Chapter 3

Amelia

The last echo of a slamming locker door at the rink fades, and I'm alone. The lingering scent of icy menthol and sweat floats through the air. With a flick of the wrist, I secure my ponytail and shuffle through the silence, my sneakers leaving soft whispers against the polished concrete floors.

The crisp Chicago night bites at my cheeks as I push through the exit. It's late; the parking garage is practically deserted, save for a few scattered cars. That's when I see him—Riley Watson, leaning nonchalantly against his sleek black Audi Q7 like he's waiting for something inevitable.

"Need a lift?" His voice cuts through the cold, a confident grin playing on his lips.

I stop short, feeling suddenly conscious of how small I am next to his towering frame. "Thanks, but I'm good. Don't accept rides from strangers."

"Stranger?" Riley straightens up, laughing softly. "Come on, Amelia, we're practically coworkers."

"Practically doesn't cut it." I take a step back, trying to ignore my racing pulse .

"Fair enough," he says, holding his hands up in surrender. "But you know, it's quite the walk to the 'L' station. You know this neighborhood can be sketchy at night."

"Sketchy?" I arch an eyebrow with a crooked smile. "Is that your professional assessment?"

"Absolutely." He winks, the blue of his eyes almost glowing in the dim light. "Hockey player by day, crime analyst by night."

"Sounds like a terrible TV show," I retort, though a smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. "But thanks for the concern. I can handle myself."

"Never doubted it for a second," Riley replies, his gaze lingering on me longer than he probably should, making gooseflesh rise on my skin.

"Goodnight, Riley," I say, turning away before the heat in his gaze draws me closer to him.

"Goodnight, Amelia." His voice sticks in my head all the way home, and I can’t tell if I’m intrigued or annoyed.

***

The next day, it’s back to business as usual.

I'm shoving jerseys into a large laundry bin when a towel lands at my feet, followed by a chorus of snickers. I don't need to look up to know it's on purpose.

"Oops," drawls one of the Blades from behind me, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "Butterfingers."

Another towel falls. And another. The locker room’s echo carries their amusement like a taunt. My cheeks burn, not just with embarrassment but anger too. I bend down, keeping my expression neutral. I've learned not to give them the satisfaction of a reaction. I’m nothing but professional here.

"Hey, towel girl, you missed one," another chimes in.

Just as I'm about to reach for the latest towel casualty, a firm voice cuts through the locker room. "Knock it off, guys."

Riley's standing there, his eyes fixed on his teammates. There's an edge in their captain’s voice that brooks no argument.

"Awe, Cap, we're not hurting anyone," one of the players protests.

"Doesn't matter. Leave her alone," Riley commands. This time, there's a note of finality that silences any further objections.

The room quiets down, the only sounds now are the hum of fluorescent lights and the faint drip of a leaky showerhead. I keep my gaze fixed on the towels in my arms, not willing to meet his eyes.

"Thanks," I mutter under my breath, unsure if he hears me over the pounding of my heart. I turn away, focusing on the task at hand, trying not to think about how easy it would be to get lost in those blue eyes.

"Anytime," I hear him say before the sound of his steps fade away, leaving me with the thought of the fact that he just defended me and a whole lot of confusion.

I continue on with my tasks while the scent of sweat and disinfectant lingers until the chatter dwindles and I feel the weight of gazes fading away. My shoulders relax, grateful for the reprieve.

Stealing a glance toward the locker room door, I catch Riley watching the last of his team disappear through the doorway. He's leaning against a locker, arms crossed, a silent guard in a room that still echoes of what just went down.

Our eyes meet. I let a smile—small, genuine—flicker across my face. It's a thank you, a recognition of what he did. He nods once, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile that doesn't quite reach those piercing bright eyes, before he turns away.

Practice days are always a lot busier for me with additional tasks to be done. The sharp slap of a puck against the boards ricochets through The Blade's Edge as I deliver clean towels to the players bench. Just as I’m placing the towels down, I hear voices coming from the ice.

"Come on, Cap, you in for drinks tonight?" one of the guys calls out.

"Can't tonight," Riley's voice floats back. "Got plans."

A chorus of groans and ribbing follows, but I can't help the twist of curiosity that knots in my stomach. Plans? I shake the thought away, focusing on getting out of this box without falling on my face.

"Your loss, man!" someone shouts back, as I walk through the door and back down the hall to the locker room.

Practice goes by in a blur of filling shampoo bottles and restocking more towels. Damn these guys use an ungodly amount of those things.

I'm pushing the dirty laundry hamper to the laundry room when Riley strides over, his skates clucking against the floor. My heart does an annoying little skip, traitorous thing.

"Hey, Amelia," he starts, leaning against the wall nonchalantly. "I was wondering if you'd want to grab some drinks later?"

"Drinks?" My voice wobbles slightly, betraying my cool exterior.

"Yeah, just the two of us. Me and you." His smile is easy, inviting.

I hesitate, memories of last night's encounter playing tag with my common sense. Is this cute, star hockey player actually into me, or is this just another game to him?

"Sure," I find myself saying, not really thinking things through before that one little word slips out. "Why not?"

"Great," Riley grins, pushing off the wall. "Can you leave from here, say seven? You’ll be done by then, right?"

"Seven works." I nod, trying to match his casual demeanor.

As he walks away, I let out the breath and carry on with pushing the large basket away from the locker room. What am I doing? Yet, a little thrill pulses through me. Riley Watson asked me out for drinks. Just me, Amelia Brooks, the girl who's always been one step behind the spotlight.

Mercy. Tonight’s going to be interesting. That’s for sure.

The rest of the day drags on and my nerves for what’s to come make the minutes tick slow. Until the last towel is folded and put on the shelf for the night.

As soon as I walk through the double metal doors into the parking garage, there he is, just like the night before when I declined his ride home.

He’s a gentleman and opens my door and takes my hand to help me sit. That touch. A warm sensation suddenly runs through me… before I yank my hand away. Too much. Too soon.

Pace yourself, girl.

The neon sign buzzes as we step into the dive bar, a stark contrast to the ice rink for sure. This place is tucked away on the edge of town, the kind of joint where you can come to drink your life away, and no one would be the wiser.

"Riley, this place is..." I trail off, searching for the right word.

"Cozy?" he suggests with a smirk, holding the door open for me.

"Sure," I agree, "if cozy means forgotten by time."

He chuckles, and the sound eases some of the tension knotting my shoulders. We slide into a booth that's seen better days.

"Thanks for coming out with me," he says while we wait for our server.

"Thanks for the invite." I fiddle with the edge of the menu, feeling out of place among the gruff regulars and the scent of stale beer.

"Umm," I begin, trying to sound casual, "why here? It feels like you're trying to hide me."

"Hide you?" Riley leans back, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I just thought you'd appreciate a place where the paparazzi won't bother us."

"Paparazzi?" I can't help but laugh. "Right, because I'm such a high-profile target."

"Exactly," he plays along, reaching across the table to gently tuck the stray lock of hair I missed behind my ear. "Gotta keep our star safe."

The proximity, the half vintage light above our heads, it's all conspiring to blur the lines between caution and want.

I sip my beer, and across the table, Riley's eyes twinkle with a mischief I'm learning to read.

"Okay, so you're this hotshot on the ice," I say, taking one more swig for courage. "But what about off the rink? Any secret talents?"

"Secret talents?" He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Well, I make a mean lasagna. And I can juggle—"

"Juggle?" I interrupt.

"Yep. Pucks, not balls. Helps with hand-eye coordination." He grins. "What about you? Any party tricks up your sleeve?"

"Party tricks?" I echo, feeling a warm buzz from the alcohol and his attention. "I can quote an embarrassing amount of sci-fi movies."

"Really?" The surprise in his voice makes me feel oddly proud.

" Really ." I emphasize the word, taking another drink. "It’s my guilty pleasure. 'May the force be with you,' and all that jazz."

"Ah, a woman of culture," he teases, raising his glass in mock salute.

The laughter comes easy between us, a back-and-forth thing that’s comfortable. Riley doesn't press too hard, doesn't pry too deep into my personal life. It's refreshing.

We fall into a lull, savoring the last of our drinks. I catch him watching me, his gaze steady. There's an earnestness there that chips away at my defenses.

"Amelia," he starts with a softer tone, "I'm glad you said yes."

"Me too," I admit.

Hours slip by, unnoticed, until the barman shouts last call. There is one main thing that I noticed with Riley; he checks his phone like it’s a habit. However, overall, I had a good time with him tonight.

"Let’s get you home," he insists, slipping his jacket over my shoulders when we step outside.

"Sounds good. Thank you," I agree, snuggling into the warmth of his coat.

"Of course," he chuckles, guiding me with a gentle hand at the small of my back through the parking lot.

The crisp night air does nothing to soothe the heat flushing my cheeks. We walk close, shoulders brushing. I stumble slightly just before we reach his car, blame it on the uneven sidewalk, but Riley's quick to steady me.

"Easy there, tiger," he murmurs.

"Sorry, just a little tipsy," I confess, looking up at him.

"Tipsy, huh?" There’s a softness to the way he’s looking at me. "Does that mean I finally get to hear what you think of me?"

"Think of you?" I draw out the question, playful yet honest. "You're... not what I expected."

"And what did you expect?" he teases.

"Arrogance. Ego. The usual star athlete package."

"Ouch," he feigns hurt, placing a hand over his heart. "And the reality?"

"Surprisingly humble. Charming. Annoyingly likable," I say, the last part barely above a whisper.

"Annoyingly, huh?" He stops, turns to face me, hands on my shoulders. "I can work with annoyingly."

"Good," I reply. My voice is somehow steadier than my legs. "Because I might just let you."

He leans forward as I raise up on my tip toes, and our lips connect. It’s soft and gentle until it’s suddenly hot and needy… and over way too soon with him pulling back. With a final peck to the corner of my mouth, and then my forehead, Riley pulls me close to his chest.

“Like I said, let’s get you home. Before I’m no longer able to be a gentleman,” he whispers.

I chuckle and keep laughing until we’re both seated on the soft leather and driving down the road.