The Shift

SLOANE

The Hartley place screamed money the second we pulled up—sleek modern lines, two-and-a-half stories of glass and stone, the kind of house that cost more than most people’s entire lives. It smelled like fresh rosemary and old wealth when we stepped inside.

Dad and I hauled our suitcases from the trunk in silence. *Three months. Just breathe through it, Sloane. Three. Months.*

The front door opened before we even rang the bell.

Victoria Hartley stepped out looking like she’d been styled for a summer editorial: cream linen top, high-waisted jeans, dark-blonde waves that fell exactly right. Radiant didn’t begin to cover it.

“Sloane,” she said, voice warm honey, and pulled me into a hug before I could dodge.

Her perfume wrapped around me—vanilla-amber, creamy, expensive. For one stupid second I almost hugged her back. Then I remembered: soon-to-be stepmother. I stiffened and let my arms hang.

She released me, turned to Dad with a soft “Babe,” and kissed him like no one else was watching.

Slow. Deep. Lips parting just enough to make it obscene.

“I missed you,” she murmured against his mouth.

“Missed you more.”

I swallowed bile and looked anywhere else.

“Come inside,” she said brightly, like she hadn’t just made out with my father in the foyer. “Leave the bags here. Dinner’s almost ready. I’ll show you to the dining room.”

The space flowed open-concept—kitchen bleeding into living area bleeding into dining. Marble island, floor-to-ceiling windows, everything stupidly perfect. I parked my suitcase against the wall and dropped into the nearest chair at the long glass table.

Plates started appearing like magic: herb-roasted chicken, charred vegetables, that grilled salmon that smelled criminal. My stomach growled despite everything.

Victoria set the fish down last and caught me staring.

“Chase is finishing up in the gym,” she said with that same warm smile. “He’ll join us soon.”

Of course he was. Probably snapping shirtless gym selfies for the thirsty masses right now.

She slid into the seat beside Dad. “Richard says you’re into sports journalism?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I run a hockey blog. Did an internship last summer covering high-school games for the local paper.”

“That’s fantastic.” Her eyes lit. “Chase will love that. Hockey’s his entire universe. He’ll talk your ear off.”

Lucky me.

Then the air changed.

A cool draft slipped through from the kitchen doorway behind me, carrying the sharp clean scent of post-workout skin, cedarwood soap, and something darker—pure male exertion. My shoulders locked.

He walked in.

Chase Hartley didn’t enter rooms; he claimed them.

Barefoot. Sweat still gleaming on the carved planes of his torso. Low-slung gray sweatpants slung dangerously below the deep V-cut of his hips. No shirt. Just skin, muscle, and the slow drip of water from wet hair tracing paths down his throat, over his collarbone, disappearing into the valley between his pecs.

My mouth went desert-dry. I hated it. Hated more that my pulse slammed against my ribs like it was trying to escape.

He paused in the doorway, white towel draped over one shoulder, dark at the edges from wiping sweat. Hazel eyes—pupils still blown from the workout—swept the table. Victoria. Dad (quick nod). Then me.

The smirk arrived slow and deliberate.

He cataloged me in one glance: ripped jeans, faded band tee, messy ponytail, zero effort. The look said he’d already decided I was beneath his notice.

“Wow,” he drawled. “So this is her.”

Victoria’s smile tightened. “Chase.”

He stepped closer, stopping at the head of the table. Eyes never left mine. Up close he was worse—six-two at least, strong jaw shadowed with stubble, dark hair finger-raked and too long. The kind of face that belonged on billboards and bad decisions.

“Chase,” Victoria said again, sharper. “This is Sloane.”

“Sloane,” he repeated. My name in his mouth sounded like a dare.

I stayed silent.

Dad cleared his throat. “Chase. Richard. Good to meet you.”

Chase gave a single nod. “Yeah. Hey.”

Dad tried again. “We’re happy to be here.”

Chase shrugged. “Sure.”

Then those hazel eyes slid back to me. Head tilted. Amused.

“You don’t look like a hockey fan,” he said. Casual. Condescending enough to make my teeth grind.

Victoria’s eyes widened. “Chase—”

I leaned back slowly, arms crossed.

“And you don’t look like someone who owns a shirt,” I said.

Dad coughed—half laugh, half choke.

Victoria sucked in air.

Chase’s smirk stretched wider. “Oh. She’s got jokes.”

I gave him my sweetest, most lethal smile. “I’ve got facts too.”

He pulled out the chair at the head of the table and dropped into it like he owned the oxygen in the room. Forearms on the glass, muscles shifting under skin still damp from the gym. Deliberate. Obvious.

“You’re Richard’s daughter,” he said, like he was verifying a mildly interesting fact.

“Unfortunately,” I answered.

His brows lifted. “Unfortunately?”

“Timing’s complicated.”

He chuckled low. “Understatement.”

Victoria jumped in, voice too bright. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s eat. Relax. This is supposed to be nice.”

Nice. Right.

She started passing salad. Dad tried small talk.

“What year are you at Dalton?”

“Sophomore,” Chase said, spearing chicken without looking up.

“Hockey going well?”

Chase’s eyes flicked up at that. Interest sparked.

“Yeah. Top forward in the conference.”

Of course.

I took a slow sip of water.

His gaze drifted back to me. “You sure you don’t like hockey?”

“I never said I didn’t like hockey,” I said evenly. “I said I don’t *look* like a hockey fan.”

His lips curved. “So you are one.”

“I know enough.”

He leaned back, smug as sin. “Enough to know what icing is?”

“Chase,” Victoria warned.

He ignored her. Enjoying himself.

I tilted my head. “Enough to know you missed two breakaways in the Vancouver Titans quarterfinals.”

The table froze.

Chase’s fork stopped mid-air.

I kept going, calm. “Game Two: scoreless. Minus-two. Eight penalty minutes. Faceoff percentage dipped below fifty in the last three. Not exactly ‘top forward’ numbers.”

Victoria stared like I’d lit the tablecloth on fire.

Dad’s eyes were saucers.

Chase’s narrowed slowly. “What the hell?”

I smiled again. “I watched the games.”

Silence stretched, thick and electric.

Then Chase laughed—low, disbelieving, almost impressed. “You looked that up.”

“No,” I said. “I watched.”

His eyes raked over me again—shirt, jeans, attitude—like he was recalibrating.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “So you’re not just the moody little daughter.”

The words landed like a slap. *Moody little daughter.*

I leaned forward just enough. “And you’re not just the shirtless disappointment.”

Victoria gasped.

Dad choked on water.

Chase’s smile turned sharp. Dangerous. “Feisty.”

“I’m not feisty,” I said. “I’m irritated.”

He leaned in too, elbows on the table, voice dropping to a murmur that felt private. “Good. Boring girls are a waste of oxygen.”

My pulse did something traitorous in my throat.

Not attraction. Adrenaline. Annoyance. Pure loathing.

I forced calm. “Careful. You might actually have to try to impress me.”

His eyes darkened. Smirk sharpened. “Trust me, princess. I’m not trying.”

I held the stare. Then smiled—slow, cold.

“Good. Because you’d fail.”

Chase laughed again, quieter, realer.

Victoria clapped like she was breaking a hex. “Okay! Food. No more hockey talk. Let’s eat.”

Dad nodded frantically. “Yes. Eat. Please.”

Too late.

Because Chase’s eyes stayed on me—longer, harder, curious now instead of dismissive.

And when I finally dropped my gaze to my plate, stabbing lettuce like it owed me money, I felt it.

The shift.

Hate had teeth now. Heat. Edges that cut both ways.

Across the table his voice came, lazy and low.

“You’re gonna be fun.”

I didn’t look up.

Didn’t give him the win.

But I heard the grin.

And underneath my anger, the scariest part whispered back:

This summer wasn’t going to be survivable.

It was going to be a battlefield.

And Chase Hartley looked like he played to win dirty.