Page 9 of Second Chance with the Enemy CEO
I raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t I just talk to you ten minutes ago?”
“What can I say, I missed you. I could hardly function without you here,” he says, leaning in.
“Buzz off…!” I push him off me.
“Meanie”
“Goal fumbler,” I retort, smirking.
“Ouch,” Logan winces dramatically, clutching his chest. “You’ve been here all of thirty seconds, and you’re already roasting me.”
The rest of the guys chuckle.
“Hey, where’s Matt?”
“Something came up. We will talk about that later,” Logan says, making me raise my eyebrow because this is unlike Matt.
“Alright, alright,” Coach interrupts, blowing his whistle. “Let me see some hustle. Laps, now.”
We fall into formation and push off into our first lap, the sound of skates slicing through ice ringing in my ears. The chill air hits my face, sharp and invigorating, and for a moment, it all clicks into place.
This…, this is why I love the game. The simplicity of the movement, the adrenaline of pushing my limits, the rhythm of the ice beneath my feet. It is raw, unfiltered, pure.
As I round the corner, Logan catches up, grinning over at me. “Feeling slow today, Callahan?”
I shake my head, picking up my pace. “Keep up, rookie.”
He laughs, but I do not miss the competitive glint in his eye as he surges forward, and just like that, it’s game on. Out here, nothing else matters - not the launch, not the endless responsibilities. Just the ice and the game.
Chapter three
Hazel
The hum of voices, the occasional crackle of the loudspeaker, and the faint smell of jet fuel mixed with the cooler scent of fall envelop me as I step off the plane at Bayfield Regional Airport. It is not the sprawling chaos of a major city terminal - far from it - but the small-town charm of the airport feels both welcoming and unnerving. It is quaint and efficient.
I am not in Autumn Cove yet. Bayfield Regional Airport is the closest I can get, and from here, it is a nearly two-hour-long drive into town.
I roll my suitcase past a family of four, trying to wrestle with an overstuffed stroller, and glance around at the simple layout of the terminal. The exit is already in view - no sprawling corridors, no endless lines of gates, just a straight shot to the doors. The cab stand is easy to spot; I mean, who would miss a line of yellow and black cars idly parked while their drivers check their phones or chat amongst themselves?
And guess who didn’t order or book a ride? Me, the genius. Oh well… I slide into the back of a clean black sedan, and the driver glances at me through the rearview mirror.
“Where to, miss?” He asks, his tone friendly but neutral.
“Autumn Cove,” I reply, my voice quieter than I intended.
He nods and pulls out of the lot, merging onto a two-lane road that stretches endlessly ahead. After 30 minutes, the scenery begins to change, urban sprawl giving way to rolling hills, the occasional farmhouse breaking up the endless expanse of amber fields. It is peaceful, too peaceful. I lean my head against the window and watch as the world rushes past, the weight of what I am headed into is starting to sink in.
The cab slows as we enter Autumn Cove, the tires crunching over gravel as the town’s familiar streets unfold in front of me. It has been years, yet the sights are both comforting and unnervingly bittersweet. My chest tightens as I catch glimpses of the past - the bakery where I’d spend hours with friends, the bookstore I worked at, and the looming shadows of memories I thought I’d left behind. Some buildings have changed, newer storefronts replacing the old, but the essence of the town remains untouched.
The sky is painted in hues of amber and gold, a perfect reflection of the season. There is a faint chill in the breeze, carrying with it the scent of fallen leaves and earth - quintessential Autumn Cove. The nostalgia hits me unexpectedly, wrapping around my chest. This air, this town…, it is like coming home and walking into a memory at the same time.
I force myself to breathe. This is temporary, Hazel, I remind myself. Temporary. Just six months. You can do this.
The cab driver glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Almost there, miss.”
I nod, clutching the strap of my bag like it is a lifeline. “Please, drop me off at this address,” calling out the address to him. My stomach churns, part nerves, part exhaustion.
As we turn down a quieter road lined with towering oaks, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease. My driver points ahead. “That must be it,” he says, nodding toward a sleek modern estate framed by lush greenery.
