“I have to go,” he said, as if commenting on the weather.He smoothed a hand down his suit jacket, straightening a lapel.It was like watching a switch flip.Henry Emerson, the billionaire owner, was back.The man who had just groaned my name was receding behind a wall of impeccable composure.
He turned and walked towards the door.He paused with his hand on the handle and looked back at me.
“Good game today, Charlie,” he said, and then he was gone.
The door sighed shut behind him, leaving me standing alone in the silent, steamy room, naked and holding a towel, the taste of him still on my tongue.
The whiplash was brutal.From the most intimate act of my life to a dismissal so casual with stale air from my lungs.
He'd given me what I'd asked for.He'd let me take the initiative.And in doing so, He had proven, once and for all that he was still the one holding all the cards.
I wrapped the towel around my waist, my legs shaking.The euphoria was already fading, replaced by a colder, sharper understanding.
This wasn't getting out of my system.
Chapter 7
The team dinner washeld at The Oak Room, a place with dark wood panels, leather booths, and steaks that cost more than my first pair of skates.It was a tradition after a three-game winning streak, a chance for the front office to show appreciation and for us to carbo-load without feeling guilty.
Usually, I loved these nights.The easy camaraderie, the shit-talking, the feeling of being part of a tribe.Tonight, every laugh was too loud, every clink of cutlery was a spike in my temple, and the air in the private dining room was thick enough to choke on.
Because Henry Emerson was holding court at the head of the long table.
He’d arrived after we were all seated, a ripple of expensive cologne and subdued power preceding him.A murmur of “Mr.Emerson” had traveled down the table like a wave.He’d just nodded, a faint, polite smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes, and taken the seat reserved for him between the GM and Coach.
And then he’d proceeded to ignore my existence for the past forty-five minutes.
It was a masterclass in psychological torture.His voice, that calm, low baritone, was a constant hum in the room.He asked the GM intelligent questions about league economics.He listened intently as Coach explained a shift change.He even drew Felix into a conversation about his hometown in Sweden, seeming genuinely interested.
His gaze swept the table constantly, making everyone feel seen.Everyone but me.
Every time his eyes traveled in my direction, my heart would perform a pathetic, hopeful lurch against my ribs.And every time, his glance would slide over me as if I were a piece of the furniture, landing on Shay to my left or the rookie to my right.It was deliberate.Calculated.A brutal extension of the whiplash I’d felt in the locker room.
“Good game today, Charlie.”
The words echoed in my head, taunting me.Was that all it was?A post-game review?Had what happened between us been just another transaction to him?A billionaire checking off a box on a bucket list?Fuck star hockey player: check.
