Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86105 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 431(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“I’m definitely not the VIP,” I say.
“Really? Then why does he keep looking at you?”
I whirl so fast I nearly spill my drink. Julian Langley stands near the suite entrance speaking to two executives, but as if called by Elias’s commentary, his eyes dart cleanly, unmistakably toward me.
The look lasts less than a second, but it lands.
Elias whistles under his breath. “Oh boy.”
And just like that, I realize, Whatever tonight is? It isn’t just watching the game.
Elias and I drift toward the buffet as the rink settles into its Zamboni lull, and stepping into the serving area feels like wandering into the culinary wing of a palace.
The spread is almost indecent in its abundance. A chef in a white coat and hat is torching salmon belly at the sushi station, the flame creating this fleeting golden halo around each piece before he places it on a slab of black slate. An attendant behind the carving station slices prime filet mignon to order, the meat giving way. Lamb chops glisten under soft lights, brushed with mint and pistachio, arranged with the kind of symmetry that suggests a food stylist was involved. Even the truffled mac and cheese comes portioned in miniature copper pots.
“God bless generational wealth,” Elias murmurs reverently.
I try not to stare at everything like a tourist, but it’s difficult. Half of this looks like it belongs at a gala, not in a hockey arena suite. I select a little of everything, building a plate that’s half experimentation, half indulgence, and just as I turn to rejoin Elias, the universe picks that moment to play a cruel joke.
I collide with a body. My plate tips and a piece of Wagyu slides. The lamb chop makes a break for freedom and time slows just enough for me to recognize the face of the man I may have just fed by accident.
Julian Langley.
“Oh God—sir, I—” Half the apologies I want to string together crash into each other on their way out. “I am so sorry.”
He takes a small step back, brushing off a faint smear from his arm—nothing catastrophic, thankfully, though the lamb chop on the floor isn’t a great look. Elias inhales sharply, the sound of someone witnessing a crime in progress. Luckily, a waiter is there, efficiently cleaning up the mess and disappearing in two breaths.
I set the plate down on the marble counter a little harder than intended and straighten, willing my pulse to calm, willing my dignity to reconstitute itself out of thin air. Julian looks at me with that quiet, inscrutable composure I’m beginning to learn is his default setting.
“Are you enjoying the game, Daisy?” he asks.
“Very much,” I say, trying to match his tone while ignoring the heat crawling up the back of my neck. “It’s actually grown on me a surprising amount these last few weeks.”
His brows lift slightly. “Has it?”
“It has. The speed, the intensity… the way the whole thing can pivot in a heartbeat. There’s a lot happening that I didn’t appreciate before.”
He studies me with a level of scrutiny that makes me aware of every breath I take. “And how are things with Grizz?”
I knew the question was coming the second he appeared behind me, but still, it catches me off guard. Elias edges half a step away—not abandoning me, just giving me space, but the gesture feels like a little flag planted in the ground… You’re on your own with this one.
I draw a slow breath. “We’re making progress,” I say carefully. “There’s still work to be done, of course, but I’m hopeful.”
Julian holds my gaze for a half-second, long enough that I can feel the question beneath the question, the suspicion or curiosity or calculation I can’t decipher. And then, just when my nerves start to thrum in my fingertips, he nods once. “Well,” he says, “from where I’m standing, you’ve done the impossible.”
The words are so unexpected I almost convince myself I misheard.
But he continues. “It’s as if Grizz has adopted an entirely new approach. No unnecessary outbursts that put us in shorthanded situations. Gone are the retaliatory penalties that cost us momentum. He’s controlled and focused, and outside the rink…” He tilts his head slightly. “I’ve heard nothing but positive feedback from the press. No incidents or unnecessary drama, and we haven’t seen any firestorms since you arrived.”
I’m not sure what to say to that because I’m not sure how much of this I can claim, so I hold my tongue.
“He’s a different player these last few weeks,” Julian finishes, his tone still even but unmistakably satisfied. “You should be pleased with the work you’ve done.”
I open my mouth, then close it again, because the truth—that none of this was part of a professional strategy, that everything changed when we let our primal instincts take over—is the one thing I can’t say out loud.