Page 2 of Slap Shot (Charm City Chill #3)

The next morning, Oliver pushed through Grind Coffee's glass doors.

Charlie's steady presence at his left side helped keep his heart rate somewhere near normal.

The place was busier than usual, morning commuters grabbing their caffeine fixes before diving into Tuesday routines that didn't involve trying to hide a criminal past from cybersecurity experts.

He scanned the room, expecting to find some middle-aged IT professional hunched over a laptop, thick glasses, sensible cardigan, the kind of person who'd send cryptic texts that sounded like clandestine spy meetings.

Instead, his eyes landed on a woman in the corner who looked like she'd just stepped out of a Nike commercial. She was pretty and Oliver wondered if she’d like to go out to lunch with him when his meeting with Quincy was over.

The pretty woman had claimed a corner table with clear sightlines to both entrances, tactical positioning that made Oliver's old instincts prickle.

She had an athletic build, broad shoulders and legs that went on for days beneath dark jeans.

Unruly dark curls barely contained by what looked like a scrunchie that had seen better days.

She scowled at her laptop screen. He noticed there was a Charm City Chill sticker on the back cover.

This couldn't be Dr. Quincy. This had to be some graduate student or assistant who'd been sent in her place.

Charlie's posture shifted, not alarm, but the heightened attention he reserved for interesting people. The dog had excellent taste, Oliver had to admit.

He approached cautiously. "Excuse me, I'm looking for Dr. Quincy? I'm supposed to meet her here."

The woman looked up, and Oliver's brain short-circuited. Sharp green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses that somehow made her look even more attractive instead of hiding anything. High cheekbones, full mouth currently curved in what might have been amusement at his obvious confusion.

"You found her." She closed the laptop with a decisive snap. "Hi Chenny. Thanks for coming."

Oliver slid into the chair across from her, trying to process the disconnect between his expectations and reality.

Dr. Heather Quincy was not only young, maybe early thirties, but she was also the kind of beautiful that made him forget his own name.

There was something familiar about the set of her shoulders, the way she held her head.

Hockey posture, developed over years of keeping your head up to avoid getting your bell rung.

"You're not what I expected," he said, then immediately regretted it.

Her eyebrow arched. "What exactly were you expecting?"

Uh oh . "Someone more corporate, I guess. Less..." He gestured vaguely at all of her.

"Less what, exactly?" Her tone had sharpened, and Oliver realized he was digging himself into a hole.

"Forget I said anything." He cleared his throat, trying to regain his footing. "You said we needed to talk. I'm guessing this isn't about my faceoff percentage."

"No, though that backhand winner against Montreal in April was textbook. Goalie never saw it coming."

Now it was his turn to be caught off guard. "You follow hockey?"

"I played Division I at Minnesota. Made it to the Frozen Four twice before I blew out my knee." She shrugged like it was ancient history, but Oliver caught the flash of old pain in her eyes. "Turns out cybersecurity has better job security than professional women's hockey."

"Minnesota." Oliver's eyes lingered on the athletic lines of her frame, the way she carried herself like she could still drop gloves if necessary. "That explains a lot."

"Does it?" Her smile turned sharp, like she'd caught him looking and didn't mind at all.

She leaned back, studying him with an intensity that distracted him with the flash of lust that spiked through him.

"I follow a lot of things these days. Including digital footprints that most people think they've erased completely. "

The ambient noise of the coffee shop seemed to fade. Oliver's chest tightened, anxiety trying to surface. Charlie leaned on his leg, offering his support.

"Not sure what you're getting at," Oliver said, proud of how level his voice sounded.

"GhostWire47."

The words hit him like a blindside check. Oliver's vision narrowed, every muscle going rigid. Nobody had used that handle in years. He'd buried it so deep it might as well have been in witness protection.

"Never heard of it." The lie scraped his throat raw.

Heather pulled out her phone, swiped to a screenshot that made his blood freeze. Lines of code filled the screen, elegant, complex, with a signature he recognized like his own reflection. His work. Old work, from when he'd been desperate enough to think consequences were for other people.

"First National Bank breach, three years ago. Whoever did this left a very distinctive calling card. Same patterns, same style, same “ghost protocol” that a certain computer science student used to upgrade his meal plan."

Charlie's weight increased against his leg as Oliver's heart rate spiked. His hand found the dog's head automatically, fingers working through soft fur.

"Even if that were true, statute of limitations—"

"Has expired, yes." Her expression shifted, not softness exactly, but recognition. Like she understood the desperation that drove smart kids to make stupid choices. "I'm not here to destroy you, Chenny. I'm here because I need your help."

"My help?" The whiplash from terror to confusion left him reeling.

"Someone's been systematically probing the Chill's network for weeks.

Not some script kiddie or opportunistic hacker.

This is someone with serious skills and intimate knowledge of our systems." She leaned forward, and Oliver caught a hint of her perfume.

It was clean and sharp and made him think of winter mornings.

"They're using techniques that make your old GhostWire work look amateur. "

"And you think I can help because...?"

"Because you understand how these people think.

You've been inside their heads, used their methods.

" Another swipe revealed IP logs and access attempts that made Oliver's stomach clench.

"And because whoever's doing this has shown particular interest in your personal files.

Medical records, contract details, YouTube analytics.

They know exactly who GhostWire47 became. "

The coffee in his stomach turned to acid. "Someone's targeting me specifically?"

"You and the team. Your past is being weaponized to map our vulnerabilities." Her jaw tightened, and Oliver glimpsed steel beneath the professional facade. "Last night they nearly accessed confidential medical files. I stopped them, barely."

Protective rage flared hot in Oliver's chest. Every guy in that locker room had secrets that could destroy careers in the wrong hands. The thought of some faceless attacker violating that trust made him want to check someone into next week.

"What exactly are you proposing?"

"A deal. You help me think like the enemy, identify weaknesses before they can be exploited. Use that computer science degree for something that matters." She held his gaze steadily. "In exchange, your past stays buried and your teammates stay protected."

Oliver studied her face, searching for the angle, the trap. Instead, he found something unexpected: respect. She wasn't looking at him like a reformed criminal or a liability to be managed. She was looking at him like a colleague.

Like someone worth trusting.

"Why should I believe you won't just turn me in once you get what you need?"

"Because I could have done that already." She gestured to her phone. "I've had this evidence for a week. If I wanted to destroy you, you'd already be destroyed."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want to catch whoever's trying to hurt your team." Her voice carried a fierce edge. "I want to use every tool at my disposal. And I want to work with the only person I've met who might actually be smart enough to help me do it."

The compliment hit him unexpectedly. When was the last time someone had looked at his past as an asset instead of a liability?

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I go it alone. And if whomever is out to get you, outs your past.” She shrugged. “But I'd rather have you working with me."

Charlie's tail thumped against the floor, responding to the shift in Oliver's emotional state.

The anxiety was still there, coiled in his chest, but it was being crowded out by something else.

Professional interest. The same feeling he got when Coach Vicky sketched out a complex play that pushed their system to its limits.

"When would this partnership start?"

"Now. Today." Her eyes flashed with anticipation. "Because I think whoever's been mapping our systems are preparing for something bigger."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because I know how this game works. I've been hunting people like your old self for years." She leaned back, and Oliver noted the graceful line of her throat, the confident set of her shoulders. "The pattern is always the same: reconnaissance, mapping, exploitation. They're at stage three."

Oliver’s competitive instincts engaged. It was the same drive that pushed him to be first to the puck in board battles. "What do you need from me?"

"Your expertise. Your perspective. Your willingness to think like someone trying to infiltrate and destroy. And maybe, if we're lucky, you can track down whoever's been using your past to threaten your future."

He looked down at Charlie, who was watching him with the steady patience that had gotten them through panic attacks, playoff pressure, and the daily challenge of living with a brain that sometimes turned against him.

The dog's brown eyes seemed to confirm what Oliver already knew. They could do this.

"All right, Dr. Quincy," he said, meeting her gaze. "Let's catch some hackers."

The smile that transformed her face hit him like a one-timer to the chest. Gone was the clinical security expert, replaced by someone who looked like she celebrated victories with the same intensity she brought to hunting digital predators.

"Good. And call me Heather. We're going to be spending a lot of time together."

As she pulled up screens of data, Oliver cataloged details he had no business noticing. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about her work. The small scar on her knuckle that made sense now that he knew about her hockey background.

Charlie settled more comfortably against his feet, and Oliver wondered if his partner had already figured out what his human brain was still processing: that Heather was a smart woman who saw right through his bullshit.