Chapter 1

Chapter One

Nolan

The owner of the San Diego Sea Lions hockey team, Everett Dalton II, leaned forward in his leather executive chair, his steely gaze locked on mine as he uttered seven words that hit me like a puck to the head, "I want you to date my daughter."

I blinked rapidly, trying to process what he had said, but my thoughts were as clear as mud. "Pardon me?"

Before he could clarify, he held up an index finger and answered the cell phone that was sitting on his massive oak desk. "Yes?"

As Mr. Dalton's one-sided phone conversation quickly crescendoed into heated shouting, I tried to make sense of what was happening. I felt like I'd been body-checked into a reality show, where billionaire hockey team owners played Cupid with their employees.

Date his daughter?

He obviously had the wrong guy.

When Mr. Dalton summoned me to his office, I thought I was about to be fired. As the Zamboni driver for the San Diego Sea Lions, my job at the wheel of this massive ice resurfacer was straightforward yet crucial. I meticulously smoothed out the ruts and gouges on the ice between periods, ensuring a safe, fast surface for the players. I took pride in my work and kept to myself. My role for the team was essential, so getting fired made no sense.

Still, Mr. Dalton had the power to do it.

Unlike most NHL team owners, he was one of the few who owned both the team and the arena outright. This meant that while I technically reported to the ice operations manager of the San Diego Arena, Mr. Dalton was the big boss of everyone under the roof. What could I have possibly done to warrant such high-level attention?

"This is a waste of my time!" Mr. Dalton barked into the phone.

I glanced across the desk at him as the veins pulsed on his forehead and neck. He caught my eye, but I looked away, scanning his extravagant office and pretending not to be listening or appear to be worried that he had summoned me there to the hot seat.

Larger than my two-bedroom apartment, his office high atop the Dalton Building in Downtown San Diego was a testament to both his success and his passion for the game. One wall was lined with signed and framed jerseys from NHL hockey legends like Mario Lemieux, Wayne Gretzky, Bobby Orr, and Gordie Howe. There were also enlarged framed images of our Sea Lions with trophies captured during the team's few glory days before it became the bottom dwellers and laughingstock of the league. Mr. Dalton's desk hosted a collection of four vintage humidors, all made of Spanish cedar, a fact I'd learned just last week at the dentist after reading an interview in Forbes magazine as I waited to get my teeth cleaned.

Mr. Dalton flared his nostrils as he continued his tirade at the mystery person on the other end of the line. "If the imbecile can't do me a simple favor, he doesn't belong in this organization. Get rid of him." He ended the call, then glanced back across the desk at me with a grin, nodding, like he was eyeing his prey. "Now, where were we?"

I swallowed hard. "Something about dating your daughter … Sir."

"Yes … that." Mr. Dalton opened one of the humidors on his desk, pulling out two cigars and holding one in the air in my direction. "Cuban?"

"No, thank you," I said as I perched uneasily on the plush leather chair, then, for some odd reason, I added, "I'm trying to quit."

His eyebrow arched, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. He studied me for a moment, and I knew he could see right through my pathetic attempt at looking worldly. I'd never touched a cigar in my life, and we both knew it.

Mr. Dalton's movements were slow, deliberate. He returned one cigar to the humidor, his eyes never leaving mine. I squirmed in my seat as he expertly clipped the end off the other, bringing it to his nose for a deep, appreciative inhale. With practiced ease, he lit the cigar and puffed. Smoke curled upward, hypnotic.

I tried to look away—anywhere but at him—but my gaze was locked. It was as if he had seized control of my mind, leaving me powerless to break free.

Puff. Puff. Puff.

Mr. Dalton's eyes never left my face.

I could feel the weight of his gaze.

Puff. Puff. Puff.

The silence stretched between us, broken only by my restless movements and the soft crackle of burning tobacco.

Was he trying to intimidate me?

It was working.

This whole scene felt like I'd been thrust into some bizarro hockey-meets-mafia movie, and I was woefully unprepared for my role. I half expected to hear The Godfather theme music start playing in the background.

I cleared my throat. "I'm confused, Mr. Dalton, as to why you would want me to date your daughter."

"I signed Mitch Redding from the Tampa Bay Lightning before today's trade deadline," he said. "A press release will go out within the next few hours."

My mouth dropped open in surprise. Mitch "The Decapitator" Redding was coming back to San Diego? The Tampa Bay enforcer had racked up more penalty minutes in the last decade than any other player in the league's history. His playing prowess was legendary, but so was his volatile temper. Getting on his bad side was not a good idea, on or off the ice.

"The last time we made the playoffs, Mitch was a Sea Lion and led us the entire way. We were foolish to let him go," Mr. Dalton said. "The goal is to make a run for one of the wildcard spots to make the playoffs, but that means we would have to win at least fifteen of our last twenty games."

"Wow—that won't be easy," I said.

"But it can be done," he said. "Remember the St. Louis Blues when they went from dead last to winning the Stanley Cup?"

I nodded. "It was one of the most impressive comebacks in NHL history. I was in awe."

"You and me both," he said, giving me a knowing smile. "If the Blues can pull off a miracle like that, so can we. It's a gamble, but Mitch Redding is our only hope of turning this dismal season around."

"I would love to see that happen," I said. "But what does Mitch Redding have to do with your daughter, or more importantly, with me?"

"Mitch and Zena have a history," Mr. Dalton said. "I need to ensure that history stays in the past. Your dating her puts distance between the two of them and also keeps my ulcers in check."

"I see," I said, even though I really didn't. "But won't my going out with Zena just make him jealous? It seems counterproductive to piss off your new star acquisition when you want him to lead the team to the playoffs."

A sly smile crossed Mr. Dalton's face. "On the contrary, Nolan. Mitch takes out his frustrations on the ice. The Tampa Bay Lightning won the Stanley Cup two years in a row. The first time was after Zena broke up with Mitch. The year after that, a friend embezzled two million dollars from him, which resulted in another Stanley Cup win for their team. I don't like the guy, but an angry Mitch Redding is a force to be reckoned with, and he's our ticket to the playoffs."

I nodded slowly, pieces of the puzzle falling into place. Our San Diego Sea Lions were one of the worst teams in the league the last two years. Mr. Dalton was clearly willing to try anything to turn things around, but I still didn't understand why I had been the chosen one.

I shifted in my seat again, still struggling to wrap my head around the absurdity of the situation and looking for a way out of it. "Why would you trust me with your daughter? You know nothing about me. I might be a closet psychopath."

A chuckle escaped him, then he rattled off facts about my life with frightening accuracy. "Nolan James Reid, born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Promising hockey career cut short by a shattered right knee caused by a freak skiing accident in Sun Valley, Idaho. You moved to San Diego after attending a wedding here and meeting Emily Thornton, one of the bridesmaids as well as a high-fashion designer protégé. You married her six months later, divorced a year after that when she accepted a job in Paris with Coco Chanel. You've been our Zamboni driver for the past six seasons, a helluva good one. You mind your own business, humbly doing the job you are paid to do, flying under the radar. You volunteer in your free time, teaching hockey to underprivileged kids. Your best friend is Tyson Freeport, our genius director of marketing. You hit the gym four days a week to stay in shape. You have a cat named Mario Le Meow." He gestured to the framed Lemieux jersey on the wall, then grinned. "I was also a big fan of ‘ Le Magnifique .'"

He'd obviously done an extensive background check on me, which made this whole scenario even more bizarre. What else did Mr. Dalton know about me? My blood type? Did he know I liked to sleep on my back or that I sang horribly in the shower?

"Wow," I said. "That's impressive."

Mr. Dalton leaned back, a proud expression on his face. "This franchise is worth a billion dollars. I make it my business to know everything about everyone, right down to the time the sales manager disappears into the bathroom with the newspaper each morning to do his business." He smirked. "Ten fifteen."

That was slightly disturbing to know.

Note to self: Do not use the bathroom during business hours.

"And your daughter?" I asked. "She knows of this plan of yours?"

"Of course." Mr. Dalton's expression softened slightly. "My daughter is my pride and joy. I consider every possibility before I do anything that involves her. Zena approves of the plan, one hundred percent, since she wants nothing to do with Mitch. She also considers you the best choice to help us execute it to perfection."

I couldn't believe the spoiled daddy's girl, Zena Dalton, knew who I was. We'd never met, but I'd seen her up in the owner's box during many of the Sea Lions' home games, and also at a few events, including the yearly holiday party. The only thing I knew about her was from what I'd heard from people who worked for the organization, but that was enough to know that she was not my type.

"Dating my daughter is now part of your job, outside of your Zamboni schedule, since nothing is more important than maintaining the ice for the players," Mr. Dalton added. "There's a stipend, of course. Two thousand a month, which is on top of your current salary. Plus, all of your dating expenses will be covered."

He reached into his desk drawer and extracted a platinum corporate credit card, sliding it across the oak desk in my direction. My mouth dropped open when I saw it had my name on it. How long had he been planning this?

"Use this credit card for anything and everything," Mr. Dalton said. "Spare no expense because my daughter and this team are worth every penny. Meals, gifts, vacations—whatever it takes to make your relationship look authentic."

Vacations with Zena?

This was getting worse by the minute.

I blew out a deep breath to calm my nerves. "Mr. Dalton …"

"Fine—let's make it three thousand a month," he said without blinking. "You'll be at Zena's beck and call, day or night, whenever she needs you. When she tells you to jump, you ask how high."

The gravity of his words pinned me back against my chair. I was suddenly a professional male escort, like Dermot Mulroney in The Wedding Date .

I swallowed hard, a realization dawning on me. "Is my job on the line if I don't accept this proposition?"

"It's not a proposition." Mr. Dalton leaned forward, staring straight into my soul. "I'm asking you to do me this simple favor."

My thoughts shot back to his phone conversation and what he had told the person on the other end of the call.

If the imbecile can't do me a simple favor, he doesn't belong in this organization. Get rid of him.

What started as a casual request for help, complete with Brando-like cigar puffing, quickly became an ultimatum I dared not decline. The chance of finding another job driving the Zamboni in the NHL was slim to none, considering the small number of pro hockey teams in North America. I enjoyed my job, as simple as it was. It kept me close to the sport I loved. The sport that was still in my veins, even though there would never be a chance for me to play competitively again. I would do just about anything for the team, but this seemed over the top and way out of my comfort zone. But it didn't appear that I had any options other than to play along with Mr. Dalton's charade.

"Just so we're on the same page, how long do you expect me to do this?" I asked, even though I suspected I would not like the answer.

"Right until the day we win the Stanley Cup, of course," Mr. Dalton said without hesitation. "After that, you both officially break up and go your separate ways. No hanky-panky. No funny games. No exceptions."

That meant the last six weeks of the regular season, plus possibly an additional two months for the playoffs, assuming we were going to win every round. Three and half months of my life dedicated to a sham I wanted no part of.

"Can I count on you, Nolan?" Mr. Dalton asked, his shark-eyed stare on mine.

I nodded numbly, still in shock, feeling like there was a gun pointed at my head. "Yes, sir. You can count on me."

He stood and reached across the desk to shake my hand. "Thank you. I appreciate this more than you know. Now, down to business: Zena is expecting you at Lucha Libre Taco Shop in one hour. Don't be late."

I nearly fell out of my chair.

Lucha Libre Taco Shop was one of my favorite lunch spots. There was no way that was a coincidence, since there were hundreds of taquerias in San Diego.

I checked my watch. "In one hour? Why the rush?"

"We have zero time to lose," Mr. Dalton said. "Mitch Redding arrives from Tampa late tonight and will have his first meeting and practice with the team tomorrow morning. His first game with us will be in two days, against the San Jose Sharks. You and Zena need to appear as a couple before he arrives. When Mitch sees you two together, it will light a fire under him. Guaranteed. All you need to do is play the part." He grabbed his ringing cell phone from the desk. "I have to take this call. Keep me updated."

As I stumbled out of Mr. Dalton's office, I made a beeline for the marketing department on the tenth floor to visit my buddy, Tyson. We'd been close friends since that wedding I'd attended a little over seven years ago—the same night I'd met my future ex-wife and Tyson had inadvertently changed the course of my life by finding me the perfect job.

The elevator dinged, and I walked to his office, my thoughts scattered like loose pucks on the ice. There he was, drowning in team merchandise, his workspace looking more like a Sea Lions souvenir shop than an office. Tyson's desk was a shrine to team spirit, with bobbleheads nodding in silent agreement next to a mountain of branded hockey pucks and trading cards. Behind him, stacked boxes of Sea Lions water bottles, hats, and T-shirts lined the walls, as if he were stockpiling for an impending merchandise apocalypse. Colorful Sea Lions banners and posters covered every inch of the walls. A large cork board was plastered with fan photos, ticket stubs, and concept sketches for future giveaways.

Despite the chaotic clutter that left barely enough room to move, Tyson's office always felt like my personal sanctuary—a place where the uncertainty of the outside world faded away, replaced by the comforting embrace of the hockey world and a good friend.

"Ty," I said, collapsing into the chair beside him and letting out a melodramatic sigh. "You will not believe what just happened."

Tyson's eyebrows shot up as he studied me. "Someone died?"

I took a deep breath, explained what I was about to tell him was confidential, then spilled the whole sordid tale of Mr. Dalton's plan. With each detail, Tyson's eyes grew wider, until I half-expected them to pop out of his head and join the bobbleheads on his desk in their perpetual nodding.

When I finished telling the story, Tyson let out a low whistle. "I'd say congratulations, but I'm not sure if I should plan your bachelor party or your funeral. Mitch Redding isn't exactly known for having a warm and fuzzy side."

I glared at him. "Not. Helping."

Tyson held up his hands in surrender, nearly knocking over a miniature plastic Stanley Cup. "Relax. Everything will work out fine. Probably. Maybe."

I sighed, my frustration evident. "This feels completely wrong. I can't understand why Zena Dalton would agree to something so bizarre. It doesn't add up."

Tyson leaned in, lowering his voice. "What if there's more going on here? I've heard rumors that Mr. Dalton might be ill. Maybe he's hoping to see the team win one last championship before, well, you know . And obviously, his daughter would do anything for daddy. Look at it this way, it's your chance to make a dying man's wish come true, plus help a damsel in distress."

"I'd hate to think that he's gravely ill, but this is all just speculation," I said. "And a billionaire heiress is not a damsel in distress. A woman like that does not need rescuing."

"Okay, fair point," Tyson conceded. "Maybe she's not helpless, but is just looking for assistance in a difficult situation. What if Mr. Dalton has some leverage over her? Maybe he's using it to make her go along with this plan."

I shook my head, still unconvinced. "Now, this is sounding like a soap opera. Honestly, I don't know what to think, but I do know it's insane."

"The only thing insane is how gorgeous Zena is," he said. "She could never play hockey because the ice would melt all around her."

I sighed. "Again … not helping."

"Okay, let's break this down like a power play," Tyson said, slipping into his marketing strategist mode. "Pros and cons. Go."

I sighed, lifting my head. "Pro: I get to keep my job. Con: I have to pretend to date the owner's daughter, a woman I do not find even remotely interesting, and potentially incur the wrath of one of the NHL's fiercest players. Not to mention I can kiss my social life goodbye since all my free time will be reserved for her."

"You are sorely mistaken if you don't think spending all your free time with Zena Dalton is a pro," Tyson added with an exaggerated wink, then his eyes suddenly lit up. "Just imagine if you two actually ended up together. That would be amazing."

I rolled my eyes. "No— that would be a huge mistake. Her father would fire me, kill me, or both. None of it will be real. Ever."

Tyson shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Maybe, maybe not, but make sure you commit one hundred percent to the fake dating, if you value your job. You don't want to mess around with Mr. Dalton, or Zena, for that matter. From what I hear, she always gets what she wants, and for now, she wants you."

"She needs me—big difference," I corrected. "And you don't have to worry about me. Nobody will ever suspect we are not a couple. I will bring my A-game as soon as she gives me the word."

"I expect nothing less from you," Tyson said, clapping me on the back. "And life has a funny way of dealing us surprises, like a body check from behind. You never know what could come of this situation, so keep a positive, open mind."

"I appreciate you trying to look on the bright side, but I can't see anything good coming out of this," I said.

"What about the free tacos at Lucha Libre?" he said with a laugh. "Anyway, enjoy it while it lasts. Because whether you like it or not, you're living every man's fantasy by going out with Zena."

I glanced at my best friend, wondering if all those hockey pucks had hit him in the head before landing on his desk. Tyson might see this as some sort of fantasy, but I had a sinking feeling it was about to become a personal penalty box of doom and possibly my worst nightmare.