One Wild Night With The Three Hockey Demi-Gods

Chapter 4

SLOANE

My thumb hovered over the screen. I locked the phone and shoved it deep into my pocket, pressing my forehead against the cold window glass as the city blurred past.

Two weeks passed in a dizzying blur of terror and unspoken want.

I learned fast that staying away from them was an impossible lie. Every corridor in the Halcyon Hawks' arena felt too narrow. Every door I opened felt like a trap.

Rhett was the captain, professional and distant whenever staff were around. But his texts came at 2:00 a.m.

“Are you awake?”

“Did you eat today?”

“Don’t stand near the ice during practice. The wind is too cold for you.”

Maddox picked three fights with me in the ice rink hallway in eight days.

“You’re standing in the way of the weight room, Little Mercer,” he barked on Tuesday, slamming his water bottle onto the bench right next to my hip.

“The hallway is eight feet wide, Maddox,” I said, refusing to back down, though my heart was hammering against my ribs.

“Not wide enough for your ego,” he grinned, leaning in close enough for me to smell his body wash, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “You’re still wearing that perfume. The one that smells like vanilla and trouble.”

“Move, Keane.”

“Make me,” he taunted, his eyes dropping to my lips before he finally smirked and walked away.

And then there was Jules.

He didn’t fight, and he didn’t text late at night. Instead, he waited for me near the back exit , holding an extra cup of black coffee.

“I didn’t tell him,” Jules said quietly on Friday as we stood under the narrow awning, watching the water pour off the roof.

“Tell who?” I asked, taking the warm cup from his hands.

“Your father,” Jules said, his dark eyes fixed on the rain. “Seven years ago. When he traded me to the minor league affiliate in Maine… I didn’t push back because I thought it would protect you. I thought if I stayed away, he wouldn’t ruin your life too.”

“Jules, you disappeared,” I whispered, the old pain flaring up in my chest. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“I was eighteen, Sloane,” he said softly, his fingers brushing against mine over the paper coffee cup. “I was scared. I made a mistake. I’ve hated myself every day since.”

Before I could answer, a shadow fell over us, and Jules stepped back into the dark corridor, vanishing before anyone saw us together.

“Pay attention, everyone.”

My father’s deep, booming voice cut through the chatter of the main conference room and snapped me back to reality.

Damon Mercer stood at the head of the long glass table, surrounded by the team’s upper management, coaches, and key staff. I stood in the back corner, near the frosted doors, trying to blend into the wallpaper. Rhett, Maddox, and Jules sat along the right side of the table in their formal team blazers, looking tight and stiff.

“As you all know, our previous player-relations director resigned last month,” Damon said, his hands resting flat on the polished wood. “We need someone who understands the culture of this team. Someone who knows the rules, knows the stakes, and cannot be bought or manipulated by outside press.”

I froze. A cold spike of dread hit my stomach.

“Sloane,” my father said, turning his harsh blue eyes straight toward me.

Every head in the room turned.

“Dad, what—” I started, my breath catching in my throat.

“Effective today,” Damon cut me off, his voiceloud, “my daughter, Sloane Mercer, will be taking over as Director of Player Relations.”

A quiet murmur rippled through the room.

“She will manage player scheduling, personal affairs, public appearances, and locker room discipline,” Damon continued, stepping around the table toward me. “She has direct authority over the roster’s off-ice conduct. If any player has an issue, they go through her.”

I couldn’t breathe. I looked past my father’s shoulder at the long table.

Rhett’s face was completely blank—the perfect mask of a team captain. But his gray eyes were burning, locked onto mine with an intensity that made my skin prickle.

Maddox’s jaw flexed hard, his knuckles turning white as he gripped his pen so tightly I thought the plastic would snap in half.

Jules sat frozen, his mouth slightly open, looking at me like someone had just handed him bad news.

“Congratulations, Sloane,” Vera, the head PR manager, said with a tight smile from the middle of the table. “Working closely with the players every single day… what a wonderful opportunity for you.”

“Thank you, Vera,” I managed to say, my hands shaking behind my back.

“Meeting adjourned,” Damon announced, clapping his hands once.

The room erupted into movement. Chairs scraped back. Staff members began filing out, tossing polite congratulations my way as they passed.

Rhett stood up slowly. He adjusted his tie, walked past my father, and stopped right in front of me.

“Director Mercer,” Rhett said, his voice smooth, formal, and entirely devoid of emotion for the benefit of the room. “Looking forward to working with you.”

“Thank you, Captain Calloway,” I replied, my chest tight.

He stepped closer, leaning down as if to pick up a fallen folder off the small side table next to me.

“You’re in my world now, Sloane,” he murmured, his breath hot against my ear for a split second before he stood up straight and walked out the door.

Maddox walked past next, bumping his broad shoulder hard against mine as he passed.

“Watch your back, boss,” Maddox muttered under his breath, a dark, dangerous spark in his blue eyes before he followed Rhett down the hall.

Jules was the last to leave. He stopped in the doorway, looking back at me with a look of pure, agonizing conflict.

“This is dangerous, Sloane,” he whispered softly. “He put you right in the fire.”

“I know,” I breathed.

“I’ll be in my locker,” he said, and then he was gone.

By 8:00 p.m., the front offices were completely silent.

I stood alone in my new office on the third floor. The glass walls looked straight out over the empty ice arena below. The main stadium lights were turned off, leaving only the dim blue emergency lights reflecting off the smooth, white surface of the rink.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

I rested my forehead against the cool glass, feeling the weight of my father’s trap. He thought he was putting me in charge to keep me close, to control me. He had no idea he had just placed me inside the barrel of a loaded gun.

My phone on the mahogany desk suddenly buzzed.

The vibration echoed loudly in the dark room.

I walked over, picking it up, expecting another late-night warning from Rhett or a sarcastic comment from Maddox.

It was a text from an unlisted, hidden number.

There was no text body. Just an attached photo file.

I tapped the screen to open it.

My heart stopped beating.

The photo was clear, and unmistakably recent. It was taken from the hallway outside the side office at the private team house two weeks ago.

In the photo, I was pinned against the wall. A broad-shouldered man in a dark blazer had his hands buried in my hair, his mouth crushed against mine in a fierce, desperate kiss.

My face was completely visible in the soft light of the hallway lamp.

Below the photo, a single line of text appeared in small, black letters:

Someone already knows.