Page 5 of Slap Shot (Charm City Chill #3)

"That's not a terrible idea. HR concerns aside, we do need to discuss our next steps without conference room constraints."

"Antonio's?" The suggestion came out more hopefully than he'd intended. "It's quiet, good food, and they don't mind Charlie."

"It's a date." The words slipped out, and Heather immediately flushed. "I mean, it's a plan. A professional dinner plan and a show."

Oliver's mouth curved in a smile. "Right. Professional."

ANTONIO'S WAS DIFFERENT on a Tuesday night—quieter, more intimate than the bustling weekend crowds Oliver was used to. He'd arrived fifteen minutes early, partly from nerves and partly because Charlie needed time to settle into his designated spot beside their corner table.

Charlie, as usual, was an excellent barometer for his mood. The dog had been restless all day, occasionally padding over to press against Oliver's leg in the gentle reminder that meant breathe, stay present, don't spiral .

"I know, buddy," Oliver murmured, scratching behind Charlie's ears. "I'm being weird about this."

Charlie's expression suggested he agreed with that assessment.

The restaurant was busy but not crowded, the kind of place where conversations could be held without shouting over background noise.

The hostess had been accommodating about the service dog, leading them to a secluded booth where Charlie could lie down without blocking foot traffic.

Oliver checked his phone for the third time, then forced himself to put it away.

This wasn't a date, despite Heather's slip earlier.

This was a work dinner that happened to include entertainment afterward.

So why did his pulse kick up when Heather appeared in the restaurant's entrance?

When Heather got there, his breath caught in his throat. She wore a green sweater dress that brought out her eyes and clung to her curves. Her hair was down, falling in loose waves around her shoulders.

"Sorry if I'm overdressed," she said, sliding into the chair across from him.

"You look perfect," Oliver said. "I mean, appropriate. For dinner. You look appropriate for dinner."

Heather's smile widened, and she reached down to pet Charlie, who had immediately moved to greet her. "Hello, handsome boy. Are you keeping your human out of trouble?"

Charlie's tail wagged enthusiastically, and Oliver noted the way the dog leaned into Heather's touch. Charlie was friendly but selective about who received his full attention. Apparently, Heather had passed some invisible test.

"Sorry I'm a few minutes late," she said, sliding into the seat across from him. "I had to finish securing some files before I felt comfortable leaving."

"No problem. I ordered us some wine. I hope that's okay."

"More than okay." Heather accepted the glass he poured.

Oliver raised his glass. "To... professional collaboration?"

"To getting answers," Heather corrected, clinking her glass against his.

They ordered appetizers and fell into easy conversation about the case, but Oliver was distracted by details that had nothing to do with cybersecurity. The way Heather gestured when she explained complex concepts. How her laugh was different away from work. It was more genuine, more her.

"You're not listening," she accused halfway through her explanation of network topology.

"I'm listening. You were talking about technical things."

"Technical things?" Heather's eyebrow arched.

"Sorry. I got distracted by how much you light up when you talk about your work. It's..." He searched for the right word. "Captivating."

The compliment landed heavier than he'd intended, shifting the atmosphere between them from collegial to something more charged. Heather set down her wine glass, studying his face.

"Oliver—"

"I know. We’re work colleagues discussing a case." But even as he said it, his gaze dropped to her mouth, wondering what she'd taste like if he leaned across the table right now.

"Right." But she was looking at his mouth too.

The server approached, and they ordered dinner. As they waited for their food, the conversation started professionally enough, but gradually shifted into more personal territory.

"So is your sister Andi older?" Heather asked, sipping her wine.

"By three years. She's the responsible one—married her college sweetheart, two kids, house in the suburbs, the whole domestic dream." Oliver found himself relaxing despite the circumstances. "I'm the one who plays hockey for a living and needed a service dog to function in normal society."

"Charlie's not a sign of weakness," Heather said. "He's a tool that helps you manage a legitimate medical condition. No different from glasses or medication."

The simple acceptance in her voice did something strange to Oliver's chest. Most people were either overly curious about Charlie or determined to pretend the dog wasn't there. Heather treated Charlie's presence as completely normal, which somehow made Oliver feel more normal too.

"What about you?" he asked. "Any siblings?"

"Only child. My parents were both academics. Dad was a computer science professor. Mom taught mathematics. They had me late in life and poured all their ambitions into making sure I could compete in whatever field I chose."

"Is that why you started playing hockey? To compete?"

Heather's expression shifted, and Oliver caught a glimpse of old hurt.

"I started playing hockey because I was eight years old and convinced I could do anything boys could do, only better.

I kept playing because I was good at it, and because it was the only place where being aggressive and uncompromising was considered an asset rather than a character flaw. "

The honesty in her voice made Oliver lean forward slightly. "What happened? I mean, beyond the injury."

Heather took another sip of wine, her fingers unconsciously rubbing her knee through her dress.

"Senior year, we had a real shot at winning it all.

" Her voice grew quieter. "I blew out my knee three games before the tournament.

Just a freak play. I got tangled up with a defender going into the corner, heard it pop like a gunshot. "

"That must have been devastating."

"It was. But you know what the worst part was?

Watching my teammates play without me. Realizing that life just moves on.

The team adjusted. Other players stepped up, and suddenly I wasn't essential anymore.

" She shrugged, but Oliver could see the old pain in her eyes.

"It taught me that no matter how good you think you are, you're always replaceable. "

"Do you miss it?"

"Every day." The admission came out quietly, but Oliver heard the truth behind it. "Not just the game, but being part of something bigger than myself. Having teammates who had your back no matter what. Do you ever think about what you'll do when hockey's over?"

The question hit unexpectedly deep. "More than I'd like to admit. Hockey's been my identity for so long, I'm not sure who I am without it."

"You're more than just a hockey player, Oliver."

The way she said his name, like she was tasting it, made his pulse quicken. "Am I?"

"You're brilliant with computers. You see patterns other people miss.

You're loyal to the people you care about even when it costs you something.

" Her green eyes met his directly. "You're kind to animals and patient with teammates who don't understand technology and brave enough to risk everything to protect people who might never know you saved them. "

The litany of compliments left Oliver speechless. When was the last time someone had seen him as more than his statistics or his anxiety disorder or his carefully managed public image?

"Heather," he said.

"I know." She set down her wine glass, something shifting in the air between them. "I know this complicates everything."

"What does?"

"The fact that I'm sitting here thinking about how much I'd like to kiss you instead of discussing our hacker problem."

Before he could second-guess himself, he reached across the table to cover her hand with his. Her skin was warm, soft, and when she turned her palm up to thread their fingers together, the last of his resistance crumbled.

"For the record," he said, "I've been thinking the same thing."

"This is a terrible idea," Heather said, but she didn't pull her hand away.

"Probably."

"I can't afford to get involved with someone I'm working with. Not after HR warned me to knock it off."

"I know."

"And you're supposed to be focused on hockey."

Oliver's mouth curved in a smile. "I can focus on a few things at once.”

"Not to mention I’m the worst possible choice for someone to get involved with," she said, but she was smiling too. "I'm stubborn, I work too much, and I have a tendency to put my career before everything else, including basic human relationships."

"Sounds terrible," Oliver said solemnly. "I'm anxious, I have panic attacks in grocery stores, and I spend most of my free time either playing hockey or making YouTube videos for the Charm City Chill fans. Also, I have a criminal past that could destroy both our careers if it comes to light."

"When you put it like that, we sound perfect for each other."

The joke made them both laugh, breaking some of the tension. But when their laughter faded, the awareness between them intensified rather than diminished.

They managed to get through dinner without crossing any more lines, though Oliver caught himself memorizing the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, how she unconsciously leaned closer when she was making a point.

By the time they headed to the Shubert Theatre, he was wound tighter than a spring.

The show was everything Andi had promised, energetic, loud, impossible to think during.

Which was exactly what Oliver needed, because sitting in the dark beside Heather while percussion thundered around them was its own kind of torture.

Every accidental brush of their arms sent electricity through him.

When she laughed at something particularly outrageous on stage, the sound made him want to find excuses to make her laugh like that again.

During intermission, they grabbed drinks at the lobby bar.

"What a fun show," Heather said. “Was this your idea or Andi’s?”

"Andi's always been the cultural one in the family. I'm more of a Netflix and takeout guy."

"Nothing wrong with Netflix and takeout. Though I have to admit, this beats my usual night routine of working until I fall asleep at my computer."

Oliver studied her profile as she watched the crowd around them. "When's the last time you did something just for fun?”

Heather considered the question seriously. "Honestly? I can't remember. Since the divorce, I've been pretty focused on rebuilding my career."

"Divorce?" The word slipped out before Oliver could stop it.

"Three years ago. My then husband stole a bunch of data from my computer and sold it." Heather sneered. "He thought I’d quietly take the fall for it."

“Did you?”

“Hell, no. I turned him in and he’s in the slammer right now. Fucker.”

"Good for you."

The simple statement made her look at him directly. "Thank you for saying that."

"I mean it."

“You don’t think I was disloyal?”

“What? Hell no. I think he got what he deserved.”

“His mother and sister still won’t talk to me.” She gave a half smile.

“Their loss.”

“Yeah,” she said and finished her drink in one long swallow.

The house lights flickered, signaling the end of intermission, but neither of them moved. The lobby crowd flowed around them like water around stones, and Oliver realized he didn't want to stop talking to her.

"We should head back," Heather said finally, but she didn't sound like she wanted to either.

The second act passed in a blur of drums and creative percussion, but Oliver was hyperaware of Heather beside him in the dark. When the show ended and they were walking to the parking garage, the night air felt charged with possibility.

"Thank you," Heather said as they reached her car. "For dinner, for the show, for... this. I needed it more than I realized."

"Thank you for saying yes. Even if it was technically a work meeting."

"Was it?" The question was soft, uncertain.

Oliver stepped closer. "I don't know. What do you think?"

Instead of answering, Heather rose on her toes and kissed him. It was soft, tentative, flavored with wine and the kind of courage that came from perfect timing. Her lips were sweet, and the kiss hit him harder than the wine. When she pulled back, both of them were breathing harder.

"That was decidedly unprofessional," she whispered.

"Completely unprofessional," Oliver agreed, but he was smiling as he said it.

They stood there for a moment.

"Oliver," Heather said softly.

"Yeah?"

"What are we doing here?"

Before he could answer, Heather's phone rang. Jack Westlake's name on the screen made her gasp.

"Shit. This can’t be good," she said, answering the call. "Mr. Westlake?"

"Heather, where are you?" His voice was tense, urgent.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I need you at the facility. Now. We've got a situation with the medical files. Someone has leaked Jax Thompson's concussion history to a blogger. Management's in full crisis mode."

"Oh no. What’s the spin the blogger is taking?”

"Five concussions over three seasons, the cognitive testing results." Westlake's voice was grim. "If they have Jax's files, they probably have everyone else's too."

Oliver bit back a curse. Their phantom hacker had just escalated from digital probing to active warfare. He stalked a few feet away, fighting the urge to punch the brick wall. Charlie whined and butted against his legs.

"I can be there in twenty minutes," Heather said.

"Do you think Chenofski can help with this?" Westlake asked.

Oliver whipped around.

“Uh,” Heather looked at him and he nodded vigorously. “I think so, but HR said...”

“Fuck HR. We need all hands on this. Get him and anyone else you think can stop these attacks. I don’t care if he’s one of my players or the janitor.”

“Right,” Heather said and hung up.

“I guess we’re back in business,” Oliver said, trying not to grit his teeth.

“I guess we are.”