Centuria Books · Pucks Property
Pucks Property — Read the First Chapter
The team’s ice-cold fixer contracts a fake romance with its most dangerous player—and every clause in the deal is designed to survive the moment it stops being fake.
Look, Dont Touch
Look, Don’t Touch
My reflection in the arena glass is sharp enough to cut. Good. In this industry, dull edges get you slaughtered, and I stopped bleeding for other people a long time ago. I adjust the lapel of my blazer—Saint Laurent, pitch black, armor for the modern gladiator—and listen to the frantic, percussive rhythm of my stilettos on the concrete.
Control. That’s the drug. I don’t want the applause I used to chase when I was spinning on the ice; I want the silence that comes after I fix the unfixable. My desire is simple: to take a jagged mess and smooth it until it shines. My fear? That the chaos is the only thing that actually makes me feel alive anymore.
Beside me, Arthur Miller, the Boston Bruisers’ PR director, looks like he’s one bad tweet away from a cardiac event. He’s clutching a paper bag like it holds the nuclear codes.
“He threw a vending machine, Hallie,” Arthur wheezes, his face a blotchy map of red anxiety. “A whole vending machine. Inside the visitor locker room in Philly. Do you know how much a commercial vending machine weighs?”
“Eight hundred pounds if empty. Nine-fifty if fully stocked.” I don’t break stride. The VIP entrance to the TD Garden looms ahead, a maw of steel and security checkpoints. “Did he get the Snickers bar?”
Arthur makes a choking sound. “The press is calling him ‘The Butcher of Broad Street.’ Again. The Board wants his head on a platter. They want to trade him to Arizona. Arizona, Hallie. Hockey goes to die in the desert.”
“Relax, Arthur.” I stop at the security gate, flashing my credentials. The guard nods, terrified. People usually are. “He sees a catastrophe; I see a puzzle with a six-foot-four, foul-mouthed solution. Bishop Graves thinks he can punch his way out of a problem? Cute. He’s never met a woman who turned her trauma into a tax bracket.”
I check the Cartier tank watch on my left wrist. Three minutes until the scheduled sit-down. Three minutes until I walk into that locker room and leash the beast.
“Wait here,” I tell Arthur. “Take a Xanax. Or two.”
“Where are you going?”
“Fresh air before I step into the testosterone tank.”
I push through the heavy glass doors to the loading dock area. The Boston winter greets me with a wet, slushy kiss. The air smells like diesel fumes, freezing harbor water, and impending snow. It’s gray, miserable, and exactly the kind of weather that matches my mood.
I need a moment. Just one. To center myself before I have to deal with a man whose reputation involves structural damage and orbital fractures. I reach into my purse for my phone to check the latest stock drop, but a movement near the dumpster catches my eye.
A flash of orange.
I pause. The wind whips hair across my face, stinging my cheeks.
There it is again. A tiny, pathetic mewl.
Near the overflowing recycling bin, a ball of wet fur scrambles for purchase on the icy asphalt. A kitten. It can’t be more than six weeks old, shivering so violently it looks like it’s vibrating.
A delivery truck rumbles around the corner, reversing toward the dock, its backup alarm beeping a warning that the driver clearly isn’t heeding. The massive tires crush slush, rolling backward. The kitten freezes, back arched, hissing at a tire twice the size of my apartment.
“Hey!” I shout, waving my arm.
The driver doesn’t see me. Why would he? I’m five-foot-nothing in a land of giants.
The truck keeps moving. The kitten slips, paws scrabbling uselessly on a patch of black ice, sliding directly into the path of the wheel.
Damn it.
Logic screams at me. You are wearing twelve-hundred-dollar shoes. You have a meeting that defines your fiscal quarter. That is a stray animal that probably has ringworm.
My body doesn’t listen to logic. It never has.
I launch myself off the curb.
My heel catches in a grate, snapping with a sickening crunch. I don’t stop. I stumble, ignoring the jolt of pain in my ankle, and dive onto the filthy, oil-slicked pavement. The asphalt tears through the knees of my suit pants.
I scoop the kitten up a split second before the mud flap slaps the air where the creature just stood.
I roll onto my hip, clutching the hissing ball of fur to my chest, gasping as the truck slams a heavy brake. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
“Watch it, lady!” the driver yells from the cab, oblivious to the murder he almost committed.
I flip him off without looking.
My blazer is ruined. There’s dirty slush seeping into my silk blouse. My ankle throbs a dull, rhythmic beat.
“You enter the world looking for trouble, don’t you?” I mutter to the thing in my arms.
The kitten looks up at me. One eye is crusted shut, the other a brilliant, terrified green. It’s soaking wet, skeletal, and smells like garbage juice. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.
I pull it closer, shielding it from the wind with my body. “Yeah. Me too, kid. Me too.”
The roar of an engine cuts through the noise of the city. Not a delivery truck this time. Something deep, throaty, and expensive.
A matte black Ford Raptor, lifted so high it creates its own weather system, prowls around the corner and screeches to a halt next to the delivery bay. The vanity plate reads BRUISER 88.
Of course.
The driver’s door opens, and the atmosphere shifts. The air suddenly feels thinner, charged with static.
Bishop Graves steps out.
I’ve seen the photos. I’ve watched the tapes. But reality is a different beast entirely. The camera adds ten pounds? Please. The camera diminishes him. In person, he is a tectonic event.
He wears a charcoal suit that strains dangerously at the seams, the fabric fighting a losing war against the sheer density of him. His thighs are tree trunks, thick cords of muscle threatening to split the expensive wool with every step. The jacket pulls tight across a chest broad enough to land a plane on, tapering down to a waist that hints at violence and stamina.
He’s not handsome in the way models are handsome. He’s devastating. A harsh jawline covered in dark scruff, a nose that’s been broken at least twice, and a scar cutting through his left eyebrow that gives him a permanent look of dangerous skepticism. He moves with a predator’s grace—heavy, deliberate, taking up space like he owns the oxygen we’re both breathing.
My mouth goes dry. It’s a biological response, stupid and primal. My brain catalogs him as a client, a liability, a paycheck. My body catalogs him as a threat I want to climb.
He rounds the hood of the truck, his expression thunderous. He ignores me completely, heading for the VIP door. He doesn’t even register the woman sitting in the slush.
“Graves,” I say. My voice is steady, despite the fact that I’m currently freezing my ass off on the ground.
He stops. Slowly, he turns his head.
His eyes are the color of a frozen lake—pale, icy blue, and utterly devoid of warmth. He looks down at me, taking in the ruined suit, the broken shoe, the dirt on my face.
“You’re in my spot,” he rumbles. His voice is gravel grinding on glass. Low. vibrating in the pavement beneath me.
“Your spot?” I scoff, struggling to get my good foot under me. “I didn’t realize you marked your territory on the loading dock. Though given your behavior lately, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
He takes a step closer. He’s huge. He casts a shadow that swallows me whole.
Then, he stops. His gaze drops from my face to my chest.
Heat flares in my cheeks. “Eyes up, defenseman. I charge by the hour.”
He doesn’t look up. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the trembling, wet lump in my arms.
The scowl on his face falters. Just a fraction. A crack in the granite.
He crouches.
Up close, he smells like cedar, expensive soap, and the distinct, metallic tang of cold air. His hand—large, scarred knuckles, fingers thick enough to snap a stick like a toothpick—reaches out.
I brace myself. If he touches me, I’ll bite him. I don’t care who he is.
But he doesn’t touch me.
One large, calloused finger gently strokes the top of the kitten’s head. The motion is shockingly tender. Careful. Like he knows exactly how much power he holds and is terrified of using it.
“Runt,” he murmurs. The roughness is gone from his voice, replaced by something rougher, deeper, but infinitely softer.
The kitten leans into his touch, a tiny purr vibrating against my ribs.
“It almost got hit by a truck,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can check them. “He didn’t see it.”
Bishop ignores me. He uses his thumb to gently wipe a smudge of dirt from the kitten’s ear. For a second, the violence that radiates off him vanishes. He looks tired. He looks… human.
“Tough luck, little guy,” he whispers. “World’s a bitch.”
My heart does something traitorous. It stutters. I watch the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. I watch the way his massive hand dwarfs the tiny animal, offering protection without asking for anything in return.
“He needs a vet,” I say softly.
The spell breaks.
Bishop’s head snaps up. The ice is back in his eyes, harder than before. The vulnerability slams shut behind a steel door. He straightens to his full height, towering over me, making me crane my neck until it hurts.
He looks at my ruined clothes, my broken heel, and finally, my face. His lip curls. It’s not a smile. It’s a dismissal.
“You’re the fixer,” he says, the kindness completely erased from his tone. “Fix it.”
“Excuse me?”
“The suit. The cat. Your face.” He gestures vaguely at me, disgust radiating off him in waves. “You look like a wreck.”
“I look like this because I was saving a life while you were probably busy intimidating a vending machine,” I snap, struggling to stand on one foot. Pain shoots up my leg.
He laughs. It’s a dark, humorless sound. “Saving a life? You’re a suit, lady. You don’t save things. You bill them.”
He turns his back on me.
“Hey!” I shout. “I’m Hallie Vance. We have a meeting.”
He doesn’t stop walking. He reaches the door, yanking it open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
“Get lost, Vance,” he throws over his shoulder. “I don’t do babysitters. And I definitely don’t do charity cases.”
The door slams shut behind him.
I stand there, one shoe on, freezing wet, holding a shivering kitten that smells like death. Anger, hot and bright, flares in my chest, melting the chill.
Oh, he thinks he’s the big bad wolf? He thinks he can chew me up and spit me out like a puck bunny with a bad dye job?
I look down at the kitten. “You’re coming with me.”
I kick off my remaining shoe, leaving twelve hundred dollars of Italian leather in a puddle of sludge. I turn and limp toward the door, stocking-footed and soaking wet.
Bishop Graves wants a war?
Game on.
*
The security guard at the inner checkpoint stares at me.
“Ms. Vance?”
“Don’t,” I warn, shifting the kitten to my left arm so I can wipe the mud off my credential. “Just open the door.”
I navigate the labyrinth of the arena bowels. The smell changes here—stale popcorn, rubber mats, sweat, and adrenaline. It’s a scent that used to make me nauseous before competitions. Now, it smells like money.
I find the PR office. Arthur is pacing a hole in the carpet. He stops when he sees me. His jaw unhinges.
“Hallie? My god. What happened? Were you mugged?” He spots the kitten. “Is that… is that a rat?”
“It’s a dependent,” I say, marching past him to his desk. I grab a box of tissues and start drying the kitten off. “Call a vet. The expensive one on Newbury. Tell them I’m coming in an hour.”
“An hour? The meeting is in two minutes! The owner is already in the luxury box. Graves is heading up there now.”
“I know.” I look down at my ruined pants. My nylons are shredded. My blouse is see-through where the wet snow hit it. I look like I lost a fight with a snowblower.
Perfect.
“Arthur,” I say, my voice calm, deadly level. “Do you have a spare jersey?”
He blinks. “Uh. Yeah. A promo one. Why?”
“Give it to me.”
He scrambles to a cabinet and tosses me a black and gold jersey. It’s huge. An XL. I pull it on over my ruined blouse. It falls to my mid-thighs like a dress. It smells like factory plastic.
I look in the mirror on the wall. My hair is wild, windblown, dark curls escaping the severe bun I started the day with. My makeup is smeared. I’m barefoot. I’m wearing a hockey jersey that creates a tent around my small frame.
I look vulnerable. I look chaotic.
But in my eyes? That steel is still there.
“Watch the cat,” I order Arthur. “If it dies, you’re fired.”
“I don’t work for you!” he squeaks.
“You will if you don’t keep that thing warm.”
I spin on my heel—well, my heel-less foot—and march out.
The elevator ride to the owner’s suite takes forever. I use the reflective metal of the doors to check my teeth. No lipstick. Good.
The doors slide open.
The suite is expansive, overlooking the empty ice. The rink below glows under the high-intensity lights, a pristine sheet of white waiting to be carved up.
Three men are in the room.
Reggie Miller, the team owner—a billionaire with a comb-over and a drinking problem.
Coach Anderson—a man who looks like a thumb with a mustache.
And Bishop.
He’s sprawled on a leather sofa, legs spread wide in a display of arrogance that takes up half the seating area. He’s holding a water bottle like he wants to crush it.
When I walk in, three heads turn.
Reggie chokes on his scotch. The Coach’s mustache twitches.
Bishop freezes. His blue eyes rake over me, from my barefoot toes to the oversized jersey swallowing my body. His gaze lingers on the hem of the shirt, right where it hits my thigh. For a split second, his pupils blow wide, swallowing the blue. A muscle feathers in his jaw.
“What the hell is this?” Reggie sputters. “Arthur said he hired the best. You look like a…”
“Like a fan who got lost on the way to the bedroom?” Bishop supplies, his voice dripping with mock sweetness.
I don’t flinch. I walk straight to the empty leather armchair opposite Bishop. I sit down, crossing my legs. I don’t try to hide the bruises on my shins or the dirt on my feet.
“I look like the reality of your situation, gentlemen,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake. “Messy. Unpredictable. And currently, the only thing standing between you and a PR disaster that will make the vending machine incident look like a charity gala.”
I turn my gaze to Bishop. He’s watching me with a mix of confusion and something darker. Something hotter.
“You left me in the slush, Graves,” I say softly.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I told you to get lost.”
“And yet, here I am.” I lean forward too, mimicking his posture until we are feet apart. “I saved the cat. I took the hit. And I’m still standing. Which is more than I can say for your reputation right now.”
Bishop’s eyes narrow. He hates me. I can feel it rolling off him like heat from a furnace. He hates that I’m here, he hates that I’m seeing him in trouble, and he hates that he noticed my legs.
Good. Hate is a passion. I can work with passion. Indifference is what kills you.
“You think you can handle me, Vance?” he challenges, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble again. “I break sticks. I break bones. I break little things that get in my way.”
I hold his stare. I don’t blink. I let the silence stretch until the air in the room feels tight enough to snap.
“I’m not a stick, Bishop,” I say. “And I don’t break.”
Reggie clears his throat nervously. “So. The plan?”
I don’t look away from Bishop. “The plan is simple. Bishop is going to become America’s Sweetheart. We’re going to rehabilitate his image. Charity events. Hospital visits. And… a relationship.”
Bishop barks out a laugh. “A relationship? With who? Who’s dumb enough to date me?”
I smile then. It’s sharp. It’s the smile of a woman who just realized she holds the winning ticket.
“Me,” I say.
The room goes dead silent.
Bishop stares at me. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. The air between us crackles, thick and heavy.
“You?” he sneers. “You’re not my type. I like women who don’t look like they file their taxes for fun.”
“And I like men who don’t need a leash, but we don’t always get what we want.” I stand up. “It’s a fake relationship, Bishop. We sell a lie. The Beast has been tamed by his prim, proper agent. We fake dates. We fake smiles. We fake a love story that the press will eat up with a spoon.”
“I don’t do fake,” he growls, standing up to meet me. He towers over me again. The heat of him is overwhelming.
“You do if you want to stay in Boston,” I counter, craning my neck. “Unless you want to pack your bags for Arizona? I hear the golf is nice.”
He glares down at me. His chest heaves with a sharp intake of air. He’s furious. trapped.
And he is looking at me like I’m the only goal he’s trying to score.
“Fine,” he spits out. “But don’t expect me to be gentle.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He leans down, his face inches from mine. “One slip up, Vance. One crack in this little armor of yours, and I’ll bench you permanently.”
“Try me.”
He stares at me for a heartbeat longer, his gaze dropping to the pulse fluttering in my throat. Then he pushes past me, storming out of the suite.
Reggie sighs, pouring another drink. “Well. That went better than expected.”
I look at the empty doorway where Bishop Graves had been standing. My skin still prickles where his attention touched it.
I sink back into the chair, my knees shaking just a little.
I lied. I might break. But I’ll make sure he enjoys the show when I do.
Illegal Contact
Iturned the handle.
The heavy oak door to the GM’s office swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a room that smelled of stale coffee, expensive lemon polish, and impending doom.
Reggie Miller sat behind his mahogany desk, looking like a man who’d spent the night fighting a losing battle with a bottle of single malt. His comb-over was defying gravity in the worst way possible. Beside him, Arthur, the PR director, vibrated in his chair, clutching a folder so tight his knuckles were white.
And then there was Bishop Graves.
He didn’t sit. He loomed.
He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the empty practice rink, his back to the room. Even in stillness, he radiated kinetic energy, a coiled spring waiting to snap. The morning light caught the sharp angle of his jaw as he turned, his gaze landing on me like a physical blow.
“You’re late,” Bishop said. No hello. No apology for leaving me in the slush yesterday.
“I’m on time,” I corrected, closing the door. The click of the latch echoed like a gunshot. “You’re early. Anxiety does that to people.”
“I don’t get anxiety, Vance. I get annoyed.” He pushed off the window sill, stalking toward the center of the room. He wore a hoodie today, black, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms roped with veins and ink. A jagged scar ran from his wrist to his elbow—a souvenir from a skate blade, if the rumors were true.
I walked to the empty chair next to Arthur, placing my briefcase on the floor. I ignored the way Bishop tracked my movement, his head tilting slightly, like a wolf deciding which limb to tear off first.
“Sit down, Bishop,” Reggie croaked, rubbing his temples. “My head is pounding.”
“Maybe stop drinking dinner then,” Bishop shot back, but he dropped into the leather chair opposite me. The furniture groaned under his weight. He spread his legs wide, invading my personal space under the table. His knee brushed mine. Hard.
I didn’t move. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
“Let’s make this quick,” I said, pulling the contract from my bag. I slid the thick document across the desk toward him. “The rehabilitation strategy. Phase one.”
Bishop didn’t look at the paper. He stared at me. His pupils were blown, eating up the icy blue of his irises. “I’m not signing that.”
“You haven’t read it.”
“I don’t need to read it to know it’s horseshit. You want me to play house. Pretend I’m some domesticated golden retriever so the league doesn’t suspend me.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, mocking register. “I’m the Butcher, sweetheart. Nobody’s going to believe I’m dating a woman who looks like she irons her socks.”
“People believe what we tell them to believe, provided the packaging is pretty enough,” I said, uncapping my pen. “And I’m very good at packaging.”
“I bet you are.” The words were gritty, layered with a double meaning that made heat prickle under my collar.
Reggie slapped a hand on the desk. “Enough. Graves, look at the other file.”
Bishop glanced at the second folder on the desk. A thin, red folder.
“What is this?”
“Trade papers,” Reggie said. “Arizona implies interest. They need an enforcer. You don’t fix this PR nightmare by Friday, you’re on a plane to Phoenix. I’m done paying fines for your temper tantrums.”
The air left the room.
Arizona. The Coyotes were a graveyard for talent. A team where careers went to die in the desert sun. For a player like Bishop—who thrived on the intense, blue-collar loyalty of Boston—it was a death sentence.
Bishop went still. Deadly still. The muscle used to ticking in his jaw stopped. He looked at the red folder, then at Reggie, and finally, he turned that terrifying, blank stare on me.
“You put him up to this.”
“I provided options,” I said coolly. “Option A: We work together. We stick to the script. We clean up your image, and you stay in Boston chasing a Cup. Option B: You enjoy the dry heat and the golf courses.”
He looked ready to flip the heavy desk. His hands curled into fists on his thighs, the tendons jumping.
“This is blackmail,” he growled.
“This is business,” I countered. “You are an asset, Bishop. Right now, you’re a depreciating one. I’m here to stop the bleeding.”
He laughed, a harsh bark of sound. “You think you can handle me, Vance? You have no idea what you’re signing up for. I’m not a vending machine you can unplug and reset.”
“I handled the kitten, didn’t I?”
Arthur made a small squeaking noise.
Bishop’s eyes narrowed. For a second, the image of him kneeling in the slush, his giant finger stroking the tiny creature’s head, flashed between us. The vulnerability he’d shown for ten seconds yesterday was gone, buried under layers of defensive arrogance.
“The cat’s got nothing to do with this,” he muttered, but the venom in his voice dialed back a notch.
“Read the contract, Bishop.”
He snatched the document from the desk, flipping it open with unnecessary force. Silence stretched, heavy and thick, broken only by the aggressive rustle of paper.
“Clause four,” he read aloud, his voice dripping with disdain. “‘Public Displays of Affection to be enacted at pre-approved events, including but not limited to: hand-holding, prolonged eye contact, and casual physical intimacy.’” He looked up, his lip curling. “Casual physical intimacy? What is that? A butt slap?”
“It means you touch her like you like her,” Arthur piped up, then shrank back when Bishop glared at him.
“It means,” I said, keeping my voice level, “that you don’t look at me like you want to murder me. You put your hand on my back. You lean in when I speak. You sell the chemistry.”
“We have no chemistry.”
“We have friction,” I said. “On camera, friction looks a lot like heat.”
He stared at me, the paper crinkling in his grip. He was evaluating me, dissecting me. I kept my chin high, meeting his challenge dead on. My heart hammered a erratic rhythm against my ribs, but I’d trained for years to smile while my body screamed.
“Clause seven,” he continued, flipping the page. “‘Cohabitation simulation.’ You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“The press is already digging,” I explained. “If we say we’re serious, they’ll expect us to be together. Often. You don’t have to move in, but you need to be seen leaving my apartment. Or me leaving yours. Overnight bags. Morning coffee runs. The domestic routine.”
“My apartment is off-limits,” he snapped. “No suits allowed.”
“Then I guess you’re crash-padding at my place. I have a guest room. And a strict no-shoes policy.”
He snorted. “I bet you have coasters for your coasters.”
“I respect wood. Sue me.”
He read on, his scowl deepening with every paragraph. He hated it. He hated the control I was exerting over his chaotic life. Control was his currency on the ice—he dictated the physical space, he decided who stayed standing. Now, I was the one checking him into the boards.
“And this,” he pointed a thick finger at the final page. “‘The Client agrees to abstain from unauthorized romantic or sexual liaisons for the duration of the contract to preserve the integrity of the narrative.’” He looked up, eyebrows raised. “You’re putting a celibacy clause in here?”
“I’m putting a ‘don’t get caught with your pants down in a club’ clause in there,” I clarified. “If you’re supposed to be madly in love with me, you can’t be seen leaving the venue with a pair of puck bunnies.”
“I don’t do bunnies,” he grunted.
“History suggests otherwise.”
“That was one time in Chicago, and she was a meteorologist.”
“She was twenty-two and posted a picture of your boxers on Twitter, Bishop. Celibacy. Or discretion so tight it might as well be celibacy.”
He leaned back, scrubbing a hand over his face. The roughness of his beard rasped against his palm. He looked tired. Beneath the aggression, beneath the ‘Butcher’ persona, there was a guy who just wanted to play hockey. The desperation to stay in Boston rolled off him in waves.
He looked at the red folder. Then at me.
“If I sign this,” he said, his voice low, intimate despite the audience, “you belong to me. Publicly. You wear my number. You sit in the family box. You deal with the hate mail, the psychos, the press screaming for blood. You’re not just an agent anymore, Vance. You’re property. Puck’s property.”
The phrasing made a shiver race across my skin—not fear, exactly. Something sharper. Anticipation.
“I can handle the heat,” I said. “Can you handle the leash?”
His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped in his cheek. He grabbed Reggie’s pen, the plastic looking fragile in his massive grip.
He didn’t just sign the paper; he attacked it. The pen dug deep into the fibers, leaving a signature that looked more like a threat than a name. Bishop Graves. sharp, angular, frantic.
He shoved the contract back across the desk.
“Done,” he spat. “Now get that red folder out of my face.”
Reggie snatched the trade papers, shoving them into a shredder instantly. The mechanical whir filled the silence.
Bishop stood up. The sudden movement sucked the oxygen out of the room. He walked around the desk, ignoring Reggie, and stopped directly in front of me.
He was too close. Much too close. I had to crane my neck to look him in the eye. He blocked out the light, the room, the rest of the world. All I could smell was that crisp, woodsy scent of him—cedar and aggression.
“You wanted in, Vance,” he murmured, loud enough only for me. He leaned down, his mouth inches from my ear. His breath was warm, a stark contrast to the ice in his tone. “Welcome to the show. But don’t think for a second that a piece of paper makes you the boss of me.”
“The paper says otherwise,” I managed, my voice steady, though my knees felt like water.
“Paper burns,” he whispered. “Remember that.”
He pulled back, giving me one last, searing look—a promise of chaos—and stormed out of the office. The door slammed behind him, rattling the framed photos on the walls.
Arthur let out a long, high-pitched exhaled. “Well. He didn’t throw the vending machine.”
I stared at the closed door, my pulse thumping a frantic beat in my throat.
“No,” I said softly, touching the spot on the contract where the ink of his signature was still wet. “He didn’t.”
I picked up the pen he’d used. It was still warm from his hand.
*
Three Days Later
The charity gala was a battlefield, and I was wearing sequins to war.
The ‘Ice & Fire’ fundraiser was the biggest event on the Boston social calendar. Every player, every wife, every puck bunny with a drive to climb the social ladder was crammed into the ballroom of the Fairmont Copley Plaza.
I adjusted the strap of my dress—a liquid silver slip of a thing that cost more than my first car—and scanned the room.
“Relax,” Arthur whispered from beside me. He looked uncomfortable in his tuxedo, tugging at his collar. “You look great. Like a sexy robot.”
“Thanks, Arthur. You really know how to charm a woman.”
“Where is he?”
“Late,” I checked my phone. “Seven minutes late. If he stands me up, I’m going to kill him, resurrect him, and trade him to Arizona myself.”
A ripple went through the crowd near the entrance. The hum of conversation spiked in volume, heads turning like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
Bishop.
He stood at the top of the grand staircase. And God help me, the man cleaned up nice.
Gone was the hoodie. Gone was the scowl—well, mostly. He wore a tuxedo that fit him like a second skin, cut to accommodate the impossible width of his shoulders. The black fabric strained across his chest, tapering to a trim waist. His hair was tamed, pushed back from his forehead, though a few rebellious strands fell forward.
He looked dangerous. Civilized, but barely. Like a wolf in a velvet collar.
He scanned the room, his gaze predatory. He ignored the reporters shouting his name. He ignored the women preening as he passed. He was hunting.
Then, he saw me.
He froze on the second step. His gaze started at my heels, traveled up the slit in my dress, lingered on the curve of my hip, and finally slammed into my eyes.
The air between us charged with static electricity.
He started down the stairs. He didn’t walk; he prowled. The crowd parted for him. It was Biblical. Moses and the Red Sea, if Moses was six-foot-four and had a reputation for shattering orbital bones.
My mouth went dry. Showtime, Hallie.
He stopped in front of me. Up close, the tuxedo didn’t hide the sheer size of him. He blocked out the chandeliers.
“Vance,” he greeted, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and straight up my legs.
“Graves,” I replied, forcing a smile that felt tight. “You’re late.”
“Traffic.” He didn’t elaborate. His eyes were glued to the neckline of my dress. “You’re… shiny.”
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s an observation. You look like a fishing lure.”
“And you look like a waiter who hit the gym too hard. Shall we?” I extended my hand.
He looked at my hand. Then at the cameras flashing in the periphery.
“Clause four,” I hissed through my teeth. “Casual physical intimacy.”
He sighed, a sound of long-suffering martyrdom. But he took my hand.
His palm was rough, calloused, swallowing mine completely. His skin was hot. A jolt of awareness shot up my arm, settling heavy in my chest. He didn’t just hold my hand; he gripped it. Possessive. Firm.
“Let’s get this over with,” he grumbled, tucking my hand into the crook of his arm. Even through the layers of wool and muscle, I could feel the heat of him.
We navigated the room. It was a gauntlet. Flashing lights. Inane questions.
“Bishop, is it true?”
“Who is she?”
“Hallie, tell us about the relationship!”
Bishop was surprisingly good at it. He didn’t say much, just nodded and offered tight, rare smiles that made the photographers go wild. But his body language was doing all the work. He kept me tucked into his side, his body serving as a shield against the press. Whenever a reporter got too close, Bishop would shift his weight, a subtle threat that backed them off instantly.
It was… nice. Being protected. I wasn’t used to it. I was usually the shield.
“Smile, Vance,” he murmured against my hair as we posed for a photo near the ice sculpture. “You look like you’re calculating the venue’s liability insurance.”
“I am,” I muttered. “That swan is melting. Someone’s going to slip.”
His chest rumbled. A laugh? No, just a vibration.
“Relax. I won’t let you fall.”
The words were throwaway, part of the act, but they hit me in the soft part of my ribs.
“Graves! Over here!”
A photographer from the Boston Globe—a particularly nasty tabloid shark named Lenny—stepped directly into our path. He shoved a lens in Bishop’s face.
“Bishop! Is it true the team forced you into this? Is she just a glorified babysitter to keep you out of the penalty box?”
The air around us froze.
Bishop stopped. His grip on my arm tightened—not painful, but warning.
Lenny didn’t stop. “Come on, Hallie. How much is Reggie paying you to walk the dog?”
I opened my mouth to eviscerate him verbally. I had a retort ready about Lenny’s alimony payments and his receding hairline.
But Bishop moved first.