22. Emma

Striding into the office, I see Dad sitting at his desk with a melancholy expression on his face. "Hi, Ems."

"Hey, Dad. You okay?"

"Reality is setting in," he says, clearing his throat.

"I know. We don't have to do this," I say, even though I'll be fucked up against a pub wall with a big-dicked hockey Captain if he turns around and says, let's call the whole thing off. I burned that bridge good and proper in London and I don't have masses of savings like Anna does to keep me going.

"No, don't be daft," he says, coming to and smiling. "This is happening, so you can't get out of it that easily, young lady."

"Ha ha," I say, returning his smile. "So, where do I start in here? I ran into Keir Drummond downstairs, and we arranged to meet up after so he can go over the game with me."

"Oh, Keir's here?" Dad says, slowly, too slowly, like he knew it already and is trying to act surprised.

"Yeah, fancy that," I say, giving him a look that tells him he knows he's busted.

He grins. "He's a good lad, and you two went to school together."

"I don't remember him. He is four years younger than me."

"Still," he says, dismissing it with a wave of his hand. "Common ground and all that bullshit."

"Fair enough," I mutter. "I suppose we can bond over calling the Headmistress a cunt."

"Emma!" he expostulates as I flop into a chair opposite him.

"What? Horse Teeth Hammond was a cunt. You can't deny that."

He makes a ‘well you got me there' face, and then we get down to business. "There's a lot to go over on the business side?—"

We both look up as an older woman raps on the open door, interrupting him. "Sorry to disturb you, Keith, but it's important."

"What is it, Mavis?"

"I'm handing in my notice," my dad's long-time assistant says, apparently catching him off-guard.

"Oh, bloody hell, Mavis, you can't do that to us now," Dad complains, his expression full of surprise and distress. Dad's about as good at hiding his emotions as I am at resisting a hot Scot with a ripped bod and with a twinkle in his eye.

Mavis just shrugs, her lips set in a line. "I've been saying I would for months, Keith. It's time." She eyes me briefly, then looks back at him. "Besides, Emma's here now. New blood and all that. She'll manage."

Will I?The thought springs up like a rogue puck to the face.

"Uhm—" I start, but she railroads over me.

"She's young and spry and will want her own assistant, I'm sure."

Spry? What am I? A Jack Russell?

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I interject, trying to sound more amused than petrified by the prospect of diving into secretarial duties on top of everything else.

Mavis gives me a nod that's almost respectful and turns to leave. "My last day will be Friday."

"Well, shit," Dad mutters after she exits, slumping back in his chair like he's deflated.

"Yeah," I echo, feeling the weight of ‘well, shit' myself.

"Don't suppose you know anyone who wants to be assistant to an ice hockey team owner, do you?" he asks, a glint of far-fetched hope in his tone.

"No," I say, but then frown. Do I? "Maybe?" Anna could step in part time if that was something she would want to do. She could maybe even take over SM for the team… No, I'm getting ahead of myself. it's probably the last thing she wants to do. "No," I say again more firmly, this time.

"Fuck," he mutters. "Well, look. Let's not get bogged down with Mavis leaving. You need to know about the accounts, the payroll, the team stats, all of that side."

"I need to do payroll?" I croak. Spreadsheets and me don't mix.

"No," he says with a look that screams I'm being an idiot. "Frances does that. But you need to know pay scales, who earns what, and how that affects your bottom line."

"Oh," I say dumbly. This is going to be a hoot.

"Right," I sigh, bracing myself for the avalanche of numbers and names I'm about to be buried under. Dad looks at me with pride and worry – probably wondering whether his daughter can handle the onslaught of financial jargon and ice hockey trivia.

"Let's crack on with it then," I say, attempting to muster some enthusiasm.

For the next few hours, Dad talks me through everything from ticket sales to sponsorship deals, his voice a constant hum that I try my best to focus on. I rub my temples as Dad drones on about merchandising figures and arena maintenance costs. This is all a bit much, and I haven't even seen an actual game yet.

By the time we wrap up around lunch time, my brain feels like it's been through a Zamboni ride – smoothed over and chilled to numbness. Just as I think I might bolt from the room or scream, Dad finally calls it a day.

"And that's pretty much the gist of it," he says, looking at me expectantly.

"Got it," I lie through my teeth.

He claps his hands together. "Brilliant! Now Keir can talk you through the game. Please try to look more interested this time, okay, Ems?"

Busted, I nod meekly. "Okay."

"I'll see you later. I recorded all this and made some dummy guides, so you'll be fine."

"Thanks, Dad," I murmur, going around to give him a hug and then I leave his office, glaring at Mavis for leaving me in the lurch when I need her most and make my way down to the ice. The rink, which has a side hustle as an actual ice skating rink for the public is closed today so it's deserted, except for Keir, doing some solo practice out on the ice.

I pause, leaning on the barrier, just watching him and the way he moves with such purpose and grace. He's like a ballet dancer with a stick, gliding across the ice with powerful strides that eat up the space effortlessly.

There's something about watching a man so focused and in his element that makes me forget the avalanche of spreadsheets and pie charts Dad just buried me under.

He spots me watching and glides over with the ease of someone who's spent more time on ice than on solid ground. A grin lights up his face, his green eyes shining from being where he was born to be, doing what he was born to do.

"Hey there," he says, coming to a smooth stop. "Keith done with the crash course in team management?"

I let out a groan that probably communicates more than words ever could and slump against the barrier for added effect. "Let's just say I'm more prepared to jump into a pit of angry badgers than deal with another figure or fact."

Keir chuckles, resting his elbows on the top of the barrier, bringing us to eye level. "I feel your pain. But how about we take a break from all that and dive into the exciting world of ice hockey? Trust me, it's a game like no other."

Curiosity piques, and I find myself eager to learn from Keir, who clearly knows his way around the rink. "Alright, Keir. Teach me the basics."

He grins a glint of mischief in his eyes. "Let's start with the objective. The goal of ice hockey is simple: score more goals than the opposing team. Each team has six players on the ice, including a goalie whose job is to protect the net."

I nod, absorbing the information. "So, how do they score?"

Keir's grin widens. "Well, they do that by shooting the puck into the opposing team's net. The puck is a small, hard disk made of rubber, and players use their sticks to pass it to each other or shoot it towards the net."

"And what about the physical aspect of the game?" I ask, remembering Keir's reputation as an enforcer on the team.

He chuckles, flexing his muscles playfully. "Ah, the physicality. Ice hockey is a contact sport, so players can use their bodies to check opponents off the puck or gain control. But there are rules to keep things fair and safe, so not everything goes."

I furrow my brow. "What if someone breaks the rules?"

Keir's expression turns serious. "Well, that's where penalties come in. If a player commits a foul, they're sent to the penalty box for a specific amount of time, leaving their team shorthanded. Penalties can happen for things like tripping, slashing, or roughing, but the severity determines how long they have to sit out."

I nod, starting to grasp the basics. "And how does the game progress?"

Keir leans in, his voice filled with excitement. "The game is divided into three periods, each lasting twenty minutes. The teams switch sides after the first and second periods. During gameplay, you'll see players passing, shooting, and trying to outmanoeuvre their opponents to create scoring opportunities. It's fast-paced and exhilarating."

I take a moment to absorb all the information. "It sounds intense, but also incredibly thrilling. I can see why people love it."

Keir's eyes light up. "Exactly! Ice hockey is all about the passion, the speed, and the teamwork. It's a game that brings people together, and once you experience it, you might just fall in love with it too."

An excitement fills me as I envision myself in the stands, watching my team play.

"Do you want to have a go?" he asks.

"A go?"

He nods enthusiastically.

"Erm, I don't know about that. I don't have skates, and I've never…" I stare at the frozen lake under his blades and shudder.

"You've never skated?" he asks, but there is no judgement.

I shake my head.

He pushes off from the barrier and gestures to a pulled-down metal shutter a few feet away. "That's the rental stand. Go find your size."

Nodding, dumbstruck because I don't know how to say no, I push open the door and see rows and rows of used skates lined up by size. I find the size 5s and grab a pair, returning to Keir. Sitting on the stands, I remove my boots and shove my feet into the skates. Keir is in front of me, on his knees in the next second, to lace them up for me. Seeing him there sends a shiver down my spine as I watch his strong fingers lace me up.

"Don't worry about it. Everyone starts somewhere. I'll be right here with you."

With a hand under my elbow, he helps me stand up, and I wobble instantly. "You do understand this could end with me in AE, right?"

He grins with encouragement, mischief dancing in his eyes. "And what a story that would make for our first team meeting. The boss took a tumble on her first day."

"After being blown away in a gale. This is not getting off to a good start."

Keir offers me his hand as he makes his way slowly towards the ice. "Ready for your initiation?"

I swallow hard but take his hand anyway. It's warm and reassuring against the chill of the rink.

He helps me up and onto the ice, steadying me when my feet immediately want to betray me. His grip is strong and confident, and he talks me through the basics of finding my balance.

"Just bend your knees a bit," he instructs. "Keep your weight forward. It's all about feeling the blades on the ice."

I attempt to mimic his stance, but it feels unnatural, like a newborn deer trying to figure out that walking thing. To his credit, Keir doesn't laugh – at least not outwardly.

"Okay, let's try a few steps," he suggests. "I'll hold you steady."

I look at him sceptically but decide to give it a go. I push off and—much to my surprise—glide a few feet before grabbing onto Keir's arm like it's the last lifeboat on the Titanic.

"See? You're doing great," he encourages, though I'm sure he's using all his strength not to burst out laughing at my flailing arms.

Feeling slightly more daring, I attempt it again, pushing off with a bit more force this time. My feet slide from under me in slow motion, my arms windmilling in the air as I let out a strangled yelp. But before I can meet the ice with anything other than my shredded dignity, Keir's arms wrap around my waist and pull me upright against his chest.

"Gotcha," he says, his breath warm against my ear. "No AE for you today."

I can feel heat flooding my cheeks, whether from the near fall or from being pressed so close to Keir Drummond, I can't quite tell.

"You're good at this saving thing," I murmur as he loosens his hold but doesn't let go. He skates around to face me, his eyes heated, and he stares at me as if I just fell from the moon.

I'm hyper-aware of his hands still resting lightly on my hips, his chest mere inches from mine. "Is this how you treat all the newbies?" I ask, trying to inject a bit of humour to defuse the sexual tension bouncing all around us.

"Only the ones who own the team," he jokes lightly.

Our eyes lock, and for a second, everything else fades. It's just Keir's green eyes staring into mine, making my heart race like it's trying to win a sprint.

Then, as if realising we're in a bit too close of a proximity for casual skating lessons, he gently pushes back and clears his throat. "Right then," he says, taking a step back but still holding onto my hands. "Should we give it another go?"

He skates slowly backwards while I cling to his hands. He is pulling me along rather than me helping out, but hey, I'm upright on the ice, so I'm counting it as a win. Every small shuffle forward has me feeling like I'm achieving the impossible. Plus, the fact that I haven't yet ended up sprawled on the ice is a nice bonus.

"See? You're a natural," Keir says, his tone light and teasing.

"I wouldn't go that far," I reply, my voice wobbly as my legs. "I feel like Bambi on ice."

He laughs openly now, the sound echoing around the empty rink. "You're doing fine, Emma. Just don't let go of me."

"Not planning to," I say, and there's more truth in those words than I'd like to admit.

As we continue, each glide becomes less terrifying and slightly more controlled. Keir keeps up an endless stream of encouragement and hockey trivia, keeping my mind distracted enough that I don't tense up too much.

I feel completely safe with him. He won't let me fall. It's comforting and I'm impressed by how effortlessly he skates around me. It's like he's part of the ice itself – smooth, cool, and completely in control.

Gradually, we make our way around the rink with Keir occasionally letting go for a second or two to test my balance. Each time he does, panic flares briefly, but I manage to stay on my feet. After a couple of laps, my confidence grows, and the genuine shock of not face-planting empowers me.

"You might just make a hockey fan out of me yet," I tease, breathless from both exertion and nerves.

Keir's eyes glint with something that feels like victory. "That's the spirit."

We round another bend, and this time, he lets go completely. It's only for a moment, but it feels like an eternity as I glide alone. The thrill is immediate, filled with pride and terror.

"Look at you!" he exclaims, clapping his hands once in approval. "You're practically flying!"

I grin back at him, unable to suppress my joy. "With you as my wingman, how could I not?"

Keir skates ahead then circles back to me his smile dimming slightly as he looks over my shoulder.

I'm about to ask what's up, when I hear skates hit the ice and then hands go to my waist as that gorgeous cologne hits my nose.

"Emma," Lachlan says, circling around to face me, just like Keir did. "Nice to see you again."

His wicked smirk sends a rush of lust straight to my pussy and my mouth goes dry.

"Mm-hm," I murmur, looking away from him to Keir.

I can tell Keir's trying to play it cool, but there's a glimmer of something in his eyes. Annoyance? Jealousy? I can't quite pin it down, but the air suddenly feels heavier with more than just the chill of the ice rink. The tension could be cut with a skate blade, and part of me wonders if I've just glided into the middle of a very male, very territorial standoff.