Chapter 1
Zaila
Houston’s Wildcatters Arena on a game night brimmed with excitement—even for a charity game. This evening, hockey teams made up of celebrities would be vying for a large donation their preferred nonprofit. Throbbing bass from the pre-game playlist, stomping feet, and the scents of popcorn, cold beer, and melted cheese enveloped me in that unique hockey experience as I stopped at the top of the stairs to assess the Wildcatters’ home ice. Lights flashed from the Jumbotron, bathing the crowd in blues and golds as people searched for their seats.
I loved every second of the chaos as I navigated down the concrete steps, my plastic cup of soda sweating against my palm as the ice sloshed inside. Twenty-plus years of dreaming from my daddy’s knee, and I was finally here—but not as a fan in those nosebleed seats where we used to sit. Nope. As a Wildcatters employee.
My chest ached with a weird combination of excitement, pleasure, and grief that I hadn’t yet gotten used to. I wanted to tell my daddy in person. I wanted him standing next to me. But that would never happen again. At twenty-five, I understood grief and loss all too well; I longed for one more big bear hug from the best man to ever grace my life.
The row numbers blurred past me…26…25…24…as I juggled my phone in my other hand. Seat 14B was just a few more steps down. My thumb hovered over Dad’s old number, and I typed quickly before I could talk myself out of it. Mom hadn’t gotten around to canceling it, though she’d put the phone away.
“One day,” she’d said. But one day hadn’t come yet, and I still sent him little updates, as if he was just out of town.
Zaila: I did it, Daddy! I got our dream job! I’m here, ready for the first of what I hope are many games.
I hit send and tucked my phone in my pocket as I trotted down the steps, a rolling tide overtaking the crowd. The whispers turned to cheers mixed with jeers, camera flashes strobing like a storm. I glanced up in time to see him.
Gunnar Evaldson, the Wildcatters’ owner and former junior hockey phenom in his own right, continued to be a man everyone talked and wrote about in the industry. He was an enigma billionaire who’d built a franchise in less than ten years that most other organizations only dreamed of becoming.
His jaw was a hard line, his mouth unsmiling, and his pale blue eyes scanned the crowd more quickly and efficiently than a goalie reading a breakaway. Gunnar had played goalie in these charity games before, but regardless of the endeavor, the man was versatile, athletic, intelligent, and ruthless.
He was also taller in person, with broad shoulders and thick arms visible even under the team-issued sweater. His walk—even in skates—was all contained power as he marched down my aisle, where I still stood, gawking. He should’ve been on the ice, not up in the stands. I guessed as the team owner, he had more leeway, especially when one of the people he’d been talking to was the state’s senator.
“That’s the Wildcatters owner,” someone in the stands said. “The commissioner guy called him up here, Stef.”
Ah. That explained why he was in the stands.
“Yeah... I’ve never seen someone in skates come into the stands,” Stef replied. “Oh my gosh! I didn’t think I’d get a picture with so many famous people together. Ooh, there are some of the Wildcatter players. Man, this place is lit!”
Behind him, a cluster of fans surged forward, phones out, calling his name. One of them shouted something about “last year’s record” that sounded less than complimentary. Another man reached for his arm, but Gunnar didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow his pace.
I tried to enter the row of chairs behind me, but the guy in the aisle seat stood up to high-five his buddy, blocking my escape. I sidestepped straight into the path of a teenage boy in a Cormac Bouchard jersey. He barreled into me, laughing, his shoulder slamming mine hard enough to send my soda sloshing.
The lid popped off as I stumbled. “Oh—no—no—no?—”
A firm hand caught my elbow before I could face plant into a cement step. My gaze snapped up and found those eyes.
Icy blue. The kind of eyes you fell into.
“Easy,” Gunnar said, steadying me. His voice was deep enough to cut through the roar of the crowd, and the timbre sent a shiver down my spine.
“Thank you,” I said, heaving a sigh. “Oof. That was scary.”
Another fan jostled past, shoving my arm. My soda lurched in a sticky arc…straight across Gunnar’s chest. It hit his sweater with a soft glug, darkening the Wildcatters logo.
“Oh my gosh! I am so sorry,” I squeaked, my face rivaling the Texas summer sun that still shone outside. I scrubbed his shirt with my sleeve, a Wildcatters long-sleeve T-shirt my new boss had given me earlier today. Though I tried not to notice the impressive pec underneath, I did, and I liked the suppleness of Gunnar’s physique.
Don’t notice anything about your boss’s boss’s boss, Zaila!
Gunnar glanced down at himself, then back at me. “No harm. I’m just a little wet. And sticky.”
Oh Lordy, did he have to say that? It’s getting hot in here…
“Again, I’m so sorry,” I stuttered. My mind seemed incapable of another thought as I fell further into his beautiful, frosty gaze.
His lips twitched like he was suppressing something…annoyance, amusement—Oh, God, maybe both. “You always greet people like this?” he asked.
“Only the famous ones,” I said before my brain could stop me. “Makes me memorable.” Then, because my brain was an asshole that wanted to embarrass me more, I added, “You’re Gunnar Evaldson.”
