1.Oil And Water Don't Mix
1568 Words
*PROLOGUE*
~KAITLYN~
“If you walk through that door, there's no going back.”
The warning wasn’t a threat. Although coming from a man built like a brick wall with a jagged scar cutting through his left eyebrow, it easily could have been.
Nate Kovac stood in the dim, concrete underbelly of the arena, his broad shoulders squared against the institutional gray paint of the wall.
He still wore his practice jersey, the heavy black fabric smelling faintly of old ice, sweat, and the sharp bite of winter.
I didn't blink. I kept my fingers locked tightly around the edges of the leather folder pressed against my chest.
Inside it lay enough dynamite to level a fifty-year-old lucrative, vicious lie.
“I know,” I said. My voice didn't shake, even if the steady thump of my pulse against my collarbone told a different story.
Ahead of us, the heavy double doors of the main conference room remained shut, but the low, electric hum of a hundred murmuring reporters, league lawyers, and flashing cameras leaked through the seams.
In less than two minutes, the doors would open and the bitter blood feud that had defined both of our families—and our entire lives—was about to end.
Not with a handshake, but with a total, cataclysmic collapse.
Nate looked down at me, his guarded, dark eyes scanning my face for any sign of hesitation.
For a split second, the heavy mask of the Reapers' captain slipped, revealing the raw, exhausted man underneath. He reached out, his calloused fingers hovering just an inch from mine, before stopping himself.
“Then let's do it.” he murmured.
CHAPTER 1: Oil And Water Don't Mix
~KAITLYN~
Six Months Earlier
The clicking of my heels echoed off the polished concrete of the Harbor City Wolves’ executive floor, with a sharp sound that matched the perfect organization of my schedule.
It was precisely 6:15 a.m.
I stopped outside the glass-walled observation deck overlooking untouched sheet of the morning ice.
Taking a slow breath, I adjusted the lapels of my tailored camel coat and smoothed down my dark blonde bob.
I looked exactly like what I was: a highly capable, immaculately dressed professional who had spent the last five years earning a master’s degree in sports management and working eighty-hour weeks in minor league systems.
Unfortunately, to the rest of the hockey world, I was simply Gregory Sterling’s daughter.
“You're early,” a cold, baritone voice remarked from behind me.
I didn't flinch.
Turning smoothly on my heel, I faced my father.
Gregory Sterling .
He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his tall, severe frame casting a long shadow under the fluorescent lights.
His silver hair was perfectly combed and his expression was unreadable as it always was on camera.
“I have three player evaluations to finalize before the board meeting, Dad,” I said, keeping my tone crisp and entirely professional. “Early is late in this department.”
He walked to the glass, looking down at the empty rink where the Wolves' logo—a snarling, stylized wolf—was painted sharply at center ice.
“You're the new Director of Player Development. The board expects results, Kaitlyn. Not just because of your resume, but because our name is on the building. The fans expect a Sterling to run this franchise with iron fists. Especially with the Reapers breathing down our necks this season.”
“I was hired because my development program increased player retention by twenty percent in the minors,” I replied, my voice hardening just enough to set a firm boundary. “My name didn't write that curriculum.”
“The name is what keeps the sponsors buying suites,”
He said flatly, not even turning to look at me.
“Never forget that. And speaking of the Reapers...” He paused, a strange, calculated look crossing his severe features. “The league office just finalized a directive. You'll receive the official memo in an hour.”
I felt a strange prickle of unease at the base of my neck.
I tapped my pen twice against my thigh—a quiet, involuntary tell I only used when I was trying to force myself to stay perfectly calm. “What kind of directive?”
“The rink renovations ran into a massive structural delay. The city won't have the secondary facility ready for another eight months,” His jaw tightened slightly.
“To cut overhead costs and maintain the broadcast schedule, the league board voted. For the entirety of the regular season, the Wolves and the Reapers are sharing this facility.”
The air left my lungs in a sudden, sharp rush.
“Sharing? This rink? We host their front office, their coaching staff, and their entire roster under our roof?”
The league had made a declaration to give it a through thought and we'd successfully closed that chapter, with belief that it wouldn't happen in ten years from now.
“Half the facility belongs to them as of midnight tonight,” His eyes narrowing as he finally looked at me.
“The Reapers will use the east wing locker rooms and the secondary training grid. You will handle the logistics of player schedules. I expect you to keep our staff completely insulated from them. The Kovacs have been trying to bleed this franchise dry for fifty years. You do not give them an inch of leverage.”
“I know the history, Dad,” I whispered.
“Good. Because Daniel Kovac would like nothing more than to see us fail from the inside out.” His shadow enveloped me as he stepped closer.
“Keep your eyes open, Kaitlyn. The Reapers are snakes. Treat them like it.”
By 2:00 p.m., the east wing of the Harbor City sports complex was a chaotic circus of moving crates, rolling equipment bags, and tense security guards.
The atmosphere inside the shared training facility felt less like a professional sports venue and more like a volatile border checkpoint between two warring nations.
I stood in the center of the main corridor, a digital tablet clutched in my hand as I watched a group of Reapers players haul their gear past a wall adorned with the Wolves' championship banners.
The glares exchanged between the passing players were sharp enough to draw blood.
“Hey! Watch the paint, sweetheart,” a deep, rough voice rumbled from the end of the hall.
I turned sharply.
Walking toward me was a man who seemed to take up the entire width of the hallway.
Nate Kovac.
He was of course, looking larger in person.
He wore a black Reapers training shirt that strained against his broad chest, his dark hair damp from a recent workout.
The faint, jagged scar cutting through his eyebrow gave him a dangerous, permanently intense expression.
He stopped exactly three feet away from me, packing an undeniable, heavy physical presence that immediately made the corridor feel suffocatingly small.
“You must be the new Sterling in charge of the keys,” His guarded eyes tracked the sharp lines of my blazer before settling on my face.
There was a faint, mocking tilt to his lips, but his eyes remained entirely cold.
“Kaitlyn Sterling,” I corrected, stepping forward to meet his space rather than shrinking back.
I extended a hand, my grip firm and unyielding.
“Director of Player Development. And this is a shared facility, Captain Nate. Which means you follow the schedule my office distributed this morning. Starting with the fact that your team's media session was supposed to conclude ten minutes ago.”
He didn't take my hand immediately.
He simply looked down at it, a low, quiet chuckle escaping his chest before he finally wrapped his large, calloused hand around mine.
His skin was warm, his grip entirely too tight, sending an unexpected, sharp jolt of electricity straight up my arm.
“The ice was wet, Director,” Nate murmured, leaning down just enough so his voice carried a quiet, private friction. “And around here, a Kovac doesn't take orders from a Sterling. We take the ice when we're ready.”
I pulled my hand back smoothly, refusing to let him see the way my pulse had just ticked upward.
“You'll take the ice exactly when the schedule says you do, or I’ll have the league fine your franchise for a logistical violation before your skates hit the locker room.”
Nate’s smile faded, his eyes narrowing into something dark, intense, and entirely focused on me.
“You're just like your father, aren't you? All rules and no heart.”
“I'm the person who keeps this place running,” I shot back, my voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. “Get your team off my ice, Captain.”
Nate stepped closer, his chest nearly brushing my shoulder as he passed, leaving the scent of ice and pure, clean adrenaline in his wake.
“Let’s see how all of this goes, Director. You might want to wipe off the lipstick you have on your teeth.”
Fuck. I turned at once, glancing at my reflection on the tablet in my hand.
He was right. I'd smudged lipstick on my teeth… but all the same, I'd treat the Reapers just how they deserved.
“Like snakes.”
- Writer
