by Kendall Ryan
The older guy seated at the table in her office has been watching our interaction with an amused expression. “You two know each other?” he asks when I sit down.
Eden lowers herself into the chair across from me. “We go back a ways. Since college.”
“Sutton?” the guy asks.
“That’s the place.” I nod. “Holt Rossi. It’s nice to meet you.”
He grins in my direction. “Les. Good to meet you too. I was worried you were going to have your hands full with Eden. She didn’t want extra security brought in, but . . . seems like with you two being old friends, maybe this will work out after all.”
Eden chuckles. “Never discount my ability to be a pain in the ass, Les. I’m sure Holt will still have his hands full with me soon enough.”
A man can hope.
I clear my throat. “Should we begin? You can fill me in on the current security staff roles and responsibilities. Any gaps or shortcomings you’ve noticed?”
Eden straightens her spine and places her elbows on the table. She’s all business now, and the playful side of her I glimpsed when I walked in is gone.
I’ll be honest, though. This side of her is every bit as hot.
Be professional, I remind myself. I’m here to do a job.
“We employ the usual security staff of a professional hockey team,” Eden says. “We have a director of security who oversees the department, which includes seven full-time security personnel, a couple dozen public safety officers who work the parking lots and perimeter on game days, and event security who enforce the rules for ice access, making sure no one approaches the players or locker rooms. Then we have technical staff who monitor our security systems and cameras. Everything is top of the line.”
She pauses, smiling as she meets my eyes. “I’ve learned a lot these past couple of months.”
Since her grandfather died, I assume she means. She’s had to jump in with both feet.
“Sounds like you’ve got a handle on it. But now you’re looking for some extra help? A contract position to keep Miss Wynn . . . Eden safe?”
Man, it feels weird having her name in my mouth after all these years.
Les nods. “Some extra help, yes. She’s young. Single. And she’s become somewhat of a controversial figure.”
“Any credible threats?” I ask, my stomach tightening. “Emails? Phone calls?”
“No, nothing like that.” Les shakes his head. “A few angry fans, comments on blog posts, things like that.”
“Keyboard warriors,” Eden says flatly.
Les clears his throat, directing his attention back to me. “This is all just a precaution. It’s what Pete would have wanted.”
I look to Eden. “My condolences about your grandfather. Of course he’d want you to be safe.” After Eden gives me a sad smile, I continue. “I started my company four years ago. Before that, I worked in private security, learning the industry. We’re small, only four employees right now plus myself, but I trust the guys I have completely. We’d be at your beck and call day or night.”
I don’t miss the way Eden’s gaze lingers on my mouth as I speak. Focus, Rossi.
Les fills me in on the boycott of Eden when she was announced as team owner, a couple of small protests that really don’t sound like they amounted to much. But still, he’s right to take precautions. You really can’t be too careful.
I nod along. “It reminds me of the same thing that happened years ago when a ninety-year-old grandmother took over a professional football team. That didn’t go over well either.”
“The fans can be pretty protective of their team,” Les says.
“Misogynistic is the word I think you’re looking for, Les.” Eden’s lips lift into a smirk at him before she turns those baby blues on me again. “And you’re prepared to take on another contract? I travel with the team sometimes.”
I nod. “Yes. And my staff can provide backup if I can’t be somewhere, or if we need to secure multiple locations. We’re trained in everything from how to handle a medical emergency to disarming a threat, dealing with atmospheric conditions, and taking care of special needs for female clients.”
“So you’d carry her tampons and warn her if there was a thunderstorm coming?” Les says with a chuckle.
Eden lifts her brows at me as she waits for my response.
“Um, no. I’m pretty sure Eden can carry her own hygiene products, and that she’s more than capable of interpreting her weather app. It’s more about protecting our female clients from unwanted male attention, sexual advances, or even assault. And when I say atmospheric conditions, what I mean is when a person is outside of their normal environment, it can create issues if the individual isn’t accustomed to the altitude, humidity, even jet lag due to changing time zones. All of these factors can cause a person’s critical thinking skills and physical performance to suffer, making them a more vulnerable target. We’re trained to keep an eye on things like that.”
Les nods thoughtfully. “I see.”
Most people have no idea what security guards do. It’s a lot more than just watching for bad guys and talking into walkie-talkies.
Although the walkie-talkies are pretty cool.
“Sounds like a plan to me, son. We could use the peace of mind that our fearless leader here is safe.” Les stands up and extends his hand toward me. “I have to get going. My wife has me trying this new thing—couples yoga. Says I need to open up more. Find my inner balance.” He rolls his eyes.
I return his handshake. “Enjoy, sir.”
And then Les is gone, leaving Eden and me alone together in her office.
I try to keep my gaze on hers. I certainly can’t let it stray to check out her tits like I want to. It’s surreal to be sitting across from her after all these years.
Unable to take the silence, I pull a business card from my pocket. “If at any time you feel unsafe, this is my personal cell number.”
She takes the card and sets it on the table in front of her, frowning as she stares down at it for a moment. “Les is right. Everything you’ve said sounds good.”
“But?”
She looks up and smiles. “But I don’t know . . . isn’t this going to be weird? Shouldn’t we talk about things?”
“Things?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Our past,” she says to clarify, tucking her long hair behind one ear.
My heart rate jumps. “It’s really not much of a past. It was a one-time . . .”
I can’t help my mind from flashing back to that night in my room. The way she kissed me, the soft moans of pleasure she made when my mouth latched onto her—
Eden holds up a hand, jolting me out of my memory. “I know. And I just left. You probably wondered what happened, why I . . .”
Fuck yeah, I wondered. I’ve done nothing but wonder for six long years.
But I shrug, trying to act as casual as she seems to be about this whole thing. “I get it. I was a temporary stop, princess. What’s done is done. You don’t have to try to make me feel better about it.”
She flinches at my use of the word princess.
Shit. I don’t mean to be an asshole. I guess it just comes naturally for me.
Sitting up straighter, she says, “But I—”
I lean back, feigning a casual posture as I interrupt her. “It’s in the past. Let’s move on.”
“Okay,” she says softly. “I can do that if you can.”
“I’m a professional.”
Her lips tilt up in a smile again, and her gaze roams briefly across the expanse of my shoulders, and the athletic black knit polo I’m wearing with my company’s logo over my left pec. “I can see that.”
5
* * *
EDEN
I wasn’t much more than knee high when Grandpa Pete bought the Boston Titans. One of my earliest memories is walking into the stadium hand in hand with him the day he signed the papers.
From that day forward, hockey and the Wynn family have been intertwi
ned, and Elite Airlines Stadium has become like a second home to me. A different company had the naming rights back then, back when the Boston Titans were claiming regular championship titles. There were more than a few legendary games in those years, or so I’m told.
As I got older, I was always much more interested in the catering options than the score. That and the fact that having access to the owner’s box of a nationally acclaimed hockey team made me popular with the boys at my prep school, regardless of whether I watched the games or not.
But all that changed when I started dating Alex. When the man you love is at risk of getting his teeth knocked in, you learn to keep your eyes on the ice. Falling in love with the game was merely a lucky side effect.
I came to crave the smell of the stadium, that musky mix of icy air and sweat, and even the hollow feeling of a loss was better than not watching a game at all. I guess I’ll always have Alex to thank for that, although I’d rather not give him credit for any part of my life. Not since he walked out of it in favor of sowing his wild oats.
Now, less than six short months after he broke my heart, I’m watching Alex Braun play once again, but not from the stands like I used to. Now I have a view from the ice, and my eyes are locked on him for a whole new reason. I may have lost my girlfriend title, but I’ve swapped it out for a new one. Boss. A drastic upgrade, if I do say so myself.
“Two on one, boys. Do it again!” Coach Wilder’s gruff, commanding voice barks from beside me.
I watch as the players glide to their marks, running through the mechanics of the drill. But it’s just that. Mechanical. Unnatural, even. Like they’re six separate units going through the motions instead of one cohesive team.
When Reeves, our left wing, weaves down the ice, Alex shoulders into him at full speed, which earns him a shove up against the boards. I wince at the hollow thud, turning toward Coach Wilder, who looks rightfully frustrated, if not a little pissed off. Something tells me this isn’t the first time this has happened today.
My eyes narrow as I watch.
Bax, one of our best right wingers, rushes down the ice and comes up fast behind Alex, who struggles to maintain possession of the puck. It’s sloppy, not at all like Alex to be so unsteady on his skates. He skids to a jarring stop in front of the crease without completing the pass.
Sweat plasters Alex’s hair to his forehead under the helmet, and his chest rises and falls with quick breaths. His smile is crooked and lazy, and most times, easy. But today it’s nowhere to be seen. He doesn’t look particularly pleased to be appraised by his ex-turned-boss.
But that’s exactly what this is, an appraisal, and I don’t miss a thing. The way his gloved hands shake, the uncertainty in his eyes as he scans the ice.
I know Alex possibly better than anyone, and right now I know he’s not very happy. The last several years floated by with Alex by my side. After college, we became one, me working part time and taking graduate-level courses in whatever city he was playing for at the time, and Alex playing his heart out to become one of the best young forwards in the league. Salt Lake City, Toronto for a season, New York for another. We strolled along the city streets, window shopping and daydreaming together about our future. We ate our meals at the little dining table I moved with us from city to city, and we made love regularly and enthusiastically.
We were young, happy—and in his case, very talented with a hockey stick—and nothing could stop us. On the nights he was home, I cooked while Alex sat on a stool in the kitchen, watching his game-day videos and critiquing his performance. I always encouraged him, and he would listen to me talk about whatever my latest pet project was.
When we lived in Toronto, it was volunteering once a week at a women’s shelter. In New York, I became interested in running and joined a running club, though we moved away before I had the chance to compete with my group in the half marathon we’d been training for. The off-season was spent near family, or vacationing someplace warm.
Summer gave way to fall, and winter rolled in. Our months together turned into years as Alex and I built a life together.
What we had worked. At least . . . until it didn’t.
I’d like to tell you there was a moment, a distinct time or event that made everything fall apart. But it wasn’t as simple as that. While Alex traveled with the team in New York, I began spending time with my grandpa in Boston, learning the business of running a sports franchise. That was when Alex and I started to drift apart.
Things were changing. He’d still sit with me while I cooked, but he seemed more withdrawn. He didn’t ask me questions about my day anymore, and when I wanted to tell him all the things I was learning from Grandpa Pete, Alex seemed far away and distant. Our sex life, which had always been regular and fulfilling, became infrequent and less satisfying.
Late at night, I’d try to talk to Alex, ask if there was something bothering him, but he’d only turn his back to me in bed, saying that he was tired. I worried he was cheating on me—it had to be the only explanation for this new distance growing between us, but I could find no evidence of that. Still, I worried because I often heard rumors about professional athletes having a different girl in every city, and I was terrified of losing him.
We fought sometimes. I accused Alex of being with someone else, and he accused me of being insecure. But I was desperate to know if he had someone on the side, and what she was like, because I wanted to be like her. Wanted to feel like I was still enough for him, even though I knew I no longer was.
Finally, when I couldn’t take Alex’s chilly indifference toward me any longer, I confronted him. He’d just returned from a three-day road trip to the Midwest. I’d cooked his favorite dinner—steak and garlic bread.
We sat calmly at the dining table, talking about his win over Cleveland, but inside I was so nervous, I was shaking. I was terrified we’d reached the end of our relationship, and I wanted desperately to hit rewind and go all the way back to the beginning when I was sure Alex loved me.
I started off carefully, tiptoeing around the subject of where we now stood. We felt more like roommates than lovers, and while I’d once been certain we were heading toward an engagement and marriage, now those things seemed oceans away.
Looking nervous, Alex dropped his head into his hands. His refusal to meet my eyes made my stomach drop.
“Is there someone else?” I asked, blood pounding in my ears.
“No,” he croaked.
It was of little consolation, because even if it were true, I could feel the years of love between us crumbling as surely as a child’s sandcastle in the waves.
“Talk to me,” I begged, tears welling in my eyes.
He stood from the table and paced back and forth. “I just need some space, Eden.”
Space? From me?
The word seemed foreign to me. I loved Alex more than anything in the world and wanted to spend all my free time with him by my side. We had more than enough space when he traveled for games. Too much, really. I missed him terribly on the nights he was away.
But I could do nothing but sit there and listen as Alex paced and told me about his feelings of missing out—of being tied down so young and not getting to sow his wild oats. Talk of his teammates not inviting him out to a bachelor party because they thought of him as one half of an old married couple.
His words were like daggers shoved into my chest. My heart ached, and I was breathless. I latched onto words like young and single and something about us being too serious.
I remembered the reputation he had as a ladies’ man back in college, the kind of guy who didn’t want to be tied down. Why hadn’t I listened back then? Been more careful not to give him my whole heart?
Sobbing, I asked, “Did you ever love me?”
Calm as ever, Alex met my eyes. “I’m sorry.” And then he wheeled his still-packed carry-on out the front door and left.
I dumped our dinner dishes into the sink, poured myself a glass of vodka, and drank it straight. It tasted
awful and burned my throat, but I welcomed the bitter sting.
Wasn’t that what I deserved? To feel awful? I’d been so foolish, and now I felt broken.
I curled up on the couch and cried for two days.
• • •
My thoughts are interrupted by shouting on the ice.
It’s Alex and Price St. James, a guy normally known for making his teammates laugh. He’s not laughing today, though. Scowling, he throws his stick on the ice in disgust.
Well, that just happened.
I take a breath. Now is not the time to reminisce about my breakup, not that I want to relive the painful memories of the weeks that followed, anyway.
“All right, that’s enough for today. Hit the showers, boys,” Wilder calls out, pulling off his kelly-green Titans cap and shoving one hand through his sweaty brown hair. When he turns toward me, the look in his eyes is one of pure desperation.
“Well, that was brutal,” he says with a rough sigh. “They’re clunky as hell.”
I’ve sat in on enough team meetings with the coaches to have developed a decent relationship with them, Wilder especially. Like me, he got his fair share of flak a year ago when he signed on as the youngest coach the team has had in decades. And while I hate to base our professional relationship on the fact that we’ve both been harassed by Boston sports fans, I have to count my allies where I can.
“They’re blowing it,” he mutters, looking out onto the ice. “We’ve got a lot of talent, but it’s being wasted right now.”
I nod, watching as the players disappear down the chute toward the dressing room and out of earshot of this conversation. “Any particular guys giving you trouble?”
“Nah, it’s the whole team,” he grumbles. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but they’re not on board with you as owner.”
My lips pull into a tight frown as I step back, folding my arms over my chest. “I see.”