, how can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Hazel McKee,” I say, matching her smile with one of my own. “I’m here for the photography brief for the campaign meeting.”

She types something into her keyboard, her nails clicking softly. “Ah yes, you are on the list. Please head to the waiting lounge on the third floor.” She gestures toward a set of elevators gleaming in the corner.

“Thanks,” I say, offering a polite smile before heading off.

The hallway of the third floor is lined with motivational posters about innovation and teamwork, their glossy designs making me roll my eyes internally. I find the door marked ‘Waiting Lounge’, stepping inside to find three other people seated.

Two females and one male.

I do not know if it is a thing among us ladies or if there is a hidden rule somewhere that I have not found yet, but we all silently assess each other.

From head to toe, front to back, everything.

The scrutiny stretches into an awkward five minutes of standoffish glances and polite smiles, and just when I am wondering if this is some sort of silent competition, the guy sighs, running a hand through his dark, slightly messy hair.

“All right, ladies,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Enough with the Mean Girls audition. Sit down, take a breath, and let’s act like professionals. Take a seat, will you?”

My brow arches instinctively at the intrusion, but his tone has a mix of humor, impatience, and the ever-classic arrogance a guy like him would have. I shrug internally and settle into a nearby chair without a word.

“That’s better,” he mutters before turning his attention to his phone as if the whole encounter were not in the least bit awkward.

Before I can even decide what to make of him, one of the women, a blonde with a friendly smile and effortlessly perfect curls, chuckles. “You’ll have to excuse Grumpy over there,” she says, jerking a thumb in his direction, “he has zero social skills before lunch.”

He does not even look up; he just gives a low grunt in acknowledgment, and I cannot help but smirk.

The blonde leans toward me. “I am Brooke, by the way. Love the outfit - especially the blazer. It has that effortlessly stylish vibe.”

“Thanks,” I replied, smoothing the lapel instinctively. “I was not sure if the ripped jeans screamed ‘professional’ or ‘corporate enough,’ though.”

“It’s perfect,” she reassures me, her tone warm. “Corporate’s overrated anyway.”

The other woman, a petite brunette with a sharp bob and thick glasses, nods in agreement. “Totally. You look amazing. I am Lydia, by the way. Brooke and I work at Aperture Collective.”

“Aperture Collective,” I echo, genuinely impressed. “I have seen your work - it is fantastic. You guys at Aperture are doing some really cool stuff.”

Lydia beams. “Thanks! We have been grinding, but it’s worth it. You are Hazel McKee with FocusLens Studios, right?”

I nod, a little surprised. “I am. How’d you know?”

“Well, a few things gave it away and I just wanted to confirm.”

I bet the questioning look was heavy on my face and was extremely easy to read because she chuckled.

“Well, first, your “Queen Hazel, The Hottest Photographer Ever” planner is a big giveaway, then your mole, your absolutely beautiful auburn hair, and something else that is for my knowledge alone.”

“Wow.”

Lydia gives a knowing smile. “I am a fan. Your work is hard to miss. The shoot you did for ClearView Resort was stunning. I studied it for about two weeks.”

“Wow…, um…, thanks,” I say, genuinely flattered. “I’m really grateful.”

Brooke nudges Lydia and smirks. “This might be TMI, but she stalks people’s portfolios for fun.”

“Hey, research is essential,” Lydia protests, laughing.

“And in case, y’all have forgotten, I’m still here,” the guy cuts in, setting his phone down for a moment.

“Right… Grumpy over there is Landon.”

“Just so we are clear, I’m not grumpy. I am realistic.”

Brooke snorts. “Grumpy. Realistic. Same thing when it comes to you.”

Landon smirks slightly but does not argue, and I realize their dynamic is oddly endearing.

“Nice to meet you, Landon,” I say, holding back a grin.

“Likewise,” he replies, his tone neutral.

It is not the warmest of beginnings, but at least the ice is broken.

Our conversation flows naturally, a mix of lighthearted chatter and industry talk until someone new enters the room carrying a tray of drinks.

“Good morning everyone, I was told to inform you that the meeting will commence in 10 minutes. There is a slight delay. In the meantime, there are refreshments.”

The moment feels cinematic, like slow motion, as the person trips on the edge of the carpet. The tray wobbles, teeters, and then - splat. Orange juice cascades toward me, thankfully landing squarely on my pants.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” The guy says, wide-eyed, holding up his hands as though in surrender.

“It’s fine,” I replied quickly, waving him off. “I will clean it up. Black pants for the win.”

Lydia offers to help, already grabbing some napkins, but I shake my head. “It is fine, really. We all make mistakes. Just tell me where the restroom is.”

He points toward the hall. “Down the hall. First door on the left. Again, I am really sorry!”

“Again, it is fine. You should have seen me when I waitressed a few years ago, I was a walking disaster. To myself, the customers, and dare I say, the walls. So, this is nothing. We are good.”

Once in the restroom, I use the thick paper towel to clean off the wetness and maybe reduce my now orangey smell.

“Again, thank God I wore black today,” I mutter, giving my jeans one last pat.

As soon as I step out, my phone beeps. I glance down to check the notification when I collide with something - or someone. His file falls, papers scattered, and his phone is a few meters away.

What am I? A tornado?

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” I say, immediately crouching to pick up the scattered items.

“No, it’s fine,” he says curtly, his voice low and smooth yet edged with irritation.

“No, it really isn’t. I was not looking at…” As I scoop up the last file, I glance up—and freeze at the pair of sharp, hazel eyes.

Oh. My. God.

Liam. Liam freaking Callahan.

He is here. He is here !

My heart lurches, though I quickly shove down the feeling. This is not the time to unravel.

For a split second, I register how much he has changed.

His jawline is sharper, his cheekbones more defined, and his broad shoulders fill out the tailored suit he is wearing like it was made just for him - which, knowing Liam, it probably was.

Damn it, even his scruff is perfect. He looks more…

, mature and like he stepped off the cover of Forbes .

The years have been undeniably exceedingly kind to him.

But this is Liam, and any thoughts of his handsomeness are promptly quashed by the icy look on his face.

Seriously, fate? Again? Isn’t bringing me to Autumn Cove enough?

I straighten up, holding out the papers. Plastering on my politest smile, I say, “I am really sorry, sir. My bad. Forgive me.”

His eyes narrow as he takes his things, but his voice is as cold as ever. “Hazel.”

The sound of my name in his voice sends an unwanted shiver down my spine, but I keep my expression neutral.

“I am sorry, Sir. Have we met?” I ask sweetly, tilting my head as if trying to place him. “I don’t believe I know you.”

His jaw ticks. “You’re going to pretend you don’t know me?”

“As I said, I don’t know you.”

That seems to do it. His jaw tightens as he steps closer, his presence towering. “Hazel McKee… You are really going to pretend you don’t know me?”

I fold my arms, still smiling. “If I may ask, sir, why are you so fixated on me knowing you? I really, really do not know you. I only remember people who leave an impression. If we have met before and I don’t recall, well…

,” I offer a dismissive shrug. “You must’ve made zero, nada, zilch, rock-bottom impression on me. ”

His nostrils flare. “What are you doing here?”

“Throwing that question right back at you,”

He leans closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “What are you doing here, Hazel?”