The Hockey Star’s Secret Son

Sienna's POV Taking in a deep breath, I anxiously gripped the clipboard in my hands, eyes moving towards the hanging clock on the wall. The obnoxious ticking of the clock added fuel to my pressing rage. “Where the heck is he?” I huffed, angrily biting my nail as my eyes unconsciously moved to the clock. First day as the new therapist for the country’s biggest hockey team, and I'd already been kept waiting. I knew what I was getting myself into, but just remembering how that snobby assistant talked a few minutes ago, had nearly sent me over the edge. “Here, we have the locker rooms as well as the gym.” The snobby assistant’s voice peaked to an octave as she pointed out, her fake bleached blonde hair falling over her right eye so often, I wondered how she could see. I stared at her without so much as a word, mentally noting all the areas to go and not go as she wanted off a list of dos and don'ts. “Aren't you supposed to be taking notes?” She asked sharply, pausing midway through her earlier rant. At that, I blinked at her, “Ugh… I don't think that's necessary.” She looked at me like I was speaking gibberish, and I had said the most absurd thing yet.“But you are a therapist.” “So?” I squinted my eyes. “I am sorry if this may sound rude, but our policy does not accept that, and quite frankly, I am starting to doubt if you can properly do your job.” I was speechless. What the hell? I was getting looked down on by a mere assistant? (No offense to the assistants out there though) My job was to work as the head therapist for the national hockey team, but with their recent record being down the drain, I bet they still had nothing left. The only reason I even accepted the job in the first place was that I needed the money. I furrowed my brows, a tinkling of rage rising from the pit of my belly, but I managed to cool it down. I took in a deep breath, calmly looking at the lady. “Me taking notes has nothing to do with whether I can do my job or not, Miss Sinclair. I am sure your manager can vouch for that; he was the one who hired me after all.” I was no pushover. I'd give you that. She rolled her eyes at me, before moving on. “Whatever, but don't expect me to repeat what I said.” “That's fine by me,” I answered, walking behind her, my eyes catching sight of multiple trophies stacked neatly on the walls as we walked past different sections, but what or who stole my breath away was the bold picture of the hockey star player. “Over here, we have Liam Cross.” She announced proudly, her chin jutted out like a proud peacock who had been laid. It wouldn't surprise me if that had happened though. “He is the star player and team captain of the country’s national team. In the contract you signed, every detail about him was given, from his age to his likes and dislikes. Did you read that?” “Yes, I did,” I replied, eyes trained on the still picture of a smiling athlete. His hair was dark blonde, baby blue eyes, shining with mischief and arrogance, ones I'd recognize from a mile away, nose pointed, and sharp jawlines that matched his handsome face. He was stunning to say the least, so much so, that it also made my heart skip a beat. Again. I closed my eyes, trying to ignore the feeling. I came here for a different reason: I wasn't going to fall twice. I hated him now, and I was going to tell myself that. Sinclair's voice broke through my haze, “He's handsome, isn't he? Stole your breath away like he did with the other girls, but I gotta warn you.” “Excuse me?” I frowned at the assistant, noticing the snarl on her lips. “Yeah, they all pretend.” She clicked, folding her arms on her chest. “Listen up, Missy, your contract says you can't have any romantic feelings or relationship with the players, so whatever fantasy you have in your head, kill it.” I blinked, too stupefied to really say anything meaningful as she sauntered away in her heels, mumbling incoherently under her breath. One word did stick as she passed by me. A nasty “wh*re” she had spat out. It sent a jab through my heart, but I refused to let it bother me. Now here I was, two hours into the supposed appointment I had, and my patient or client might I add, was nowhere to be found. “Where is he?” I snapped, deciding to ask the receptionist stationed in my office. “Uhm, he was supposed to be here by now Miss.” She stuttered, nervously looking through the folders. “Well, where is he then?” “You need to be patient, Miss Blake. Mr Cross has a history of being late.” “Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I said, narrowing my eyes and watching the poor girl squirm. I shut my office door, frustration boiling. Today's session was supposed to be two hours—now it was stretching to four. It was almost twelve, and now I was going to run late for my son's parent— teacher meeting at school. My phone buzzed endlessly on the table, probably from my son's teacher, but I didn't know what to do. Should I just leave? Just as the thought had settled in, a sharp knock broke from my door, startling me, and before I could answer, the door was pushed open. I froze, hands gripping my phone tightly while I stared at the man himself step inside. Just like in the picture. Like that night, he appeared uninterested, like he didn't just waste all my time. “Are we doing this or not?” A deep voice cut through the air, and I felt all of my intestines twist with rage.