Bryce’s reputation is legendary. Bar fights. Tabloid photos. Rumored hookups with half of Nashville. Amazing on the ice. Absolute chaos everywhere else. The stories about him could fill a book called “Men To Avoid If You Want To Keep Your Sanity.”
Exactly the kind of trouble I don’t need or want anywhere near my life.
I knock once and push open Dad’s door.
He stands behind his desk, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, hair sticking up like he’s been stressing all morning. His face softens when he sees me.
“Belle,” he says, pulling me into a hug.
I breathe in aftershave and coffee, and for a moment I almost cry. I nearly talked myself out of coming home. Out of starting over. Out of admitting that I needed help.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Define okay,” I say. “I didn’t run him over with my car on the way out of town, so I think that counts.”
He laughs under his breath. “Good. I prefer my daughter without a criminal conviction.”
He guides me into the chair across from him and sits again, this time with his serious GM face. Hands folded. Brows drawn. It’s the face he uses before he trades someone or drops bad news. His name plate “Erwin Hacker, Owner” stares at me.
My stomach drops. “That is not a ‘welcome home’ face. That is a ‘the building is on fire’ face.”
“In a sense,” he says. “But first, I’m glad you’re here. The front office needs stability. And you’re the right person for the job.”
Warmth rushes through my chest. I straighten. “Thank you. I want to help. I want to be useful. I’m ready.”
He nods slowly. “Good. Because I need you on something specific.”
Here it is. My first assignment. Something normal. Something manageable. Maybe a scheduling issue. Maybe merchandise. Maybe...
“Your first big task,” he says, eyes leveling with mine, “is Bryce Blackhorn.”
I blink once.
Then twice.
My soul briefly leaves my body.
***
“I swear,” I mutter to myself as I leave Dad’s office, “men with inflated egos and zero impulse control should come with warning labels. Preferably neon ones.”
I march down the corridor toward the practice rink. Every staff member I pass gives me the same look, a mix of pity and amusement, like they’re watching someone wearing lip gloss willingly walk into a tornado.
“Bryce is in a mood today,” one whispers.
“Good luck,” another adds, like I’m heading into a battlefield.
Fantastic. My first day back and I’m about to meet the Outlaws’ resident disaster.
The sounds hit me before the cold does. Sticks cracking against the ice. Pucks slamming into the boards. Players shouting drills like their lungs depend on it. It’s the most chaotic, perfect soundtrack.
My stomach flips. Not because I’m nervous. Okay… maybe I’m nervous. Maybe dealing with a six-foot-three human hurricane who punches reporters is not the soothing distraction I promised myself.
“We do not fall for hockey players,” I remind my heart. “We do not flirt with them. We do not check out their biceps. We especially do not ogle anyone named Bryce.”
I push through the door that leads to the rink and step into the cold.
Practice is wrapping up. Players skate toward the bench, ripping off helmets, hair wet, cheeks flushed. They’re laughing, chirping each other, and spraying ice everywhere.
