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TWENTY-SIX

Jolie

“ B eck! Gooo !” I screamed through my cupped hands as I looked out onto the ice from our owner’s box, one that we’d taken over when my father bought the team.

Of course, we weren’t directly on the ice, so we couldn’t see the players’ faces or hear the shit talking between them, but from up here, we could see the game as a whole.

Beck was charging toward Montreal’s goalie, and when he couldn’t get a clear shot, he passed the puck to the other wing, who then sent it right back to Beck.

Beck was looking for an in—a few inches was all he needed for the puck to fit—and the man was an expert at finding one.

“Yes! Get it!”

Beck’s arm reared back, telling me he’d found that in, which then caused the goalie to prepare to block. But at the very last second, Beck sent the puck to the right side of the ice, the other wing immediately slapping it into the net.

“Goal!” I shouted, jumping from my seat. “ Ahhh !”

There were only five minutes left in the game, and we were now up by two.

Of course, Montreal could pull their goalie, and with six men on the ice, the stakes would technically be in their favor to score.

But our defensemen slayed at their job, and even outnumbered, I still didn’t think Montreal would have a chance.

As Ginger’s fingers squeezed mine, I looked at her and smiled.

She knew just how I was feeling about this win.

All the hard work my team and I had put in, and the season opener had been a success in so many ways.

The media buildup had gone exactly the way I’d wanted; the video of Beck working out had been shared over four million times, and memes of him were owning the internet.

The entire stadium was sold out, and the cost of resale tickets was breaking records.

After the first period, I’d checked in with merchandising and food and beverage, and both sales were higher than some of the playoff games last season.

LA was the team to watch.

And as I glanced at my father next to me, the satisfaction on his face told me he was pleased with everything he’d seen this evening.

His arm slipped around my shoulders. “Now that was one hell of a goal.”

“And an assist,” I threw in.

“That assist, yes. He’s impressive, isn’t he?”

Whenever I discussed Beck with my father—a topic that came up constantly, given that he was our star player and the team’s captain—I always proceeded with caution.

I never wanted to sound like I spoke about him more than the other players, that I was favoring him for any reason, or that I was personally interested.

I also didn’t want to come across as if I wasn’t giving him enough attention.

But I also knew I was overthinking it and being far too sensitive due to our past.

Because Beck should be focused on—and not because I’d slept with him or had feelings for him, but because he was the highest-paid athlete on the team, the top scorer, and one of the best, most sought-after players in the league.

“Dad, he’s a legend. We’re so lucky to have him on our team.”

The arena was exploding; posters were held up in the air, flags were waved, cowbells were going off.

Our spectators were yelling and applauding, their sounds getting even louder when the announcer came through the speakers to acknowledge the player who had scored the goal, the roars growing when Beck’s name was called out for the assist.

If I glanced at Ginger, I knew she’d give me a look—a look that would have everything to do with Beck—and I was avoiding that as much as possible while my father’s attention was still on me.

“We just need to keep him healthy,” my father said. “Healthy and focused. We don’t have time for injuries, and we certainly don’t have time for distractions. As owners, we have a lot to prove this season.”

“And we will.” I nodded.

“With Beck’s help.”

I tried to read his expression, curious as to where he was going with this. “Dad, we’re not losing Beck.”

“I sure hope not.”

I turned away to watch the face-off. “Are you going to Beck’s get-together tonight at Musik?”

I knew my father had been invited; we’d discussed it earlier in the week when Beck’s email went out to the staff.

“Your mother and I will be going home after the game.”

Home was the condo he’d purchased not far from the arena—a four-bedroom penthouse that suited his needs while he was in LA. But home, to him, would always be Beacon Hill—the townhouse I had grown up in, nestled within Boston’s elite and in a historically significant part of the city.

I leaned forward to look at Mom, who sat on the other side of Dad. “You don’t feel like going clubbing tonight?” I smiled.

“Pumpkin, I retired from clubbing the moment I found out I was pregnant with you.” She laughed.

I gave her arm a squeeze. “Fair.”

“I let Beck know during our meeting this morning,” my father added.

I followed the puck, holding my breath until our defenseman shot it away, and said, “You guys have been meeting a lot.”

“The season has officially started, Jolene. I’m putting some heavy responsibility on Beck’s shoulders, and with that, there’s much to discuss.”

The more time my father spent with Beck, the more I tried to fight off his flirting. And the more I tried to fight off his flirting, the more I attempted to convince myself that we could never happen.

How could I consider a future with that man?

The captain of my dad’s team?

But Beck was making that decision impossibly and painfully difficult.

And there were times I failed when I tried to be so strong.

“One of the things we’ve chatted about at great length is my return to Boston,” my father voiced.

I gave him a quick glance. “Is your plan still to take off as soon as the team leaves for the Vegas game?”

“That’s not changing”—his eyes hardened as he looked at me—“unless something comes up and prevents me from going.”

I felt my brows rise. “Nothing like that is going to happen, Dad. I promise. My team and I have everything under control. You have the perfect management in place. The players are one giant family and seem to get along great. What could possibly happen?”

“Any hiccup can send an organization spiraling. I’ve seen it occur far too many times. And in many cases, they aren’t able to recover, and that’s when I come in and buy the company.” He brushed a hand over his freshly shaven cheek. “I won’t have that happen to one of my businesses.”

I was that hiccup.

I was what could cause that spiral.

I was what my dad didn’t want to happen to the Whales.

I swallowed, the spit burning as it traveled down my throat. “It won’t happen. You need to trust me.”

Why had I said that?

And why were those words making me feel sick?

“I do. Implicitly.”

He searched my eyes, and I felt the entire arena dissolve, the background morphing into a courtroom and I was suddenly delivering my testimony. I couldn’t imagine what my face looked like, but I could feel my breathing, and that was far too labored.

“I want to ask you something.”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“Do you allow anyone on the team to call you Jolie?”

Where was this coming from?

Why would he even ask this?

Did he know something?

Was he testing me?

Was I reading too much into this, like I did with everything else?

I smiled because, surely, that would cover the anxiety I was riddled with.

“No one on the team even knows my nickname.” I never said it to anyone besides Beck.

It wasn’t part of my email or signature.

It wasn’t listed anywhere aside from my social media.

“Unless someone looked me up on Instagram—but that account is set to private, and I highly doubt anyone would be searching for me.” I paused, my heart pounding so hard that I felt nauseous. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.” He continued to stare at me, his gaze as unreadable as his expression. “You know … I want you to always maintain a professional front, especially with the position you have.”

“Of course.”

The buzzer went off, signaling the end of the game.

The Whales had won.

I could feel Ginger celebrating next to me. I even heard my mom clapping.

But I didn’t tear my eyes away from my father. I kept my grin wide, reinforcing that choosing me to be his head of marketing for his newest baby was the absolute right decision.

And no matter what, I wouldn’t let him down.

He patted my shoulder. “You’re doing a great job, Jolene. I don’t tell you that enough.”