Alpha on the Ice

Chapter 2

Sloane

Sloane Jette. I'm here to see Rhys Kincaid."She doesn't look up from her computer. "Name?""I just gave it to you."Now she looks up. "Take a seat. Someone will come get you."I don't sit. I stand by the window, trying to calm the frantic rhythm of my heart. The receptionist's phone buzzes. She mutters something into it, then gestures toward the elevator."Fourth floor. Lounge C."I step into the elevator and press the button. My reflection stares back at me from the mirrored walls, a woman who looks like she's about to be sick. I smooth my hair, adjust my collar, and try to remember the pitch I rehearsed in the car.I can do this. I have to do this.The elevator doors slide open onto a quiet hallway. Lounge C is at the end. I push it open and step inside.The room is sparse. A few leather couches, a coffee table, a potted plant that's seen better days. And standing by the window, his back to me, is Rhys Kincaid.He's bigger in person.I knew he was tall, six-foot-five, according to the media guide, but height doesn't capture the sheer presence of him. He's wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans, but even in casual clothes, he radiates hostility.He turns, and my breath catches.His face is all hard lines and sharp angles. A jaw that could cut glass. A nose that's been broken at least once. And his eyes, silver-blue, cold, and utterly unreadable."You're the one who called my agent seventeen times."His voice is lower than I expected. I open my mouth to respond, but he's already crossing the room, closing the distance between us with predatory grace.I force a smile. "I'm Sloane Jette. I appreciate you taking the time...""I don't appreciate anything." He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell him. Woodsy, like pine and something else. "I want to know why you're really here."My rehearsed pitch tumbles out of me like a recitation. "I'm writing a humanizing profile for the Boston Puck Report. The league is full of stories about your skill on the ice, but the public doesn't know the man behind the jersey. I want to change that."Rhys laughs. It's not a pleasant sound."The man behind the jersey." He shakes his head slowly. "That's a good one. I'll give you that.""Mr. Kincaid...""Call me Rhys. I hate 'Mr. Kincaid.' Makes me sound like my father."I blink, momentarily thrown. "Your father?""Dead." He says it flatly, without emotion. "Like your career."The air leaves my lungs. "Excuse me?"He tilts his head, studying me. "The alderman story. You were blacklisted from serious journalism after that. Now you write puff pieces about players no one cares about, and..."I feel my face drain of color. "How do you...""I know everything." He steps closer. Rhys's lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile. "I have resources you don't understand, Sloane."He's close now. Too close. I can see the faint scars on his knuckles, the tension in his jaw, the way his nostrils flare slightly like he's scenting the air.Like he's scenting me."Your heart is racing," he murmurs. "You're terrified of me. Good. That means you have survival instincts.""I'm not..." I start, but my voice cracks."Don't lie to me." His eyes bore into mine. "I can hear every beat, every flutter. I can smell the adrenaline on your skin. You're afraid, and you should be."I should run. Every instinct in my body screams at me to bolt for the door. But I can't. Because if I leave now, my career is over. My life is over."What do you want from me?" I manage.Rhys studies me for a long moment. Then he steps back, giving me space, and I can breathe again."I'll make you a deal," he says. "You write the fluff piece. You paint me as a reformed, team-first player. A golden retriever instead of a lone wolf.""Reformed," I repeat. "From what?""From whatever the tabloids say. I don't care what you write, as long as it makes me look good." His eyes harden. "But you never ask about my past. You never ask about my disappearances. You never ask about my family.""And if I do?""Then the deal is off." His voice drops to a whisper. "And I will personally ensure you never work in Boston again."The threat hangs in the air between us. "And what do you get out of this?" I ask. "Why make a deal with a reporter at all?""Because my agent thinks I need good press," he says. "And because you're desperate enough to take the deal."He's right. I am."Fine," I say, the word tasting like ash. "I'll write your fluff piece."Rhys nods once, "You'll have limited access. Supervised interviews. No locker room. No personal questions.""I understand.""Good." He moves toward the door, then pauses. "One more thing, Sloane.""Yes?""Don't try to dig deeper." He looks back at me, and for just a second, his eyes flicker, a flash of gold in the silver-blue. "You won't like what you find."And then he's gone.