1. Emma

What doyou wear when you're trying to impress a team of hot hockey players without accidentally seducing them? Asking for a friend.

I tug at the hem of my dress, second-guessing my outfit choice for the tenth time. The midnight blue fabric clings to my curves like a second skin, the neckline dipping just low enough to offer a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage.

It's the kind of dress that says "I'm here to be noticed" without crossing the line into "I'm desperate for attention."

At least, I hope that's the message it sends.

I slide on a pair of strappy silver heels, the final touch to an ensemble that's miles away from my standard uniform of leggings and oversized sweatshirts. I'm not usually one for getting dolled up, but tonight isn't just any night.

It's my chance to scope out the NHL players of the Chicago Blizzards before I officially start my new gig as their social media manager on Monday.

The things I do for love…of hockey.

It's pure luck that we found out where the players would be tonight. My bestie Selena follows one of their forwards, DJ Johnson, on socials and caught a story he'd posted about celebrating his birthday tonight at The Gilded Lily in the West Loop.

One harebrained plan later, and here I am, getting ready to infiltrate the team and spy on them in person.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the mingling scents of hairspray and perfume throughout the cramped apartment that Selena and I share. Our cozy Ukranian Village abode is a perfect reflection of our personalities—an eclectic mix of mismatched furniture, colorful throw pillows, and walls plastered with photos documenting our years of friendship.

It's cluttered and lived-in, but it's home.

The bathroom door swings open and Selena emerges in a swirl of bold red satin, her dress hugging her tall, curvy frame like it was made for her. Her dark hair is slicked back into a sleek ponytail and her lips are painted a daring shade of crimson.

She looks effortlessly glamorous, as always.

Selena lets out a low whistle as she looks me up and down. "Damn girl, the hockey boys won't know what hit 'em when you walk in looking like that!"

I feel a flush creep up my neck and I tug self-consciously at my dress again.

"I'm not trying to impress them." My voice comes out more defensive than I intend. "I just want to blend in enough to get a read on what they're really like when their guard is down, you know?"

After all, starting Monday, I'm going to be spending a whole lot of time with these guys. Tonight's my only shot to see the real them before they put on their PR faces for the new girl.

Selena quirks a perfectly arched brow. "Uh-huh, sure. You keep telling yourself that. Personally, I plan on doing a whole lot more than just observing, if you know what I mean." She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.

I can't help but laugh at my audacious friend's antics. Leave it to Selena to dive headfirst into a room full of pro athletes with only one goal in mind.

Maybe some of her boldness will rub off on me tonight.

Selena grabs my hands and tugs me close until we're standing hip to hip in front of the mirror. Her eyes, framed by false lashes, turn suddenly serious as they bore into mine.

"Emma Collins, you listen to me. These hockey hotties aren't going to know what hit them when they meet you. You're going to knock their skates right off their feet. Just you wait and see."

Her words wrap around me like a warm hug, bolstering my resolve. I take a deep breath, letting her confidence seep into my skin. "You're right." I nod decisively, holding her gaze.

A grin splits Selena's ruby red lips. "Damn straight, I am! Now let's get this party started. I've got a gaggle of hockey players to charm the pants off of. Literally." She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively again and I can't contain the snort that escapes me as she guides me out of our apartment.

The cool evening air hits my face as Selena and I step out of our rideshare. I take a deep breath, inhaling the particular smell of the city at night—car exhaust mingled with the aroma of gourmet food wafting from nearby restaurants.

"Come on, Em, the night awaits!" Selena grabs my hand and tugs me forward with an excited grin. I stumble after her in my heels, teetering precariously on the uneven sidewalk.

All around us, the streets of the West Loop pulse with energy. Packs of well-dressed other twenty-somethings strut by like they own the place, laughing raucously. Neon signs flash overhead, beckoning patrons into crowded bars and clubs. The bass thumps from inside, the musical heartbeat of the city.

My own heart races as I take it all in, a potent cocktail of exhilaration and nerves.

This glitzy, fast-paced world is so far removed from my usual homebody routine it may as well be another planet. Most weekends, you can find me snuggled up in my coziest flannel PJs, working my way through pints of cookie dough ice cream while I catch up on my favorite YouTubers.

Selena, of course, thrives in settings like this. It's like she feeds off the collective energy of the crowd. I envy her easy confidence, the way she seems to float above the noise and chaos, completely at ease.

As we approach The Gilded Lily, the upscale bar where DJ is having his birthday, I can't help but gawk at the massive line snaking out the front door.

Girls with perfectly tousled beach waves and guys in crisp button-downs wait impatiently behind a velvet rope, eyeing the stone-faced bouncer.

"Whoa, this place is intense," I murmur to Selena, shifting my weight from foot to foot. "Are you sure we can even get in?"

She shoots me a sly wink. "Oh, we're getting in. Just follow my lead."

With a toss of her glossy hair, she saunters right up to the bouncer, a huge guy with biceps the size of tree trunks. I scurry after her, trying my best to mimic her self-assured stride.

The bouncer cocks an eyebrow, surveying us with blatant skepticism. But Selena just smiles up at him, cool as a cucumber.

"We're on the list. Selena Nelson, plus one."

My jaw nearly hits the floor as he checks his clipboard, gives a curt nod, and unhooks the velvet rope to let us pass. I shoot Selena an awed glance as we breeze by the line of waiting clubgoers.

"Since when do you have that kind of pull?" I ask.

"Since I made it my mission to get us into this party. You only start a new job with a pro hockey team once." Her expression softens into something that sees straight through me. "I'm proud of you, Emma. You're crushing it and you deserve to celebrate."

Okay, I am not going to cry at a bar!

Ever since Nana passed away last year, it's just been me and Selena against the world. She's been my rock, my port in the storm, and my partner in wine-fueled Netflix binges. She was the one who encouraged me to apply for this new job in the first place, who believed that I could get it.

I honestly don't know how I would have made it through the grief and upheaval without Selena's help.

I bat my feelings away with a wave of my hand and follow Selena inside.

The interior of the bar takes my breath away. Plush velvet booths line the walls, their rich jewel tones a striking contrast against the gleaming marble surfaces. The soft, ambient lighting casts a warm glow over the space, making everyone look just a little more beautiful, a little more untouchable.

As Selena and I make our way towards the bar, I can feel the weight of curious gazes on us. It's like they can smell the newcomers, sense that we don't quite belong. But I refuse to cower.

I straighten my spine, squaring my shoulders as I channel every ounce of Selena's effortless confidence. Fake it 'til you make it, right?

"Two gin and tonics, please," Selena calls out to the bartender, a devastatingly handsome man with artfully tousled hair and a jawline that could cut glass.

I shake my head, feeling a sudden urge to break out of my comfort zone. "Actually, make mine a cosmo."

Selena raises an eyebrow, a sly grin tugging at her lips. "Look at you, branching out. I like it."

Drinks in hand, we stake out a spot near the edge of the room, the perfect vantage point to take in the scene. I scan the crowd, searching for a glimpse of the Blizzards players.

I know they're here somewhere, and the thought of seeing them in the flesh sends a thrill racing down my spine.

And then, I spot them. Across the room, in a roped-off VIP section, sits a group of tall, athletic men. Even from a distance, they exude an aura of power and magnetism. They're dressed casually—designer jeans, fitted t-shirts, expensive watches glinting on their wrists—but there's no mistaking their status.

My breath catches in my throat as I take them in, recognizing a few familiar faces from my late-night research sessions.

Vincent Marquez, the tough-as-nails defenseman with the brooding eyes and the jagged scar above his left eyebrow. Adam Weiss, the starting goalie, all easy smiles and boyish charm that belies his killer instincts on the ice. And Marcus LeBlanc, the power forward with the panty-dropping grin and the reputation for scoring clutch goals, on and off the ice.

"Holy hell," I breathe, unable to tear my gaze away. "It's really them."

Selena follows my line of sight, her eyes widening appreciatively. "Damn. I mean, I knew they were hot, but seeing them in person is a whole different ball game."

"They don't use balls in hockey," I quip back at her, trying not to let my brain short-circuit as I reconcile the larger-than-life figures I've seen on TV with the flesh-and-blood men mere feet away.

It's surreal, exhilarating, and more than a little intimidating.

I pop back up on my tiptoes in these damn heels, trying to crane my neck at the players again. The stilettos wobble precariously and then I pitch forward.

The hard floor rushes up to meet me.

This is it, I think. My most humiliating moment, splayed out for all to see.

Goodbye, dignity. Nice knowing you.

But instead of a painful face-plant, I'm yanked back against a solid wall of muscle, expensive cologne tickling my nose. Strong arms encircle my waist and heat blooms across my skin.

Pulse pounding, I slowly tilt my head back, my eyes widening as they meet a piercing green gaze.

I recognize him immediately—Lukas Dvorak, star forward and notorious playboy.

And he's even more swoon-worthy in person, all tousled blond hair and chiseled features. The way he's holding me, our bodies molded together, makes my pulse pound until I feel lightheaded.

Lukas's hands flex against my waist, his touch searing through the thin fabric of my dress. I suppress a shiver, heat pooling low in my belly.

But it's the raw, undisguised hunger in his gaze that makes my mouth go dry.

Lukas Dvorak looks at me like he wants to devour me whole.