Page 9 of Slap Shot (Charm City Chill #3)

H eather

She barely got through work today. She didn’t want to interrupt Oliver when he was practicing, and she was too much of a chicken shit to text him.

But later that night, Heather stood outside Oliver's apartment building, laptop bag clutched in one hand and a six-pack of beer in the other.

She'd driven here straight from the office, but now that she was actually here, the words she'd rehearsed felt inadequate.

How do you apologize for accusing someone of being a thief? How do you explain that you'd let your own fear of getting close to someone again cloud your judgment?

The answer was simple: you showed up and told the truth, no matter how much it bruised your pride.

Heather pressed the buzzer for apartment 4B.

"Yeah?" Oliver's voice came through the intercom, cautious.

"It's me. Heather. I know you probably don't want to see me right now, but I need to show you something. Please."

There was a long pause, and Heather held her breath, half expecting him to tell her to leave. Instead, the door buzzed open.

Oliver was waiting in his doorway, wearing dark jeans and a gray henley that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. Charlie stood beside him, wagging his tail tentatively. The dog, at least, seemed happy to see her.

"You were right," she said without preamble. "About everything. I should have asked instead of assuming. I should have trusted you enough to give you a chance to explain."

Oliver's expression didn't change, but she caught the slight relaxation in his posture. "Come in."

His apartment was clean and comfortable, with a massive wall-mounted TV that was playing old hockey games. But what caught her attention was the glimpse of another room through a partially open door—banks of monitors and equipment that looked like mission control.

"Beer?" Oliver asked, noting the six-pack in her hand.

"Peace offering." She handed it to him, then pulled out her laptop. "But first, I need to show you what I found after you left."

They settled on his couch, Charlie positioning himself between them like a furry mediator. Heather opened her laptop and pulled up the code analysis she'd spent hours perfecting.

"You were being framed," she said. "Someone studied your old techniques extensively, then created fake evidence designed to make you look guilty. Look at this."

She walked him through her discoveries, the subtle differences in coding style, the too-convenient placement of evidence, the way the signatures screamed Oliver's identity without actually being his work.

Oliver studied the data with the same focus she'd seen him bring to hockey, occasionally asking technical questions that showed he understood exactly what she was showing him. When she finished, he leaned back against the couch cushions.

"How long did it take you to figure this out?" he asked.

"Too long." Heather closed the laptop, shame burning in her chest. "I should have caught it immediately. The evidence was too obvious, too conveniently placed. Any decent security professional would have been suspicious."

"But you weren't thinking like that," Oliver said. "You were thinking like someone who'd been hurt before."

The observation stung because it was true. "That's no excuse."

"Isn't it?" He turned to face her more fully. "You told me about your ex-husband who did the same thing. Once burned, twice shy."

"You’re nothing like David. I should have remembered that.”

“Things have been going really fast between us. And you’re under a lot of pressure to shut this hacker down.”

“You're being very understanding about this." It actually made it worse.

"Because I get it." Oliver's hand found Charlie's head, scratching behind the dog's ears.

“I feel like you should be angrier at me.”

“What would be the point? I spent three years after the warehouse assuming everyone was lying to me, that every friendly gesture had an ulterior motive. Trauma makes you suspicious of the people who matter most."

Heather studied his profile, noting the way Charlie leaned into his touch. "Speaking of the warehouse, you never told me how you got out."

Oliver was quiet for a moment, his hand stilling on Charlie's fur.

"That's a longer story," he said finally.

"We have time. And after today, I think I owe you the courtesy of listening without judgment."

He studied her face, seeming to weigh whether he could trust her with this. Finally, he nodded toward the partially open door she'd noticed earlier. "I should probably show you something first. So you understand how I think about security."

She followed him into what should have been a spare bedroom.

Instead, she found herself in what looked like a high-tech command center.

Multiple monitors lined one wall, displaying scrolling code and network diagrams. A server rack hummed quietly in the corner, and the desk setup looked like something from a science fiction movie.

"This is incredible," Heather breathed.

"This is what paranoia looks like when you have technical skills," he said, watching her reaction carefully. "I've been building this setup for three years. Every security protocol I can think of, every defensive measure I've ever encountered."

"You're still doing white hat work."

"Freelance, under a different identity. Safer that way." He moved to one of the computers, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. "After what happened in that warehouse, I swore I'd never be caught unprepared again."

She moved closer, studying his setup. Everything was organized to the nth degree. Cables were routed cleanly, systems labeled and documented. "How does this connect to how you escaped?"

"Because I learned from my first mistake.

" Oliver pulled up a screen showing network architecture diagrams. "During my government contract days, I was careful but not careful enough.

I trusted my partner, trusted the system.

That almost got me killed. The only reason I survived those three days was luck.

A street sleeper heard something and called the cops.

By the time they found me..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening.

"Oliver," she said softly.

"After that, I decided I was never going to be helpless again. This," he gestured at the room, "is my insurance policy. Early warning systems, encrypted communications, multiple escape plans. Maybe it's overkill, but it helps me sleep at night."

"This is why you're so good at what you do. You think like both the attacker and the defender."

"It's also why I understand why you suspected me." Oliver turned away from the screens to face her. "The evidence was convincing because it was designed by someone who knows how I think, how I work. They used my own methods against me."

"Any idea who?"

"A few possibilities. People from my government days who might have access to my old code repositories. Former colleagues who could have studied my techniques." Oliver's jaw tightened. "The list isn't long, but it's not short either."

“Why would they do that?”

“When we find them, we’ll ask them.”

“Do you think it’s the same person or people who are behind the hacking the Chill?”

“Too coincidental not to be.”

She was standing closer to him than she'd intended, drawn by the combination of vulnerability and strength he projected in this space that was so clearly his domain.

"I'm so sorry. Not just for suspecting you, but for not trusting you enough to ask for an explanation. You deserved better than that."

"Yeah, I did." The blunt honesty of his response made her wince, but then his expression softened. "But I also understand why you couldn't give it to me. Trust isn't something either of us does easily."

"No, it's not." She reached out without thinking, her fingers brushing against his hand. "But I want to try. If you still want me."

The contact sent electricity up her arm, and from the way Oliver's breathing changed, she knew he felt it too. Charlie, apparently sensing the shift in emotional temperature, sauntered out of the room with a soft whuff, leaving them alone among the glowing monitors.

"Wanting you was never in question.”

"I know we said this was complicated. I know there are a hundred reasons why we shouldn't, but I can't stop thinking about last night. About how it felt when you made love to me."

"How did it feel?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Like I'd been holding my breath for years and finally remembered how to breathe."

"I've been thinking about it too. About how you tasted, about the way you pulled me closer like you couldn't get enough."

"I couldn't. I can't. I know this is insane, but—"

"But what?" Oliver's voice was strained.

"But I need you," she whispered. "Right now. I need to show you how sorry I am. I need to feel you inside me, so I know we're okay."

“We’re okay,” he said. “You have nothing to prove to me.”

"But I do." She stepped in close until their bodies were flush against each other. "I can't stand the thought that I hurt you. That I almost lost you because I was too scared to trust what we have."

"You didn't lose me." His hands slid down her sides with barely restrained urgency. "But fuck, when you looked at me like I was a stranger, like everything we'd shared meant nothing—"

"It meant everything," she interrupted, her voice breaking. "You mean everything to me. Let me show you. Please."

Oliver's restraint shattered completely.

He backed her against the nearest workstation and his mouth crashed down on hers like he was drowning, and she was air.

This kiss was not gentle reconciliation.

It was all teeth and tongue and barely controlled desperation, fueled by the fight they'd just had and the terror of almost losing each other.

"I couldn't breathe when you looked at me like that," he growled against her lips, his hands frantically pulling at her clothes. "Like I was nothing to you. Like I was just another suspect."