Page 32 of Second Chance with the Enemy CEO
Matt ignores him, his eyes still on me. “I just want to know. I have been curious. I know you have been curious. Hell, almost everyone in town was, and is curious to know why she left for no reason back then.”
I shrug, my smile fading slightly. “I do not see how that is any of your business. But if you must know, what more did I have to do with a town that harbored people who gave me nothing but pain and heartache?”
Matt’s brows furrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s in the past now,” I say, my voice firm.
He exhales, his gaze steady. “Listen to me and listen very carefully. If you are back to get involved with Liam again…”
I cut him off with a sharp look, my voice steady and unflinching. “Let me make this truly clear, Matt.Do not mistake my return for interest. I do not want anything to do with Liam. That ship sank to the bottom of the ocean five years ago and there it will remain. I am not here for Liam, and I repeat, have no intention of being involved with him. Not now. Not ever.”
Logan nudges Matt again, muttering, “Drop it, man.”
Matt’s mouth opens like he wants to press further, but the sharp blast of a whistle cuts through the air. The players start moving into formation on the ice, and I take the opportunity to step away.
“It was nice seeing you both again,” I say, my tone dismissive as I sling my camera strap over my shoulder. Without waiting for a response, I turn and walk toward the edge of the rink without a backward glance.
****
The rink comes alive with energy as the team skates onto the ice. The sharp sound of blades cutting into the ice and the smack of pucks against sticks echo around the space, blending with the low murmur of voices. I adjust the strap of my camera and take a deep breath, my chest buzzing with excitement.
This is what I love - capturing raw moments, freezing them in time. I crouch near the scoreboard, angling my lens to get a wide shot of the players as they circle the rink in a warm-up drill. The crispness of the ice, the motion blur of their movements, the intensity etched into their expressions - it is all so thrilling to document.
I snap off a few shots, checking the screen after each one. The lighting is perfect, and the shadows are dramatic but not overwhelming. I peer through my lens, focusing on the players as they weave and dart across the ice. Liam is in the center of it all, commanding the space with an ease that is as infuriating as it is impressive. My goal is to capture the raw intensity of it all -the focus in their eyes, the spray of ice when they stop, the crack of a perfectly timed shot.
I aim toward Liam, hoping to catch a candid moment, but he turns his back at the exact second I click the shutter.
“Okay,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting my position.
I am waiting for another opening. He speeds past me handling the puck like a pro. I raise the lens. Just as I am about to capture the shot, he veers left, completely out of frame.
My jaw tightens.
I try again, tracking him as he maneuvers through a drill, but he dodges left just as I snap another shot. The camera beeps in protest - empty frame. My jaw tightens, but I take a steadying breath. I shift my focus to another player, framing a beautiful shot of James mid-strike.
Boy, is he good!.
I track Liam again, and he stops near the goal, breathing hard. The lighting is perfect. I center the shot, press the shutter….
He pulls his helmet down lower, obscuring his face.
I exhale slowly, my fingers tightening around the camera. Every time I pan toward him, he deliberately shifts or turns, almost as if he is playing a game of dodge-the-lens. This goeson for a while, and I give up on him and capture other team members.
Fifteen minutes later, the whistle blows for a break, and players glide to the bench. I stride over to where Liam is leaning against the boards, water bottle in hand. His jersey is damp with sweat, and the hair curling at the base of his neck looks annoyingly good for someone being so difficult. The moment he sees me coming, his eyes harden.
“Mr. Callahan, we need to talk,” I stopped right in front of him, arms crossed.
He glances at me, one brow lifting in a subtle challenge. “Yes, Miss McKee?”
My lips press into a thin line before I speak. “You wanna tell me what your problem is?”
He lowers the bottle, capping it slowly like he has got all the time in the world. His eyes sweep over me, lingering just long enough to make my stomach flip. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play dumb,” I snap, stepping closer despite myself. His clean, sharp scent - a mix of sweat and something distinctly Liam - hits me, and I clench my jaw to stay focused. “You know exactly what I am talking about. Listen, my job here is to capture the team in action - a team in which, last time that I checked, you are a key player. I need some shots of you, Callahan. Not your back, not the side of your helmet.You." I jab a finger toward his chest. “I know you are dodging my shots on purpose. So, how about we agree to some level of cooperation here, huh? ”
He tilts his head, wiping sweat from his jaw with his sleeve. “Didn’t realize you needed me to make you good at your job.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
