Sidelined Emma Carter's butt had gone numb from sitting in the same cushioned seat for three hours. Not even the luxury boxes at Boston Arena had chairs comfortable enough for the marathon that was playoff hockey. The crowd roared as the final buzzer sounded—Boston Blades 3, Montreal 2.

She stood and stretched, watching as her husband Jack scored the winning goal in overtime. The fans stomped and chanted his name, their hero on ice. Emma smiled, genuinely happy for him despite everything else.

"Mrs. Reynolds? Would you like me to call your car?" the suite attendant asked, already gathering her empty water bottles.

"Not yet, thanks. I'm heading down to congratulate the team." Emma grabbed her purse, a simple leather tote that clashed hilariously with the designer outfits of the other hockey wives.

The attendant's smile tightened. "Oh, I believe there's a private team celebration tonight. Players only."

Emma's phone buzzed with a text from Jack: Don't wait up. Team party at Murphy's.

She read between the lines. Don't show up. Don't embarrass me. Again.

"Right. Of course." Emma forced a smile. "I'll take that car now."

---

Three hours and two unanswered calls later, Emma sat cross-legged on their king-sized bed, laptop open to a spreadsheet that tracked the household budget. Jack made millions, but old habits die hard. Her grandfather had taught her to watch every penny, even when you had billions of them.

The front door slammed downstairs. Emma closed her laptop and took a deep breath.

"Em? You still up?" Jack's voice echoed through their too-big house, slightly slurred.

"In the bedroom," she called back, slipping on her glasses like armor.

Jack appeared in the doorway, still in his game-day suit, tie hanging loose around his neck. At thirty-two, he was in his hockey prime—six-foot-two, shoulders like a coat hanger, jawline that could cut glass. He'd been gorgeous when they met in college. Now he was sculpted.

"Helluva game, huh?" He grinned, running a hand through his dark hair. "Did you see that last goal?"

"It was amazing." Emma smiled genuinely. "That spin move was insane."

"Coach said it's going on the season highlight reel." Jack loosened his tie further but didn't move to take it off. He just stood there, swaying slightly.

Emma's stomach knotted. Something was wrong.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah. No. I mean—" Jack reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. "I need to talk to you about something."

"What's that?" Emma nodded toward the envelope, though she already knew. The same dread she'd been feeling for months crystallized into something solid and cold.

Jack tossed the envelope onto the bed. It slid across the comforter and bumped against her knee.

"Divorce papers," he said, his voice oddly flat. "My lawyer drew them up last week."

Emma stared at the envelope. Her name was typed on the front in cold, official letters. She should cry, she thought distantly. She should be shocked. Instead, she felt like she'd been watching this train approach for miles.

"Were you going to discuss this with me first, or just throw legal documents at my face?" The words came out calmer than she felt.

Jack had the decency to look uncomfortable for about half a second.

"Look, we both know this isn't working." He gestured between them. "You're... you, and I'm..."

"You're what, Jack?"

"I'm Jack Reynolds now." He squared his shoulders. "I've got endorsement deals. Magazine covers. I need someone who understands this lifestyle."

Emma laughed, she couldn't help it. "This lifestyle? You mean the one where I've supported you through three team changes and two injuries? Where I've moved cities four times in six years? That lifestyle?"

"See, this is what I mean." Jack pointed at her accusingly. "You're always keeping score."

"I'm a numbers person. Sue me." Emma picked up the envelope but didn't open it.

"The thing is," Jack continued, pacing now, "I've met someone who gets it. She understands the demands, the spotlight."

Emma's laugh turned hollow. "Wow. So there's already a replacement. Who is she? Let me guess—one of those i********: models who's been commenting on your photos?"

Jack's silence was answer enough.

"How long?" Emma asked.

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

Jack sighed dramatically. "A few months. It just happened."

Emma stood, suddenly unable to have this conversation in the bed they'd shared for eight years. "Things don't 'just happen,' Jack. You make choices."

"Fine. I chose someone who makes more sense for me now." He threw his hands up. "I'm not the same guy who married you in college. I need..."

"More?" Emma supplied.

"Different." Jack softened his tone, as if that made it better. "You're smart, Em. Too smart for this world, honestly. But you don't fit anymore. You hide at games. You wear Target when everyone else wears Prada."

"I like Target," Emma said, knowing how ridiculous this argument was becoming.

"The settlement's fair," Jack continued, nodding at the envelope. "The house, a million cash, alimony for two years while you 'find yourself' or whatever."

Emma clutched the envelope tighter, crumpling it slightly. She thought about all the things Jack didn't know—about her family, her grandfather, the trust fund she'd never touched, the shares she owned in companies whose names would make his head spin.

Her phone rang, cutting through the tense silence. Her grandfather's photo lit up the screen.

Jack rolled his eyes.

Emma snatched the phone. "I should take this."

"Of course you should." Jack grabbed a duffel bag from the closet—already packed, she noticed. "I'll be at the Ritz until I find a place. My lawyer's number is in there. Don't make this messy, Em."

As Jack headed for the door, Emma called after him: "Jack?"

He turned, hand on the doorframe.

"Your career high record is twenty-eight goals in a season. My grandfather made twenty-eight million dollars *last week*." She smiled sweetly. "Just keeping score."

Jack's face contorted in confusion as she answered the phone.

"Hi, Grandpa," Emma said, watching her soon-to-be-ex-husband walk out. "Yes, I saw the game. Listen, I think I'm ready to take you up on that job offer after all."

The job Jack thought was just some entry-level position at Mitchell Industries—owned by her grandfather, Franklin Mitchell, billionaire and majority owner of the Boston Blades hockey franchise.

As the front door slammed shut, Emma finally opened the envelope. Beneath the legal jargon was one simple truth: Jack Reynolds had just made the biggest mistake of his career.

Hidden Plays Emma stepped out of the taxi in front of Mitchell Tower, a gleaming seventy-story monument to her grandfather's business success. Sunglasses firmly in place, she'd swapped yesterday's jeans for a simple navy dress. Her divorce-papers-to-the-face makeover.

The security guard nodded as she entered. "Morning, Ms. Carter."

She smiled at the use of her mother's maiden name—the one she'd been using professionally for the past year. As far as anyone knew, Emma Carter was just another employee at Mitchell Industries, not Emma Mitchell Reynolds, granddaughter of Franklin Mitchell and soon-to-be-ex-wife of hockey star Jack Reynolds.

The executive elevator whisked her to the top floor. No scan, no keycard needed—it recognized her face. Money couldn't buy happiness, but it could buy really cool tech.

Franklin Mitchell's assistant—a perpetually frazzled man named Walter who'd been with him for thirty years—jumped up when she arrived.

"He's waiting for you, Ms. Carter. Can I get you coffee?"

"I'm fine, Walter. Thanks."

Emma paused outside her grandfather's office, collecting herself. Don't cry. Don't break. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the heavy oak door.

Franklin Mitchell sat behind a desk the size of a small boat. At seventy-eight, he still came to the office daily, even though doctors had been telling him to slow down for a decade. His white hair was immaculately combed, his bow tie perfectly centered. The only concession to age was the oxygen cannula in his nose, connected to a discreet tank beside his chair.

"There's my girl." He beamed, pushing himself up with surprising strength.

Emma crossed the room and hugged him, careful not to squeeze too hard. He smelled like peppermint and old books.

"Sit, sit." He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "You look like hell, Emmy."

Emma laughed despite herself. "Good morning to you too, Grandpa."

"I'm old. I get to skip pleasantries." He studied her over his glasses. "So he finally did it?"

"Last night." Emma sank into the chair. "How did you know?"

"Because I know everything." Franklin tapped his temple. "And because his agent called our PR department asking how to handle press for a friendly divorce."

Emma's eyebrows shot up. "Already? The papers aren't even signed."

"Jack moves fast. On and off the ice." Franklin's face darkened. "Ungrateful little pissant."

"Grandpa!"

"What? I'm not wrong." He shuffled papers on his desk. "I've never liked him."

"You came to our wedding."

"I gave a speech!"

"You told him if he hurt me, you'd make sure his body was never found."

Franklin shrugged. "I stand by that."

Emma rubbed her temples. "Please tell me you're not actually planning a murder."

"Of course not." Franklin waved dismissively. "Too messy. Tax audit is much more effective."

"Grandpa."

"Fine, fine." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I called you here for something else, anyway."

He opened a drawer and pulled out a manila folder, sliding it across the desk. Emma took it, noting the Mitchell Industries logo embossed on the front.

"What's this?"

"Your future."

Emma opened the folder to find organizational charts, financial statements, and a stack of legal documents with sticky notes marked "sign here."

"You've been working in management for a year now," Franklin continued. "Learning the business from the inside. It's time to stop hiding, Emmy."

Emma flipped through the papers. "You want me to take over the company? Now?"

"Not all at once. But yes, eventually." Franklin's expression softened. "I'm not getting any younger, kiddo."

"You're fine," Emma said automatically.

"I spent last Tuesday in the hospital." He tapped the oxygen tank. "Didn't tell you because you were dealing with enough."

Emma's throat tightened. "Grandpa..."

"I'm not dying tomorrow. But I'm not immortal either." He leaned forward. "It's time to start the transition. You've proven yourself—quietly building that downtown revitalization project, restructuring the pension plan."

"No one knows that was me," Emma said.

"Exactly. You've been doing the work without the credit." Franklin's eyes twinkled. "Just like I did when I started. But now it's time for Emma Mitchell to step out of the shadows."

Emma ran her fingers over the papers. "What about the hockey team?"

Franklin grinned. "Thought you might ask about that." He pressed the intercom. "Walter, send him in."

The door opened, and Emma turned to see who "him" was.

Her first thought: Tall.

Her second thought: Really tall.

Her third thought: Sweet baby Jesus on a hockey stick.

The man who entered looked like he'd been carved from granite by an artist with a thing for sharp angles. Six-foot-four at least, with shoulders that filled his charcoal suit jacket to capacity. Dark blonde hair, cut short on the sides but with just enough length on top to hint at waves. Cheekbones that could slice bread. A straight nose that had clearly never been broken, surprising for someone who looked like he could bench-press a car.

"Emma, meet Aleksander Volkov. CEO of the Boston Blades and the only other person who knows about your... unique employment situation."

The man extended a large hand. "Ms. Mitchell. A pleasure to finally meet you properly."

His voice was deep with just a hint of an accent she couldn't place. Eastern European, maybe?

Emma stood, suddenly very aware of her height (average), her hair (unwashed), and her handshake (clammy). "Mr. Volkov. I didn't realize we were having a meeting."

"Alek, please." His hand enveloped hers, warm and dry. "And this isn't a meeting. Your grandfather is matchmaking."

"Business matchmaking," Franklin clarified, poorly hiding a smile. "Though I wouldn't object to grandchildren before I die."

"Grandpa!" Emma's cheeks flamed.

"What? He's single, you're almost single."

Aleksander—Alek—looked mortified but recovered quickly. "I believe what Mr. Mitchell means is that we'll be working closely together as you transition into your role as co-owner of the Blades."

Emma's jaw dropped. "Co-owner?"

"I'm signing over forty percent of my stake to you," Franklin explained. "Alek has twenty percent. The remaining forty stays with me until I kick the bucket, then goes to you."

"That would make me majority owner." Emma sank back into her chair.

"The first female majority owner in league history," Alek added. "If you accept."

"It's a lot to process," Emma admitted.

"Which is why you'll have time." Franklin softened his tone. "Keep working as you have been. Learn from Alek. When you're ready—and when that jackass husband of yours is legally out of the picture—we'll make the announcement."

Emma looked up at Alek. "You've known who I was this whole time? Even when I was getting coffee for the marketing department?"

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Yes."

"And you never said anything."

"It wasn't my place." His blue eyes met hers directly. "But I was impressed by how quickly you learned the business. Your ideas in the budget meeting last month about restructuring player bonuses were brilliant."

"You were in that meeting?" Emma tried to recall who else had been there.

"Back corner. You wouldn't have noticed me."

Franklin snorted. "He's six-five and built like a refrigerator. Everyone notices him."

"Six-four," Alek corrected mildly.

"Whatever. Point is," Franklin tapped the papers, "it's time for a new generation to take the helm. Starting with the team."

Emma looked between them. "Does Jack know any of this?"

Alek shook his head. "No one on the team knows. They think you're..."

"The plain girlfriend who doesn't fit in?" Emma supplied.

"I was going to say 'private,'" Alek said diplomatically.

"Well, Jack made it very clear last night that I don't belong in his world." Emma squared her shoulders. "Maybe it's time I showed him whose world he's actually been playing in."

Franklin grinned. "That's my girl."

"I need to think about all this," Emma said, standing. "But... I'm interested."

"Good." Franklin nodded. "Alek will brief you on the team's financial situation. It's a little more complicated than the public knows."

Emma turned to Alek, who was watching her with an unreadable expression. "When would you like to start?"

"How about dinner?" he asked, then quickly added, "To discuss business, of course."

"Of course," Emma echoed, ignoring her grandfather's knowing smile.

"I know a quiet place where no one will recognize you—or ask for Jack's autograph."

"That," Emma said, surprising herself with a genuine smile, "sounds perfect."

As she left the office with a promise to call her grandfather later, Emma realized she hadn't thought about Jack or the divorce papers for the past hour. Instead, she found herself wondering what Aleksander Volkov would be like away from the office, and whether his eyes were actually that blue or if it was just the lighting, she was getting intrigued by him.

Stepping into the elevator, she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall. For the first time in months, she looked... excited. Maybe Jack throwing those papers in her face was the best thing that could have happened.

The doors closed, Emma smiled. Game on.

power play Emma stared at the signature line on the divorce papers, pen hovering above the page. Her lawyer—a shark in Louboutins named Diane—sat across from her in Mitchell Industries' fifty-eighth-floor conference room.

"You're getting a good deal," Diane said. "The house, the investments you made together, plus alimony. We could push for more, but..."

"But then I'd have to reveal my actual net worth." Emma finished her thought.

"Precisely." Diane tapped her red fingernail on the table. "Sign now, surprise him later. Much more satisfying."

Emma's pen scratched across the paper. Eight years of marriage reduced to a signature and a date.

"Congratulations," Diane said dryly. "You're almost a free woman."

Emma closed the folder. "Now what?"

"Now you wait for the judge. Shouldn't take long with the settlement uncontested." Diane stood, smoothing her skirt. "Meanwhile, live your life. Preferably somewhere that doesn't remind you of Jack Reynolds."

---

Three days later, Emma unlocked the door to her new apartment in the Back Bay, wheeling in a single suitcase. The divorce wasn't final, but she couldn't stay in that house another minute.

The apartment—bought through one of her grandfather's shell companies years ago as an investment—was three thousand square feet of pristine luxury with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Charles River. Emma had always considered it an unnecessary extravagance. Now, she was grateful for the sanctuary.

Her phone buzzed as she stood admiring the view. A text from Alek: Business meeting tomorrow, 10 AM. Wear comfortable shoes. Taking you somewhere interesting.

Emma stared at the message. Comfortable shoes? Where on earth was the CEO of a professional hockey team taking her?

Before she could respond, another text arrived—from her friend Mia, with an image attachment. Thought you should see this before someone else shows you.

Emma opened it to find a gossip website's front page. The headline screamed: "BOSTON BLADE FINDS SHARP NEW EDGE: Jack Reynolds Spotted with Supermodel at Nobu."

There was Jack, hand in hand with a woman so stunning it hurt Emma's eyes. The caption identified her as Veronica Wells, Victoria's Secret model and the new face of some designer Emma couldn't pronounce.

You ok? Mia texted again.

Emma surprised herself by typing: Actually, yes. Thanks for the heads-up.

It was true. The knife-twist she'd expected didn't come. Instead, she felt something between relief and pity. Jack looked like a boy who'd found his mother's credit card—excited but way out of his depth.

She texted Alek back: Comfortable shoes it is. Should I be worried?

His response came quickly: Only if you're afraid of heights.

---

The following morning, Emma met Alek in the lobby of Mitchell Tower, wearing jeans, a sweater, and her most comfortable boots. He was waiting by the security desk, dressed similarly casual in dark jeans and a navy quarter-zip that did unfair things for his shoulders.

"Good morning," he said, handing her a coffee. "Ready for an adventure?"

"That depends. Does this adventure involve parachutes? Because I should warn you, I'm not great with falling."

His mouth quirked in that almost-smile. "No parachutes. But we will need these." He handed her a hard hat with "VISITOR" printed on the front.

Twenty minutes later, they stood on metal scaffolding fifty feet above the ice at Boston Arena. Below them, maintenance crews prepared the rink for that night's game, their voices echoing in the empty stadium.

"Welcome to the catwalks," Alek said, his voice low. "Best view in the house."

Emma gripped the railing, both terrified and exhilarated. "This is... not what I expected for a business meeting."

"I thought you should see the whole operation. Most owners never come up here." Alek gestured toward the massive scoreboard hanging from cables nearby. "That's being replaced next season. Eight million dollars for higher resolution screens."

"Eight million for a TV?" Emma whistled. "My grandfather would have a heart attack."

"It was his idea."

Emma laughed. "Of course it was. Grandpa loves gadgets."

They made their way along the catwalk, Alek pointing out various systems—lighting, sound, the broadcast booths. Emma absorbed everything, asking questions that clearly surprised him with their specificity.

"You really did your homework," he said as they descended a metal staircase.

"I've been studying the business for months. Just never saw it from this angle." She paused on the stairs. "Jack never brought me to the behind-the-scenes stuff."

Alek's expression darkened slightly. "Jack thinks hockey is what happens on the ice. He doesn't see the full picture."

"Speaking of Jack..." Emma hesitated. "Have you seen the photos?"

"With the model?" Alek nodded. "PR sent them to me. We monitor players' public appearances."

"And?"

Alek shrugged. "And nothing. His personal life is his business."

"Until it affects the team," Emma said.

"Exactly." He gave her an appraising look. "You're handling it well."

"Yes, well, turns out being dumped by text is great practice for seeing your husband with a supermodel."

Alek stopped walking. "He broke up with you by text?"

Emma waved dismissively. "Before the divorce papers. Said he needed space. Then came home a week later with legal documents."

Alek muttered something in what sounded like Russian.

"I don't speak the language, but I'm guessing that wasn't a compliment."

"It wasn't," Alek confirmed. "Come on. One more stop."

He led her to a private elevator requiring a keycard. They descended to the basement level, where he unlocked a door labeled "HOCKEY OPERATIONS."

Inside was a wood-paneled room with a massive table surrounded by leather chairs. The walls were covered with whiteboards filled with player names, statistics, and arrows connecting them.

"War room," Alek explained. "Where we make trades, plan drafts, decide the future of the franchise." He pulled out a chair. "Have a seat."

Emma sat, running her hands over the polished wood. "How many women have been in this room?"

"Exactly three, including you." Alek took the seat next to her. "Our head of analytics, our legal counsel, and now you."

"Soon to be the boss."

"Yes."

Emma swiveled her chair to face him. "Why are you showing me all this, Alek? The real reason."

He met her gaze steadily. "Because I want you to understand what you're getting into. Hockey is tradition and superstition and masculinity. Some people won't accept you, no matter your last name."

"Are you one of those people?"

"Would I be here if I was?" His eyes—definitely blue, no lighting tricks—held hers. "I believe in putting the best person in charge, regardless of gender. Your ideas about modernizing the franchise operations are exactly what we need."

"You've read my proposals?" Emma was genuinely surprised. She'd submitted those anonymously through the employee suggestion program.

"Every one. The statistical analysis of concession pricing versus attendance was brilliant."

"That was just a hobby project," Emma mumbled, suddenly self-conscious.

"That 'hobby project' could increase revenue by seven figures if implemented." Alek slid a folder across the table. "Which is why I'd like you to lead the implementation team."

Emma opened the folder to find her own research, formatted into an official presentation with her name—Emma Carter—on the cover.

"I can't take credit for this," she said. "Not until..."

"Until the divorce is final. I understand." Alek nodded. "But you can still do the work. Quietly, for now."

Their fingers brushed as she closed the folder, and Emma felt a jolt that had nothing to do with static electricity. Alek must have felt it too, because he pulled his hand back quickly.

"There's, um, one more thing." He cleared his throat. "We should discuss the financial situation in detail. The team isn't as profitable as the public thinks."

"Grandpa mentioned that."

"It's complicated. Multiple revenue streams, debt structure from the arena renovation." Alek checked his watch. "Too much for today. Perhaps we could continue over dinner?"

Emma raised an eyebrow. "Business dinner?"

"Of course." His face remained professional, but something in his eyes gave him away. "Unless you'd prefer to discuss debt-to-equity ratios in the conference room."

"Debt-to-equity ratios are definitely dinner conversation," Emma said, smiling. "When and where?"

"Tomorrow? My place?" He must have seen her surprise, because he quickly added, "I cook. And no one will see us there. No risk of running into... anyone."

By anyone, they both knew he meant Jack. Or reporters. Or Jack with reporters.

"Your place," Emma agreed, surprising herself. "Text me the address."

As they left the war room, Emma felt a thrill that had nothing to do with hockey operations and everything to do with the way Aleksander Volkov's hand had accidentally brushed against her lower back as he held the door.

Just business, she reminded herself. But the butterflies in her stomach apparently hadn't read the memo.

checking the boards Emma stood in front of her closet, surrounded by discarded outfits. The floor looked like a department store during an earthquake.

"It's just dinner," she told her reflection. "A business dinner."

A business dinner at Alek's place. Where he would cook. And they would be alone.

Her phone rang—Mia calling.

"Please tell me you're not wearing that black pencil skirt you think is professional but actually makes you look like a sexy librarian," Mia said without preamble.

Emma looked down at the black pencil skirt she'd just put on. "How did you—"

"Because I know you. And this isn't a quarterly review, Em. It's dinner at Hot Russian's apartment."

"His name is Alek, and it's a business dinner." Emma kicked off the skirt. "And how do you know he's Russian?"

"I googled him the second you mentioned his name. Harvard Business School, former defenseman for Moscow Dynamo, came to the NHL at twenty-two, career-ending knee injury at twenty-six, MBA while rehabbing, absolute smoke show."

"You're terrifying."

"I'm thorough. Now put on those jeans that make your butt look amazing, and that blue sweater that matches your eyes."

Emma glanced at the exact outfit Mia had described, which she'd already tried and discarded. "It's too casual."

"It's dinner at his home, not a board meeting. Trust me."

Twenty minutes later, Emma stood outside a converted warehouse in Charlestown, buzzing apartment 7B. Despite Mia's confidence, she'd added a blazer over the sweater as a security blanket.

Alek opened the door in dark jeans and a gray henley with the sleeves pushed up, revealing forearms that should have their own i*******: account. He was barefoot, which was somehow more intimate than if he'd answered in boxers.

"You made it," he said, stepping aside to let her in. "I was worried you might change your mind."

"And miss a chance to discuss debt-to-equity ratios? Never." Emma handed him the bottle of wine she'd brought. "I hope red is okay."

"Perfect." He led her into a spacious loft with exposed brick walls and massive windows. The furniture was minimal but expensive-looking—lots of leather and wood and not a hockey trophy in sight.

The kitchen area was open to the living room, where a table was already set with candles and cloth napkins. The whole apartment smelled amazing.

"Something smells incredible," Emma said, slipping off her blazer.

"Beef stroganoff. Family recipe." Alek moved to the kitchen, where several pots bubbled on a professional-grade stove. "Wine?"

"Please."

As he poured, Emma wandered to the windows, which overlooked the harbor. "This view is spectacular."

"One of the perks of a career-ending injury—the insurance payout bought this place." He handed her a glass. "Much better investment than the sports car most guys buy."

"Mia—my friend—mentioned you played for Moscow."

Alek raised an eyebrow. "You researched me?"

"She did. I was too busy trying to figure out what to wear to a business dinner that isn't in a restaurant."

He laughed, a deep sound that did funny things to Emma's insides. "Fair enough. Yes, I played professionally in Russia, then three seasons in the NHL before..." He tapped his left knee. "Collision with the boards. Multiple ligament tears."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Best thing that ever happened to me." He stirred something that smelled like heaven. "I wasn't a great player, just a big one. But I understand the game, the business. I'm better in a suit than I ever was in pads."

Emma sipped her wine. "You never wanted to coach?"

"Too much travel, too little control." He glanced at her. "You're in management. You understand."

"I do." Emma leaned against the counter. "My grandfather tried to get me to take over years ago, but I wanted to build something myself first. Prove I could."

"Hence the anonymous proposals."

"Exactly." She watched him cook with surprising dexterity. "Need any help?"

"Just company." He nodded toward a stool. "Sit. Tell me about your background. The parts not in your employee file."

Over the next hour, as they moved from cooking to eating, Emma found herself telling Alek things she rarely shared—about growing up with wealth but wanting to earn her own way, about meeting Jack in college when he was just a promising player with no endorsements, about her double major in business and statistics.

"So you're a hockey nerd," Alek teased as he refilled their glasses.

"Data nerd," Emma corrected. "Hockey was Jack's thing. I just applied my skills to what was available."

"And now?"

"Now I'm starting to appreciate the game separate from him." She twirled pasta on her fork. "This is amazing, by the way."

"My grandmother would be pleased. She claimed no woman could resist her stroganoff recipe."

"Smart woman."

"She was." Alek's expression softened. "She raised me after my parents died. Tough as nails but kind when it mattered."

"She sounds like my grandfather."

"Is that why you never took his name publicly? To prove yourself?"

Emma nodded. "And because Jack wanted a normal wife, not an heiress. He thought rich people were..."

"Soft?"

"Exactly. He needs to be the provider, the star."

"How's that working out for him?" Alek asked dryly.

Emma laughed. "Not great, according to ESPN. Did you see last night's game?"

"Unfortunately. Three turnovers and a stupid penalty." Alek shook his head. "Coach benched him for the third period."

"Really? That's not in the stats."

"Official reason was 'equipment issue.' Unofficial reason was he showed up hungover." Alek's expression turned serious. "His agent called today. Jack's worried about his playing time."

"Should he be?"

"Yes." Alek didn't sugarcoat it. "His performance is affecting the team. Coach is losing patience."

"And you're telling me this because..."

"Because you're an owner now, even if it's not public. You should know what's happening." He met her eyes. "And because I won't lie to you, even about difficult things."

Something shifted in the air between them. This wasn't just business anymore.

After dinner, they moved to the couch with their wine. The conversation drifted from hockey to books to travel, punctuated by laughter and lingering glances. Emma couldn't remember the last time she'd connected with someone so easily.

"It's getting late," she said finally, noticing it was past midnight. "I should go."

"I'll call you a car," Alek said, though he made no move to get his phone.

"Thanks for dinner. And the wine. And the hockey gossip." Emma smiled. "Best business meeting I've ever had."

"We didn't actually discuss business," Alek pointed out.

"Didn't we?" Emma stood, gathering her blazer. "I learned more about how the team really works tonight than in a dozen spreadsheets."

At the door, Alek helped her with her coat, his hands lingering on her shoulders. "We should do this again."

"Another business dinner?" Emma turned to face him, suddenly very aware of how close they were standing.

"If that's what we're calling it." His voice was low, his accent more pronounced.

Emma looked up at him—way up, even in her heeled boots. "What would you call it?"

"Getting to know my new boss." His eyes dropped to her lips. "Or getting to know the woman I can't stop thinking about. Either way."

The air between them crackled with tension. Emma swayed forward slightly, her body making a decision her brain was still debating.

Alek's phone rang, shattering the moment. The ringtone was distinctive—the emergency line from the team's operations center.

He closed his eyes briefly, clearly frustrated. "I need to take this."

"Of course." Emma stepped back, both relieved and disappointed. "I'll see myself out."

"Emma." He caught her hand as she reached for the door. "This conversation isn't over."

She squeezed his fingers lightly before letting go. "I know. Goodnight, Alek."

As she rode down in the elevator, Emma's phone buzzed with a text from Alek: Your car is waiting outside. And for the record, that wasn't how I planned to end the evening.

Emma smiled and typed back: There's always next time. Business meetings often require follow-up.

His response came immediately: I'll clear my calendar.

face off Emma tugged at the collar of her blouse for the fifteenth time in five minutes. The Boston Blades boardroom was freezing, probably because the ten men around the table all wore suits thick enough to stop bullets.

"And now, item seven: player performance concerns," droned Board Chairman Wilson, a seventy-something former banker who treated hockey like a particularly confusing investment strategy.

Emma sat in a chair against the wall, her notepad balanced on her knee. As far as anyone knew, she was Emma Carter, Franklin Mitchell's assistant, taking notes because he wasn't feeling well today. Only Alek knew the truth.

He caught her eye from across the table and gave a barely perceptible nod. Showtime.

Team Coach Donovan cleared his throat. "I need to address Jack Reynolds' performance. It's becoming a problem."

Emma's pen stilled on the page.

"Reynolds is our star," said Marketing Director Peterson. "Three commercials running right now. Face of the franchise."

"His face is all over billboards," agreed Wilson. "Very photogenic young man."

"His face is fine," Coach Donovan growled. "It's the rest of him that's the issue. Late to practice, missing team meetings, sloppy on the ice. Last four games, he's been a liability."

Emma kept her expression blank, but inside, a small, petty part of her was doing a touchdown dance.

"Perhaps he's injured?" suggested Dr. Klein, the team physician.

"Only injury is to his ego," Coach snorted. "Ever since the divorce news broke, he's been distracted. Partying with that model."

Emma fought to keep her face neutral. The divorce wasn't even final yet, and already it was boardroom gossip.

"Is this a short-term issue?" Alek asked, his deep voice drawing everyone's attention. "Or do we need to consider other options?"

"Like what?" demanded Peterson. "Trading him? The fans would riot."

"Fans riot when we lose, too," Coach pointed out. "If Reynolds keeps playing like this, we'll be doing a lot of losing."

Emma wrote in her notepad: Karma's a bench-warmer.

"Give him two more weeks," Alek said finally. "If there's no improvement, we discuss options. All options."

The meeting moved on to merchandise sales, arena repairs, and ticket pricing strategies—all areas where Emma had secretly contributed research. Hearing her ideas discussed without credit was both frustrating and thrilling.

Two hours later, the boardroom finally emptied. Only Alek remained, gathering papers into a leather portfolio.

"Well," he said once they were alone, "that was your first board meeting. What did you think?"

"I think Peterson needs to unclench before he gives himself a hernia," Emma replied, stretching her stiff back. "And I think you were surprisingly gentle about Jack."

"Was I?" Alek raised an eyebrow. "I just put him on a two-week performance improvement plan. In hockey management terms, that's like putting him on an iceberg and giving it a push."

Emma laughed. "Poor Jack. Such high expectations."

"Not really. Just 'show up sober and try.'" Alek checked his watch. "Have dinner plans?"

"Just me and a frozen pizza. Mia's out of town."

"Cancel the pizza. I have something to show you."

---

Alek's office was nothing like she expected. Instead of hockey memorabilia and dark wood, it was all glass and light with abstract art on the walls. The only hint of sports was a single framed jersey—Moscow Dynamo, number 77, VOLKOV.

"Nice office," Emma said, setting her bag on a chair. "Very un-hockey."

"I get enough hockey everywhere else." He gestured toward the windows, where snow had begun to fall. "Looks like it's starting."

"Starting what?"

"The storm. Didn't you check the forecast? Eight to twelve inches expected tonight."

Emma groaned. "Of course. The one day I don't bring boots."

"We have time before it gets bad." Alek opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka and two glasses. "Russian weather survival kit."

"Is that wise? I need to get home eventually."

"One drink. Then I show you what I brought you here for."

The vodka burned going down, but left a pleasant warmth in her chest. Alek opened his laptop and turned it toward her.

"These are the real financials. Not the ones the board sees."

Emma leaned closer, scanning the spreadsheets. "These numbers don't match what was in the meeting."

"Because the board gets the sanitized version." Alek pulled up another file. "The arena renovation went thirty percent over budget. Sponsorship revenue is down. And the broadcast deal is expiring next year with no guarantee of renewal."

"The team is underwater," Emma said, reading between the lines. "How bad?"

"Not bankruptcy bad. But bad enough that player salaries might need restructuring."

"Meaning trades."

"Potentially. High-cost, underperforming players would be first to go."

"Like Jack," Emma said quietly.

Alek didn't confirm or deny, which was confirmation enough.

"Show me everything," she said, pulling her chair closer to his desk. "I need to understand exactly what we're dealing with."

---

Three hours later, Emma's eyes burned from staring at spreadsheets. Empty takeout containers littered Alek's desk—they'd ordered Chinese when it became clear this would be a long night.

"If we restructure the vendor contracts and implement my concession pricing strategy," Emma said, pointing to her calculations, "we could offset the shortfall without touching the roster."

"Maybe." Alek rubbed his eyes. "But it's tight."

Emma stood, stretching her cramped muscles. "I need to walk. My brain is fried."

She moved to the window. Outside, snow swirled in thick clouds, the parking lot already blanketed in white. "Wow. It really came down fast."

Alek joined her at the window. "I don't think you're going anywhere tonight."

"What?"

He pointed to the street, where a snow plow was already getting stuck. "Boston is shutting down. When the plows can't move, nothing moves."

Emma pulled out her phone to check traffic apps. No cars were moving on any nearby streets. "Great. Trapped in a hockey office during a blizzard. This was not in my five-year plan."

"Could be worse. At least there's heat, food, and vodka." Alek's shoulder brushed against hers as they both stared at the worsening storm. "And you're not alone."

Something in his voice made her turn. He was looking at her with an intensity that had nothing to do with spreadsheets.

"Alek..."

"I know. Bad timing. Complicated situation." He stepped back. "I'm your business partner. Your soon-to-be-ex-husband's boss."

"And yet," Emma said softly, "I can't stop thinking about you."

The confession hung in the air between them. Emma's heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

Alek took a careful step toward her. "If you want me to keep my distance, just say the word."

"And if I don't?"

His eyes darkened. "Then I'm going to have to break my rule about not mixing business with pleasure."

Emma closed the distance between them, placing her palm against his chest. She could feel his heart racing beneath her fingers. "Maybe some rules need to be broken."

Alek's hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip. "Emma," he breathed, leaning down.

The first touch of his lips was gentle, questioning. Emma answered by sliding her hands up his chest to his shoulders, rising on tiptoes to press closer. The kiss deepened, his arm circling her waist to steady her as he explored her mouth with a thoroughness that made her knees weak.

They broke apart, breathless. Alek rested his forehead against hers. "I've wanted to do that since I first saw you."

"Even when I was getting coffee for the marketing team?"

"Especially then. You looked so serious, like you were memorizing everyone's order for a final exam."

Emma laughed, then pulled him down for another kiss. This one was hotter, hungrier. Alek backed her against the window, his large frame sheltering her as his hands learned the shape of her waist, her hips.

"We should stop," he murmured against her neck.

"We should," Emma agreed, making no move to release him.

"We're at work," he reminded her, even as his fingers tangled in her hair.

"True." She nipped at his lower lip, enjoying his sharp intake of breath. "Very unprofessional."

The office door swung open with a bang. "Alek, my agent's freaking out about—"

Emma and Alek sprang apart, but it was too late. Jack Reynolds stood frozen in the doorway, his expression morphing from confusion to recognition to absolute fury as he took in the scene: his not-yet-ex-wife in the arms of his boss, both clearly disheveled from something that was definitely not a business meeting.

"What. The. FUCK." Jack's voice echoed in the suddenly silent office.

Penalty Minute For three excruciating seconds, no one moved. Emma's lipstick was smudged. Alek's usually perfect hair stuck up where her fingers had been. And Jack's face had turned a shade of red previously unknown to science.

"Jack—" Emma started.

"Don't." Jack held up his hand, eyes darting between them. "Just... don't."

Alek moved slightly in front of Emma, his body language protective but not aggressive. "Reynolds, this isn't what you—"

"Isn't what I think?" Jack laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. "Because it looks like my boss is sticking his tongue down my wife's throat."

"Soon-to-be-ex-wife," Emma corrected, finding her voice. "You made that choice, remember?"

Jack's eyes narrowed. "So what, this is revenge? Sleep with my boss to get back at me?"

"Not everything is about you, Jack." Emma stepped around Alek.

Defensive Zone "The key to a successful PR strategy is controlling the narrative," said Lisa Chen, the Blades' head of public relations. "Right now, the narrative is 'Jack Reynolds' mystery divorce.' We need to change that."

Two weeks had passed since the snowstorm confrontation. Emma sat in a conference room with Lisa and Alek, discussing her eventual public debut as team co-owner. Lisa had no idea who Emma really was—she knew her only as "Emma Carter," Franklin Mitchell's assistant and strategic consultant.

"What do you suggest?" Emma asked, hyper-aware of Alek sitting across the table. They'd been painfully professional since that night, maintaining careful distance in meetings and communicating mostly through emails.

"We need a rollout plan. Press release, exclusive interview with a friendly outlet, soc

Time Out Emma stared at her ceiling fan, watching it spin lazily above her bed. Sleep had been impossible after Jack's unexpected visit. His bloodshot eyes and rumpled suit kept replaying in her mind, along with Alek's tense jaw when he'd appeared at her door.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand: Morning meeting canceled. Take the day. - A

She smiled at Alek's thoughtfulness. After last night's drama, a day off was exactly what she needed.

Two hours later, Emma was deep into her third cup of coffee at her favorite café, a tiny place three blocks from her apartment where no one cared about hockey or recognized star players' ex-wives. She'd spread financial reports across the table, focusing on work to avoid thinking about Jack or Alek or the ticking clock of her divorce.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

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The roar of the crowd still echoed in my ears as I stood in the luxury suite, my butt numb from three hours in a chair that cost more than my first car. Jack had just scored the winning goal, and the fans were chanting his name like he was a god. I smiled, genuinely happy for him—despite everything else.

"Mrs. Reynolds? Your car is ready," the attendant said, already clearing my empty water bottles.

"Not yet. I’ll head down to congratulate the team."

She hesitated. "There’s a private celebration tonight. Players only."

My phone buzzed. A text from Jack: Don’t wait up. Team party at Murphy’s.

I read between the lines. Don’t show up. Don’t embarrass me. Again.

Three hours later, I sat cross-legged on our king-sized bed, staring at a spreadsheet tracking our household budget. Jack made millions, but Grandpa taught me to watch every penny—even when you have billions.

The front door slammed. Heavy footsteps climbed the stairs.

"Em? You still up?" Jack’s voice was slightly slurred.

"In the bedroom," I called, slipping on my glasses like armor.

He appeared in the doorway, still in his game-day suit, tie loose. At thirty-two, he was sculpted perfection—six-foot-two, jawline like glass. He’d been gorgeous in college. Now he was a brand.

"Helluva game, huh?" He grinned. "Did you see that last goal?"

"It was amazing. That spin move was insane."

"Coach says it’s going on the highlight reel." He loosened his tie further, then reached into his jacket. Pulled out an envelope.

"I need to talk to you about something."

I stared at it. My name typed in cold, official letters.

"Divorce papers," he said flatly. "My lawyer drew them up last week."

I should’ve cried. Should’ve screamed. Instead, I felt like I’d been watching this train come for miles.

"Were you going to discuss this first, or just throw legal documents at my face?"

He looked uncomfortable for half a second. "We both know this isn’t working. You’re… you, and I’m Jack Reynolds now. I need someone who understands this lifestyle."

"This lifestyle?" I laughed. "The one I’ve supported through injuries, trades, moves?"

"You keep score," he accused.

"I’m a numbers person. Sue me."

"I’ve met someone who gets it," he said. "She understands the spotlight."

"So there’s already a replacement."

His silence confirmed it.

"How long?"

"Does it matter?"

"It matters to me."

"A few months. It just happened."

"Things don’t ‘just happen,’ Jack. You make choices."

"Fine. I chose someone who makes more sense for me now. You don’t fit anymore. You wear Target when everyone wears Prada."

"I like Target."

"The settlement’s fair," he said, nodding at the envelope. "The house, a million cash, alimony for two years while you ‘find yourself.’"

I clutched the envelope. He didn’t know—about my family, my trust fund, the shares I owned in companies that would make his head spin.

My phone rang. Grandpa’s photo lit up the screen.

Jack rolled his eyes.

I snatched it. "I should take this."

"Of course you should." He grabbed a duffel bag—already packed. "I’ll be at the Ritz. Don’t make this messy, Em."

As he turned to leave, I called after him: "Jack?"

He paused.

"Your career high is twenty-eight goals. My grandfather made twenty-eight million dollars last week. Just keeping score."

He left. I opened the envelope. And answered the phone.

"Hi, Grandpa. Yes, I saw the game. Listen, I think I’m ready to take you up on that job offer after all."

Now, with the divorce finalized and my identity still hidden, I stand at the edge of a new game. One where I hold all the cards Jack never knew existed.

What do I do next?