Page 11 of Second Chance with the Enemy CEO
Once he is gone, silence settles over the house. I take a deep breath, letting the stillness wrap around me. Dropping my bags near the door, I wander to the large windows in the living room. From here, I can see the main house more clearly - the modern glass structure standing proudly against the landscape. It feels alive somehow like it is watching over the estate.
My gaze shifts to the gardens, vibrant with bursts of orange, red, and yellow. The colors of Autumn Cove have always been magical, a kaleidoscope of warmth. I close my eyes, letting the memories trickle in - afternoons spent walking through the streets, the laughter of my friends after pranking old man Goldman, and…
I shake my head, snapping myself out of it. “No time for that,” I mutter, moving to unpack. After about two hours, I collapse onto the plush couch, sinking into the cushions with a sigh. My gaze drifts to the ceiling.
I pull out my phone and text my best friends, “I have a surprise for you,” I type, smiling faintly at the thought of their faces when I surprise them. They will be at Grace’s house since it is her turn to host the weekly Monday evening hangouts.
But for now, it is just me and this house. I light a candle - lavender and cedarwood, and start a playlist on my Spotify, sinking back into the couch. The hum of the estate surrounds me, faint and soothing. The world outside these walls feels like it is holding its breath, waiting for me to step out and face it.
Tomorrow, I tell myself. Tomorrow.
Chapter four
Liam
The sting of the puck hitting my stick reverberates up my arm as I dig in, racing toward the goal. My skates carve hard into the ice; my focus lasered on the movement ahead. McAllister’s got the puck, zigzagging through the defense, but he hesitates. He is holding too long.
“Move it!” I shout, my voice sharp, demanding.
Startled, he flicks the puck my way. Too late. The defense sweeps in, stealing it with ease.
“Dammit, Mac!”
I am already skating back, fast, and furious, closing the gap to block the shot. My stick meets the puck with a satisfying crack, sending it toward Matt on the left wing. He pivots but gets swarmed by the defense.
I call for the pass, slapping my stick against the ice. Matt hesitates for half a second because there is no opening, so he passes it to Sam, who sends it my way, and I’m already in motion.
My skates slice through the surface, the rhythm of my strides pounding in sync with the pulse in my ears. The puck glidesahead of me, my stick guiding it like a magnet. A player closes in, and I twist, dragging the puck back before flicking it between his legs. He curses, spinning too late.
There is no time to think, no room for error. Just instinct.
Another defender blocks my path to the net. I fake left, shifting my weight to trick him, then cut right. He falls for it, lunging in the wrong direction.
“Finish it, Liam!” Ryker shouts from behind me.
My stick finds the puck again, and with a sharp wrist flick, I send it flying. The slap of the puck hitting the top corner of the net is like music to my ears.
The horn blares, echoing through the empty arena.
“Hell yeah!” Ryker whoops, clapping me hard on the shoulder as we circle back. The coach blows the whistle, signaling the end of the session. My chest heaves as I peel off my helmet, the frigid air biting at my sweat-soaked hair. With the way I am playing, one would doubt if this was practice. Yes, it is, but to me, every pass, every shot, every pivot has weight. The bottom line is that I like to win, during practice and in real games.
A few minutes later, we are all huddled in the center of the rink, sweat dripping, breathing hard. Coach Mark stands before us, arms crossed, his clipboard tucked under one arm like he is holding back from throwing it.
“Now, I do not know what happened to you folks at first. If you want to play like a bunch of amateurs, that is fine. But do not expect me to put up with it.”
“We’re sorry, Coach,” we chorus.
He moves on to yelling at the defense. “On the plus side, you did good. That’s what I wanna see - speed, precision, aggression! Your timing on the breakaway has to be on point. Well played.”
“Thanks Coach,” we chorus.
Coach’s whistle pierces the air. “All right, that is enough for today! Hit the showers! Y’all stink.”
I roll my eyes but cannot suppress a small smirk as I unbuckle my helmet and skate toward the bench. Matt and Logan fall into step beside me, their sticks slung over their shoulders.
I roll my eyes, already removing my gloves. The laughter ripples through the team as we shuffle off the ice. My legs feel like lead, but it is a satisfying kind of ache, the kind that says you’ve earned your rest.
Matt and Logan fall into step beside me, their sticks slung over their shoulders.
