Babysitter พี่เลี้ยงมาเฟียโอเมก้า

The ride from the hotel was a blur. 

Noah had barely slept the night before, his mind buzzing with the kind of nervous energy that didn’t know whether to settle into excitement or panic. He stared out the tinted windows of the black SUV, watching his hometown slip by. Familiar streets he hadn't driven on in years. Not since the tragedy. Not since everything changed.

His fingers tightened around the strap of his duffel as the team facility came into view. The building was sleek and modern, glass and steel gleaming under the cloudy morning sky. It looked nothing like the ice rinks he remembered.

Inside, the hallways smelled like fresh paint and new rubber soles. Noah followed a woman in a navy pantsuit with perfectly pinned hair.

“I’m Jessica, the team’s manager,” she said as they walked. “Don’t stress those first day jitters. The new owner’s really shaking things up so everyone’s feeling the same way. Lots of changes, from staff to strategy.”

He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. Jessica opened a door to what looked like a lounge, where three other players were already waiting. They were older, more at ease, trading jokes like they hadn’t just walked into a brand-new chapter of their careers.

Noah offered a small wave and a quiet "hey" before sinking into a chair in the corner. He felt young, suddenly. Too young. Like a college kid who’d taken a wrong turn and ended up in the wrong league.

Then a door at the far end opened, the one leading into a conference room. And a voice followed.

Smooth. Commanding. Confident.

“Gentlemen,” the voice said. “Welcome to the start of something new."

Noah couldn’t see the speaker, but his skin prickled. The air shifted. His pulse ticked up. That voice curled around his spine and tugged at something deep in his chest.

It was just nerves, he told himself. Or maybe the fact that he was back here. In this city. After everything.

One by one, the new players were called into the room. Introductions. Handshakes. Claps on the back.

Until Noah was the only one left.

He stood slowly, dragging his fingers through his tousled brown hair that always looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. The voice on the other side of the door kept speaking. Confident. Cool. Like it belonged to someone who never had to raise it to be heard. It sang to every nerve ending in Noah's body.

He didn’t know why he was this anxious. He hadn’t felt this way in years.

Finally:

"Noah Rivers."

He straightened to his full six-foot-four height. Whatever was waiting in that room, he could handle it. No billionaire owner was going to make him feel small.

He stepped through the door.

The conference room was quiet.

The man at the center of the attention turned. Tall, broad, in a sharply tailored charcoal suit that fit like it had been designed for him. His hair was black as ink, swept back from a chiseled face with eyes the color of cold steel.

His breathtakingly handsome features and formidable physique dominated the room, even among a crowd of elite athletes.

Noah almost didn’t hear the words coming out of his mouth.

"No, the final acquisition should have been Niel Roche. We didn't bid on Noah Rivers. The Vultures were very loud about their ridiculous offer for him. I’m not interested in getting into a dick-measuring contest."

Noah froze.

There was a beat of silence. He felt awkward. Like he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was the wrong guy. The wrong name.

Jessica cleared her throat behind him. “A decision was made while you were in meetings. I sent everything over. Noah agreed to a much lower salary than the other bids. Said he has family here."

The owner lifted an eyebrow, glanced down at the tablet in his hand.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “What a bargain.”

Then he looked up.

And his gaze finally landed on Noah.

It hit like a punch to the ribs.

Noah forgot how to breathe.

The man in the suit closed the tablet slowly, methodically, before handing it to the assistant standing by his side. "This information appears to be out of date. You're fired," he said flatly, like he was commenting on the weather. "Clear your desk by the hour."

A quiet gasp followed. The assistant stammered, his mouth opening and closing without forming a sentence, but the owner had already moved on.

Noah was horrified. Fired? Just like that? He wanted to fight back. But he wasn’t even officially on the team yet. He was in no position to help.

Sterling Belmont. Billionaire. Power broker. Media ghost. Owner of the team and a dozen other elite investments. He wasn’t the kind of man who showed up at charity galas or did pre-game interviews. He made his presence known by buying what he wanted, building it better, and burning anything that got in his way. Rumors followed him like shadows: ruthless business deals, private jets, icy romances, and more zeroes in his portfolio than most people would see in their lifetimes.

He was younger than Noah expected. Late thirties? 

And he was tall.

An inch or two taller than Noah, which was saying something. Noah rarely had to look up at anyone.

Belmont didn’t leer. He assessed. Like he was evaluating not just Noah’s stats but his soul.

He felt naked under his scrutiny.

Still, he held his ground. Straightened his shoulders. Locked eyes with him.

Defiant.

No matter how magnetic, how untouchable Sterling Belmont was, Noah wasn’t going to flinch.

He was aware of the other players watching. Aware of Jessica shifting uncomfortably. But as Sterling Belmont took a step closer, his eyes burned into Noah, his gaze dragging down his body. 

It felt like they were the only two in the room.

Noah's heart thundered.

Then, just as suddenly, Belmont turned his back.

“Welcome to the team, gentlemen,” he said to the rest of the conference room, like nothing had happened at all. “We’ll start with physicals.”

The Crestwick Stormriders were officially in season.