Chapter 4 Beck
There are few things in professional hockey more dangerous than a teammate who believes he has discovered something about you, and by ten the following morning, Carter Rhodes has made it clear that Sloane Mercer is going to provide him with enough entertainment to last the rest of the season.
He is waiting beside my stall when I walk into the locker room, coffee in one hand and an expression that immediately makes me consider turning around. Carter says nothing while I drop my bag and begin taping my stick, which is suspicious enough that I eventually glance at him.
“What?”
“Nothing.” He takes a slow drink. “Just wondering how Sloane is.”
I keep my attention on the tape because reacting will only encourage him. “Why are you asking me?”
“Because when I asked her for a drink yesterday, you looked like you were calculating whether killing a teammate would affect the salary cap.”
I tear the tape and smooth it over the blade. “You should be more concerned about whether anyone would miss you.”
“My mother would.”
“Eventually.”
Carter laughs before dropping onto the bench beside me, although his amusement fades when he lowers his voice. “How long have you been in love with her?”
My head turns sharply enough that he immediately realizes he's crossed a line.
“Don’t.”
For once, he listens. “All right.”
I grab my gloves and head toward the rink before he can ruin the moment by adding anything else.
Practice helps because hockey has always been the easiest place to escape everything outside it. Once my skates hit the ice, there is no room for old mistakes or women I haven't seen in eight years when a puck is moving toward me at ninety miles an hour.
For twenty minutes, I don't think about Sloane.
Then Grant Callahan appears beside the glass with her standing next to him.
Of course she is.
She has a folder tucked against her chest while Grant points toward different sections of the arena, presumably explaining Thursday's charity event, and from halfway across the rink I notice the familiar way she presses her lower lip between her teeth when she's concentrating.
I nearly miss a pass.
Carter catches it instead. “Subtle.”
“Play hockey.”
“I am. You’re sightseeing.”
I ignore him and throw myself into the next drill, but seeing Sloane here is already beginning to feel less impossible than it did yesterday. She walks through hallways I know and talks to people I see every day, fitting herself into my environment with terrifying ease after eight years of existing completely outside it.
The adjustment should feel unnatural.
Instead, it feels like something clicking back into place.
When practice ends, I’m heading toward the tunnel when I notice Carter has already reached her. Whatever he's saying makes her smile, and although there are plenty of reasonable reasons why watching my best friend flirt with Sloane should irritate me, none explain why I immediately change direction.
Carter sees me approaching and grins. “Captain.”
“I’m sure whatever you’re doing is bothering someone.”
“Sloane and I were discussing Thursday.”
“I’m thrilled for you.”
She looks between us. “Do you always appear whenever someone mentions your name?”
“Only when I sense danger.”
Before Carter can make that worse, Grant hands me a stapled packet. “Thursday’s schedule. Read it.”
“You know I won’t.”
“Which is why Sloane is walking you through it now.”
My attention shifts to her, and judging by her expression, she is equally delighted.
Grant checks his watch. “Conference room three. You have twenty minutes.”
“I have a shower.”
“You’ll survive.”
“For once,” Sloane says, “we agree.”
Grant walks away without acknowledging either of us, while Carter watches him leave with far too much enjoyment. “This feels strangely intimate.”
“Leave,” Sloane and I say together.
His laughter follows us into the hallway.
Conference room three is small enough that sitting opposite Sloane feels more personal than it should. She opens her laptop and immediately adopts the focused expression she wore beside the rink before walking me through the schedule.
“You arrive at six-fifteen.”
“I was told six-thirty.”
“The reception starts at six-thirty, which means you arrive early so I can brief you.”
“You can brief me now.”
“Things change.”
The words carry a weight I don't think she intended, and when her eyes lift to mine, I know she hears it too.
“Yes, Beck,” she says quietly. “They do.”
I let her continue.
She explains sponsor photographs, the auction preview, and dinner while I pretend not to notice that she still gestures with her left hand when she's explaining something. At some point, she warns me not to disappear after the photographs.
“You left last year’s reception before dessert,” she adds.
I smile. “You’ve been researching me.”
“It’s my job.”
“Still counts.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“From women with more enthusiasm?” she asks automatically, then immediately looks annoyed with herself.
My smile widens. “You remember.”
“Unfortunately.”
Something between us eases, and for one dangerous moment it feels like eight years haven't happened.
I turn the schedule over in my hands. “How long are you staying in Chicago?”
Her brow furrows. “My job is permanent.”
“You know what I mean. Luke used to say you wanted to move around.”
Her expression changes. “When did Luke say that?”
“Years ago.”
“And you remember?”
I give a quiet laugh. “I remember a lot of things.”
The room becomes still.
“What things?”
Too many.
I remember the purple streak she put in her hair at seventeen, the chipped blue mug she always used at breakfast, and the yellow blanket she fell asleep under while Luke and I watched game footage. I remember her nineteenth birthday in far more detail than I should, and I remember wanting her long before wanting her was something I could ever admit.
“Nothing important,” I say.
Sloane watches me for another moment before closing her laptop. “I think we’re done.”
She stands, and I know I should let her leave, but the question escapes before good judgment can stop it.
“Do you really hate me?”
Her hand tightens around the laptop.
When she turns, her expression is controlled, although not nearly as certain as it was yesterday. “I did.”
For a second, I forget how to breathe.
Did.
Not do.
She realizes it too, because her eyes widen slightly. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
I stand without moving closer, but the atmosphere changes anyway, and when her gaze drops briefly before returning to mine, I notice.
Of course I notice.
“Sloane—”
The door opens before I can continue, and Carter sticks his head inside. One look at us is enough to make him far too interested.
“Coach wants you downstairs.” Then he turns toward Sloane. “Thursday still happening?”
“The event?”
“The drink.”
Sloane looks at me, immediately understanding why he's asking in front of me, and the smallest smile appears.
“Maybe.”
Carter leaves looking delighted.
Yesterday, Sloane Mercer hated me. Today, she isn't sure. After eight years of believing there was no way back to her, that tiny piece of uncertainty feels more dangerous than hatred ever did.
