Page 10 of One Pucking Secret
Chloe sits, silent and inscrutable, her pen tapping against the notepad like the ticking of an impatient clock.
“Okay,” Chloe finally says. “We’re giving you the benefit of the doubt, Mr. Banks. But we can’t ignore the optics of this situation.”
“Mr. Banks, Miss Reed will work with you directly on your public image,” Janelle says, gesturing toward Chloe. “She’s our Accounts Director and the best in our department. I couldn’t imagine a better person to take your account.”
The Knights are underdogs. We fight tooth and nail for every scrap of respect and bad press is a luxury we can’t afford.
Mark quickly jumps in. “We’re willing to do whatever it takes,” he assures her. “Right, Wyatt?” His gaze turns to me, expecting agreement.
I nod, forcing a tight smile. “Yeah, whatever it takes,” I say, the words feeling heavier than they should. I’m not thrilled about it, but I know I don’t have much of a choice.
“I think the first order of business will be to release a statement refuting Miss Sonia Drake’s claims as false,” Chloe adds. “Since it’s clear Mr. Banks wouldn’t do something like—” she starts, and her alert eyes quickly dart to mine.
I knew it. She knows exactly who I am.
But what surprises me is how determined she is not to acknowledge it. Maybe I deserve it. Seeing her now, pretending like there’s no history between us, stings more than I expected.
Chloe clears her throat. “I mean, since we have several witnesses who can confirm Mr. Banks’s side of the story.”
Despite the odd satisfaction coursing through me, hearing Sonia’s name still casts a dark cloud over my mood. It’s become a digital ghost haunting me with texts and calls I have no intention of answering. It’s been a month since I donned the Knights’ jersey, a month of dodging the past that clings to me like ice shavings to skates.
“Focus, Wyatt.” Zach’s hushed tone snaps me back. His green eyes are steady under the overhead lights, a lighthouse in the tempest that is this meeting. He knows me—understands the walls I’ve built after too many goodbyes, too many trades thathave turned teammates into temporary companions. But he’s different. He’s family, and not just because we share the ice.
“… once we sort that out, this kind of damage requires the most effort on the client’s part, which means Mr. Banks is going to have to step up his game…” Chloe explains to Mark and Zach, but my attention starts to drift again. Her words blend into the background as my mind wanders.
Mark turns to me. “Anything to add, Wyatt?”
“No. As I said before, I’ll do whatever needs to be done.”
Chloe nods. “That’s good enough for me. This will work most smoothly with cooperation.”
As the meeting wraps up, the atmosphere shifts from tense to a less formal conclusion. Zach and Mark stand, joining Chloe in a moment of cordial professionalism. They offer their thanks to her, acknowledging the challenging task ahead. Their movements are swift and purposeful, a clear signal that the official part of the meeting is over. Then, one by one, they exit the room.
“Stay back a moment, will you?” My voice is low, but it cuts through the dissipating hum of conversation as the room empties.
Chloe pauses, her fingers brushing a stray lock of auburn hair behind her ear, an unconscious tell that betrays her composure. She nods, feigning indifference, but I see the slightest crease in her brow.
“Alright,” she concedes, her tone professional, but cool. The door clicks shut behind Janelle and Mark, who are the last to leave. A sudden stillness envelops us—a calm before the storm I’m about to unleash.
“Cut the act,” I say, stepping closer. “You remember me.” It’s not a question. It’s a fact etched into my memory.
She stands her ground, though her eyes flicker, betraying the crack in her armor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Chloe replies, but her voice wavers like a poorly tuned violin.
“Come on, Chloe.” I lean in, close enough to catch the scent of her—vanilla and something wild, like a forest after rain. “We both know you’re a terrible liar.”
Her green eyes hold mine, a storm brewing within them, and I swear I see the ghost of that night reflected back at me. “Mr. Banks, this isn’t professional—” she starts, but I don’t let her finish.
“That night,” I cut her off, “it’s not something you forget.”
For a heartbeat, her breath hitches, and I think she might cave. But then she plants her palms against my chest and shoves, not hard, but enough to put distance between us.
“If it was so memorable, I’d remember,” she says, her voice steady now, though the slight tremble in her hands betrays her.
“Fine. Believe what you want,” I reply, stepping back, respecting her fortress of denial—for now. But I can see it in her eyes, the truth flickering beneath the surface, no matter how hard she tries to bury it.
“Let’s just focus on fixing your image,” she says, reclaiming her poise. “Image rehab tour, got it?”
“Image rehab tour,” I repeat. “Got it.” But as she gathers her things, refusing to meet my gaze, I silently vow to myself—I’m not letting her pretend forever. I’ll make her acknowledge our connection, even if it’s the last thing I do.
