"Henry," he corrected gently, pushing off the wall.
I swallowed."I'll stick with Mr.Emerson."I’d meant it to sound like a joke, a deflection, but it came out rougher, more defensive than I’d intended.
A flicker of amusement touched the corner of his mouth.He took a step closer—not crowding me, but definitively closing the distance until I could smell the faint, expensive notes of his cologne again.
His gaze dipped briefly to the gear bag slung over my shoulder, then traveled back up to my eyes, leaving a trail of heat in its wake."How long have you been with the team?"
"Second season," I said, my throat dry.
"Impressive."He nodded once, a slow, thoughtful gesture."You carry yourself like someone who knows exactly where he's going."
The words shouldn't have meant anything.They were vague, the kind of thing people said.But from him, they felt like a key turning in a lock deep in my chest.My heart tightened.
Henry studied me for another long moment, his expression unreadable.Then he said, "I'd like to continue our conversation.Dinner.Tomorrow night.My driver can pick you up."
It wasn't a question.But it wasn't a command, either.It was an offer laid carefully on the table, a door held open.The power to walk through it was mine.
I hesitated.Every logical reason to say no flashed through my mind: professionalism, team rules, potential headlines, my own sanity.And yet...a sharp, coiling curiosity low in my stomach tugged harder than caution.
"That's...not exactly standard player-owner protocol," I said, aiming for a wry tone but landing somewhere near breathless.
A slow, sure smile curved his lips."Neither am I."
Silence stretched between us, charged but not heavy.I realized then that he hadn't boxed me in.He hadn't blocked the hall or leaned into my space.He was giving me room, even while pulling me inexorably toward him.
I shifted my bag higher on my shoulder, the towel feeling suddenly very loose."I'll think about it."
His smile deepened, a flash of genuine approval in his eyes."That's all I ask."
He stepped aside, granting me a clear path down the hall.As I moved past him, our shoulders brushed—a fleeting, electric contact, light as static.My pulse jumped wildly.
I walked away, forcing myself not to look back, not to give him the satisfaction, until I reached the heavy door leading to the parking lot.When I finally risked a glance over my shoulder, Henry was still there, watching me.His expression was still unreadable, his posture easy, as if patience was a language he spoke fluently.
Outside, I leaned against the sun-warmed hood of my car and dragged in a shaky breath.The evening sun was low, spilling liquid gold across the asphalt, but my thoughts were trapped back in that quiet, charged hallway.In the way Henry had looked at me—not like a piece of property, not like a project.
It felt like...possibility.
Dangerous, complicated, probably reckless.
But possibility all the same.
Shay's voice snapped me out of it as he strolled past, tossing his sticks into the bed of his beat-up truck."Earth to Holt.You good?You look like you've seen a ghost.A really hot, rich ghost."
"Yeah," I said, straightening up and trying to pull my face into a normal expression."Just tired.Practice was a killer."
Shay squinted at me, not buying it for a second."You're a terrible liar, man."
"Go home, Shay."
He laughed, climbing into his truck."Fine, fine.But if you show up tomorrow with a mysterious hickey, I'm demanding full details."
I flipped him off, but couldn't stop the grin from tugging at my mouth.
Sliding into my car, I sat for a long moment in the silence before starting the engine.Dinner tomorrow.The idea lingered, sparking a dozen questions I wasn't ready to answer.
I’d come here to play hockey.To win.To keep my head down and my focus clear.
But Henry Emerson wasn't a man you ignored.
