SECOND CHANCE WITH MY POSSESSIVE BILLIONAIRE CAPTAIN

NADIA The practice rink smelled exactly the way I remembered it, cold metal and old rubber, and I hated that my body recognized it before my mind caught up. I had covered dozens of athletes in five years at this network. None of them had ever made my hands shake before a single word left my mouth. "Let's stay focused," I reminded myself more than anyone, flipping open my notebook as the red light on the camera blinked to life. "Rolling," my cameraman confirmed. "Captain Donovan." I kept my eyes on my notes instead of his face. "Your team is three wins from the championship. What changed this season?" Grayson leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over a chest that used to fit against mine on cold nights I refused to think about right now. "Discipline," he said. "Consistency." "Last season, critics called your leadership inconsistent. What do you say to that now?" A faint smirk. "Critics talk. We win." I pressed on, steady. "There are reports of tension inside the locker room after last week's game. Is that going to affect the team going into the finals?" His gaze sharpened instantly. "Who told you that?" "I'm asking the questions." "Next question." "You didn't deny it." "I also didn't confirm it." His eyes held mine a beat too long. "You used to be better at reading a room than that." "I'm not here to read a room, Captain Donovan. I'm here to do my job." "Right," he said quietly. "Your job." I flipped my page, jaw tight. "Twenty-two goals this season, league leading, but analysts say you're playing more aggressively than usual. Taking risks you didn't used to take." I looked up. "Why now?" He laughed, low, not amused at all. "Why did you leave?" The studio lights suddenly felt too warm. That wasn't on my list. "That's not relevant to this interview," I said quietly. "Five years," he said, like he hadn't heard me at all. "And that's how you open with me? Hockey?" "Please. Can we get back to the actual interview?" "That is the actual interview," he murmured. Someone cleared their throat behind the camera. I flipped to my last page, desperate to end this. "Final question. You're heading into the biggest games of your career. What happens if you lose?" He reached forward, not for me, just to adjust the microphone clipped too close to my collar. His fingers grazed my skin anyway. I hated that my breath caught. He noticed. Of course he noticed. "I can't lose," he started, low and certain, and then a man rushed up behind him, whispering something urgent into his ear. Whatever it was, it drained the color from Grayson's face. "We're done here." He stood so fast his chair nearly toppled, and he was gone before I could ask a single follow up question. I met Camille at the coffee shop on the corner an hour later, still rattled in a way I refused to name. "So?" She leaned forward the second I sat down. "Tell me everything." I hesitated, which was answer enough. "Don't tell me you saw him," she said slowly. "I did." She squealed loud enough that two strangers turned around. "Camille." "Sorry." She pressed her lips together, clearly not sorry. "Wait, Grayson Grayson? After five years, and your first real conversation is a camera between you?" "I don't know how it went. I didn't really look at him. I had a job to do." "You're dodging." "I'm not." "You so are." Her voice softened. "Are you okay?" I turned my cup in slow circles on the table instead of answering right away. "He asked why I left. On camera. Like the last five years were just a footnote he wanted cleared up before the next segment." "What did you say?" "Nothing. Someone interrupted before I had to figure it out." "Lucky." "It didn't feel lucky. It felt like he already knew the answer and wanted to watch me try to give a different one." "I didn't have a choice. It's my assignment." "After everything, you're just fine standing in front of him like nothing happened?" Nothing about it had felt fine. Not his voice, not the way his eyes stayed on me even when the camera wasn't rolling. I said none of that. "Be honest," Camille said. "You feel something, don't you?" "No." "Five years, Nadia. That's insane." "Yeah," I admitted quietly, staring into my cup. "It really is." The newsroom was louder than usual when I got back, phones ringing, keyboards clattering, my name called the second I walked through the door. "Nadia. My office." I stepped inside Callahan's glass box of an office and felt the temperature drop immediately. Two senior reporters sat off to the side, watching like they already knew something I didn't. "Sit," Callahan said, not looking up from his screen. I sat. "Four years you've been here," he said. "Still in the same position." "I've been waiting for the next promotion cycle." One of the reporters scoffed under his breath. Callahan finally looked at me. "Let me be honest. We're not seeing growth." "That's not true, my last three pieces performed well above average." "We're not talking performance. We're talking impact." He tapped the folder on his desk. "Captain Grayson Donovan." My stomach dropped, but I kept my face still. "That interview today wasn't an interview," he continued. "You sat across from one of the biggest names in the league and gave us nothing new." "No insight," one of the reporters added. "No angle." "I asked professional questions." "And he gave you professional answers, which means you didn't push far enough." Callahan slid a second folder across the desk. "This is your new assignment. Full coverage. Training. Off field behavior. Team dynamics. Anything he's hiding, we find it." "That's not journalism," I said quietly. "No? Then what is it?" Nobody answered. "You want that promotion, Nadia? Then earn it. As of today, you're leading the Donovan coverage unit." My chest tightened. "Leading what, exactly?" "Get close to him. Get him to trust you. Find something nobody else has, and you finally move forward in this company." He smiled, and it did not reach his eyes. "I already know the two of you have history, by the way. Don't think that slipped past me. That's exactly why you're the right person for this." "That's exactly why I shouldn't be the one doing this." "Or it's exactly why nobody else could." Callahan leaned back, folding his hands over the folder like the decision had already been made without me. "You know how he thinks. You know what makes him talk and what makes him shut down. That's not a conflict of interest, Nadia. That's an advantage. Most reporters would kill for it." "Most reporters didn't have to watch him walk away." "Then use that. Whatever it takes." I stood, unsteady, and turned to leave before he could see my face. "Oh, and Nadia," Callahan called after me, not even glancing up. "You don't get to fail this one. Especially if you still love this job." I stopped in the doorway, my hand tightening on the frame, wondering exactly how much he actually knew, and how he had found out at all. Five years ago, I had left Grayson Donovan without a word of explanation, packed a bag while he was at practice, and told myself it was the only way either of us would survive it. Nobody at this network knew that. I had scrubbed every trace of him out of my life, fast and thorough, never once looking too closely at what was left underneath. Somehow, Callahan had found it anyway. I walked back to my desk on legs that did not quite feel like mine and stared at the folder without opening it. Inside would be his practice schedule, his travel itinerary, a dozen names of people close enough to him to talk if I asked the right questions. I had built a career on asking the right questions. I had never once had to ask them of a man I used to love enough to leave.