Page 7 of On Ice

My footsteps echo through the empty corridor as I make my way to the owner’s box. The arena feels different after a game, hollow somehow, with just the lingering energy of fifteen thousand fans still vibrating in the air. My dress shoes click against the polished concrete, each step bringing me closer to a meeting I have no interest in.

Sofia walks beside me, her heels creating a rhythmic counterpoint to my steps. She’s unusually quiet, focused on tapping away at her phone. When we reach the private elevator, she finally looks up.

Taking advantage of her attention at last, I ask, “So, who is this guy?”

Her gaze flickers. “Mr. Luca Barone purchased the team two months ago.” Her voice is carefully neutral. “The announcement goes public tomorrow morning.”

Luca Barone. The name tickles something in the back of my mind, but I can’t place it. At least I finally have a name though. “What happened to the Silicon Valley group that was interested?”

“Fell through.” She lifts her chin. “But Mr. Barone’s offer was... very generous. He seems to value you guys more than the Silicon Valley group ever did.”

There’s that tone again, like she’s choosing her words with unusual care. Before I can ask what she means, the elevatorarrives at the executive level. The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding. We step out into a corridor that is all dark wood and subtle lighting, a stark contrast to the utilitarian concrete below.

Two men in suits stand outside the owner’s box. They’re trying to look casual, but I’ve been around hockey long enough to recognize security when I see it. Their eyes track our movement as we approach, and I notice the slight bulge of shoulder holsters under their jackets. What kind of owner needs armed guards at a hockey game?

The guards open the double doors, and we step into the owner’s box. The room still has the same dated décor I’m familiar with. It’s as if time stood still inside the room. There are photos of previous team members on the faux paneled walls, and tarnished trophies from past victories on the shelves behind the TV. Judging by how slick the guy at the window looks in his fancy suit, I’m guessing the place will likely get a makeover. Musty orange shag carpeting and trophies he had no hand in winning probably aren’t his style.

“Mr. Barone, this is Evan Riley, the captain of the team.” Sofia makes the introductions in an overly bright voice. She’s definitely on edge. I’ve never seen her like this, and her nerves are making mine worse.

Luca Barone doesn’t turn around immediately. He continues to stand with his back to us as he gazes down at the empty rink. He’s tall, maybe an inch or two taller than my six-two, with broad shoulders that his clearly expensive suit does nothing to hide. When he finally turns, our eyes meet, and I suddenly understand why Sofia’s been acting strange. There’s something almost feral about him, from his sharp jawline to the calculating intelligence in his dark gray eyes.

“Captain Riley.” His voice is deep, and he crosses the room with fluid grace, extending his hand. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

His grip is firm, and his hand is warm against mine. Up close, he’s even more striking. He has olive skin, dark hair styled perfectly, and eyes that seem to see right through me. His cologne is a very masculine scent that’s a mix of smoky cedarwood and rich leather. I can’t tell if he’s older than me or not, but he carries himself with the kind of confidence that makes age irrelevant.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Barone.” I hope I sound confident. I don’t feel confident. I feel a bit like a kid meeting the principal. This man will have complete control over my hockey future for now. If he takes an instant dislike to me, contract or no contract, he could do things that would force me off the team.

But he doesn’t seem to dislike me on sight. In fact, he smiles and something in my chest tightens. A chill runs up my spine, but also a hot sensation flutters over my skin. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, but it is disconcerting. I’ve never felt anything quite like the heated rush shifting through me.

“That last goal was impressive,” he says quietly.

His compliment is like warm honey seeping into every pore in my body. Why praise from this man I don’t know affects me so much, I’m not sure. But it does. I instantly feel on top of the world. I stifle what would no doubt be a goofy smile, and fall back on captain-speak. “The team’s been working hard,” I say. “We’ve had a rough few months, but the guys never quit.”

“I’m happy to hear it. I don’t like quitters.” He gestures to the chairs. “Take a seat. Can I offer you a drink? The owner’s boxmight look like a relic from the 70s, but the scotch behind the bar isn’t bad.”

I should say no. I’ve already had some champagne in the locker room, celebrating with the team, and I plan on drinking later with the guys. But something about the way he’s looking at me makes me want to dull my nerves with booze.

“Sure, thank you.”

He turns to Sofia. “Would you like to stay?” His tone makes it clear he doesn’t expect her to, and she takes the hint.

“Oh, no, thank you. I have a million things to take care of.” She smiles and moves to the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow, Evan. Congrats on the win tonight.”

“Thanks.” I smile, almost sad to see her go. With her here she created a little buffer, but now it will just be me and my gorgeous new boss.

Once Sofia is gone, he pours two glasses from a crystal decanter. When he hands me mine, our fingers brush, and I feel that contact all the way up my arm. I feel stupid for having such a visceral reaction to my new boss, but I can’t seem to help it. There’s just something about him that really gets to me.

“I understand you’ve been captain for three years now?” He sits across from me, one leg crossed over the other, completely at ease. Meanwhile, I’m having an internal meltdown.

“That’s right.” The scotch isn’t bad, just like he said. It’s smooth and complex, and I take another sip to buy time before having to speak. “Started playing for Seabrooke right out of juniors.”

“And you’re from Minnesota originally?” At my surprised look, he smiles again. “I like to know everything about my investments. Especially the important ones, Evan.”

The way he says my name makes my cheeks warm, and I’m grateful for the dim lighting. “Uh, yeah. I’m from a small town in Minnesota. Hockey’s a religion there.”

“Are you a religious man, Evan?” My name rolls off his tongue like he’s tasting it.

“Not particularly, no.”

---