Puking My Hockey Rival

Chapter 12

POV: Sienna Vale

I had done my research before I agreed to anything. That was the first thing people always underestimated about me. The smile, the lifestyle content, the carefully curated aesthetic of someone who made everything look effortless. People looked at all of that and decided I was decorative. It was one of the most useful misunderstandings of my life.

I knew who Luca Devereaux was before Diane Marsh called me. I knew his stats, his public image, his sponsorship portfolio, and the specific narrative problem currently attached to his name. I had watched the exhibition game clip three times, not because I was curious about the gossip but because I wanted to understand exactly what I was being asked to walk into.

The arrangement made sense for both of us. My partnership deal with Vertex Sports Nutrition was contingent on demonstrating meaningful reach in the professional sports space. Two appearances alongside one of the NHL's most recognizable captains would do more for that metric than six months of organic content. Clean, professional, mutually beneficial.

I told myself that was the whole story. Then I walked into the Harmon Foundation gala and saw him in person for the first time.

++

He was standing near the entrance when I arrived, talking to a man in a grey suit who was clearly someone important because Luca was giving him the version of his attention that looked complete but was not. I recognized the performance because I gave the same one regularly. Present enough to satisfy, reserved enough to protect.

He turned when the event coordinator brought me over and for one unguarded second, before the professional courtesy settled over his face, I saw him actually look at me. Not with interest. With assessment. He was reading the room the same way I was, measuring what this moment would cost and what it would return.

I respected that immediately.

"Sienna." He extended his hand. Firm grip, brief, appropriate. "Thank you for coming."

"Of course." I smiled the smile that photographed well and held his gaze. "You clean up nicely for someone who spent last week on the ice."

Something shifted in his expression. A fraction of surprise, quickly managed. He had expected the polished version, the performance. The directness had caught him slightly off guard.

Good. I preferred even footing.

"Diane mentioned you were straightforward," he said.

"Diane was being diplomatic." I accepted a glass of water from a passing server. "I'm blunt. There's a difference."

The corner of his mouth moved. Not quite a smile but the shape of one. "I can work with blunt."

"I know," I said. "That's why I agreed to this."

We moved into the room together and I watched him work it. That was the only word that fit. He moved through the crowd with a controlled ease that was genuinely impressive, remembering names, asking specific questions, making each person feel briefly like the most important person in the room. It was not fake. That was the interesting part. He actually cared about some of it, I could see the difference, could see the moments when his attention became real rather than performed.

He was more compelling in person than in photographs. I noted that the way I noted everything, filed it carefully, kept it from showing on my face.

We were photographed twice in the first hour without anyone asking us to pose. That was the art of this kind of arrangement. Make it look ambient. Make it look like two people who simply ended up in the same frame because they were naturally drawn to the same spaces.

I was good at this. So was he, We were standing near the far windows during a lull between introductions when I noticed it for the first time.

His eyes moved.

It was subtle. A shift of focus, brief and controlled, directed across the room toward the far entrance where a new group had just arrived. I tracked it the way I tracked everything, with the peripheral precision of a woman who had learned early that what people looked at when they thought no one was watching told you more than anything they said.

I turned my head just enough. The Boston Bruins had arrived as a group, league charity initiative, four players and a team liaison in coordinated event wear. They were moving through the entrance with the comfortable authority of professional athletes who attended these things regularly.

My eyes found the man in front almost immediately.

Dark hair. Measured walk. The particular kind of stillness that certain people carry, the kind that makes a crowded room arrange itself around them without them asking.

Ronan Calloway.

I had seen him in footage. I had read the social media commentary. I had looked at the corridor photograph that Diane had shown me as context for what she was managing.

None of it had quite prepared me for the way Luca went still beside me. It was not obvious. If I had not been watching him as carefully as I had been watching him all evening, I would have missed it entirely. A barely perceptible change in his breathing. The way his grip on his glass shifted by a fraction. The angle of his jaw, held just slightly too steady, the way a person holds something when they are making sure it does not move.

Ronan moved through the entrance and spoke to someone near the door and did not look across the room.

Luca looked away first.

"You know him well?" I asked. Conversational, light, the tone I used when I wanted an honest answer and did not want the person to know I was asking for one.

"We play against each other," Luca said. "Rivalry comes with the position."

"Right," I said.

I took a sip of my water and looked back toward the entrance where Ronan was now shaking hands with the foundation director.

Rivalry, professional. Come with the position. I had interviewed enough interesting people and read enough rooms to know the difference between a man describing a professional relationship and a man describing the most complicated thing currently happening in his life while using the most boring words he could find.

I filed it away.

All of it. The stillness, the shifted grip, the jaw held too carefully, the eyes that had moved across a crowded room and found one specific person before Luca had made any visible decision to look.

I smiled at something the woman beside me said and made a mental note and kept watching. I was very good at watching.