“Tori — you’re set for the donor cocktail hour tomorrow, right?” My dad’s deep voice cuts through my Bennett-fueled fantasy.
I clear my throat, take the last swig of my champagne and nod. “Yes. I’ll be there.”
“With Steele.”
Perfect.
“You got it.”
I swallow down my sigh, a mix of emotions rushing through me. I’m too close to this whole mess, but it’s too late — I can’t cut and run now.
I’m in way too deep.
The lights flash and the stadium rumbles as the players clear the ice, ready for the game. Our team’s introduced and then Chicago takes the ice, the crowd getting exponentially louder.
The national anthem plays, then the team captains come to the dot. The puck drops and it’s on.
We win the opening draw and carry it over the line. Morrison drops the puck back to Weston, then Weston slides it back to Bennett. He drives the net and my pulse kicks up as he cuts toward the crease, moving so fast he’s a blue blur. He snaps a quick shot that forces their goalie to cover.
No goal.
Just a warning shot, letting Chicago know Bennett Steele came to win.
The rest of the first period grinds on, playing like a balance sheet. Small wins, small losses, nothing decisive. Bennett keeps it clean. No shoves, no stupid penalties. Lots of pressure and speed.
His restraint should calm me down.
It doesn’t.
My body’s on edge, waiting for him to lose control.
“Tori.” My dad taps my shoulder, breaking the spell. “Suites are for sponsors. Glass is for accountability. Let’s go.”
He strides out of the box without waiting for my answer. My stomach sinks while my body lights up, the crowd’s roar only making it worse.
I hate myself for both.
Trailing behind my father, I grip the strap of my bag tight to keep my hand from shaking. The lanyard around my neck smacks against my chest with each step, right above my racing heart. We file into the VIP seats directly behind the glass and Bennett’s suddenly only inches away. My treacherous body hums with the knowledge, warmth spreading through me despite the chill in the rink.
My father settles into his seat, leaning in. “Keep your eyes on Steele.”
As if they’d be anywhere else.
Bennett Steele is my personal market crash — and I can’t look away.
The second period starts with a whistle and a faceoff at center ice. This time, Chicago wins the draw and kicks the puck back to their defense. A quick dump-in, and they’re already on the attack. Bennett wheels back, chasing the puck into the corner. But Chicago finishes the hit, driving him into the boards hard enough to rattle the glass.
My chest squeezes and I hold my breath, silently begging him not to be hurt. To stay in control.
He pushes off the boards, shoulders squared and jaw tight, and for one terrifying second I know he’s going to fight.
Then he doesn’t.
Bennett exhales, shoves once — hard enough to make his point — and skates away.
As he passes the glass, his gaze lifts and finds mine. He holds for a beat before his mouth tips, the slightest hint of a smile ghosting his lips.
The pressure in my ribs releases and I finally breathe.
