Olive’s POV

Chapter 7: Olive’s POV

I’d found a reasonable place to have coffee not long after, tucked into a corner of the hotel café, nursing lukewarm coffee and debating whether my life had always been this much of a trainwreck or if it was a recent development.

Spoiler: it was recent.

Three days in Chicago, and I'd

already been mistaken for a creative director, cornered by the hottest hockey

player alive, offered some mysterious deal I'd been smart enough to refuse, and

spent every waking moment trying not to think about said hockey player's bare

chest and wet dreams.

I was doing great.

The café was quiet—thank God—just

the soft hum of espresso machines and the occasional clink of dishes. I'd

needed this. Space to think. To breathe. To figure out what the hell I was

doing with my life.

And then the door opened.

I looked up.

And immediately wanted to throw

myself out the window.

No.

It had been two years since I'd

seen Ryan Mitchell, and the universe had been kind enough to keep it that way.

But apparently, my luck had officially run out.

He spotted me instantly—because

of course he did—and his face split into that same obnoxious grin I remembered

from college. The one that made you want to punch him and also wonder if he was

actually aware of how annoying he was.

He started walking toward me.

I considered running.

But my legs didn't move. Just

stayed frozen as I watched him approach, all cocky swagger and that stupid hair

flick he'd never grown out of. He swiped a hand through his sandy blonde hair,

blowing out fake heat from his face like he'd just run a marathon instead of

crossing a café.

His teeth were too white. His

smile too wide.

I almost gagged.

"Oh, come on." He

stopped in front of my table, hands on his hips, looking like he'd just won the

lottery. "Don't tell me who we have here. If this isn't fate, I don't know

what is."

"Fuck off, Ryan." I

took a sip of my coffee, not bothering to look at him. "Fate is for

paranormal romance novels. And you, buddy, don't look paranormal to me."

He burst out laughing.

That was the thing about Ryan—he

didn't understand insults. Not because he was slow, but because he'd somehow

convinced himself that verbal abuse was flirting.

"God, I love it when you

insult me." He pulled out the chair across from me without asking and sat

down. "It makes me hot. Turned on, even. That's why I always came to you.

Free spank bank material, you know? Easier that way."

My face folded in disgust.

"You're a walking HR violation."

"And you're still gorgeous

when you're pissed." He leaned back, completely unbothered. "So

what's new? Break any hearts lately? Ruin any lives?"

I set my cup down, debating

whether throwing hot coffee in his face would be worth the assault charge.

I'd been sitting here, spiraling

about my encounter with Zane. About the possibility—the dangerous

possibility—that I might actually end up in over my head with him. The kind of

over my head that involved his hands, his mouth, and a very bad decision.

And now Ryan had barged in and

ruined even my fantasies.

"You're a child, Ryan,"

I said flatly. "And I'm glad I gave you the best three months of your

freshman year. Now fuck off."

He laughed harder. "Oh, come

That was four years ago. I graduated last year, pulled my life together,

and here I am. Living the dream."

I grunted, already exhausted.

"Good for you. Door's that way."

"Still got those daddy

issues, huh?" He tilted his head, studying me like I was a science

project. "That tone sounds exactly like the one you used to give when your

dad—"

"Shut the fuck up."

I slammed my cup down hard enough

that coffee sloshed over the rim.

Ryan blinked, startled for half a

second before his grin returned.

That was Ryan's specialty—pushing

until you snapped, then acting like your reaction was the punchline. He didn't

care how much he hurt you as long as he got under your skin. It was his life's

work.

And I'd been stupid enough to

sleep with him in college.

"Okay, okay." He raised

his hands in mock surrender. "Touchy subject. Got it. So is it daddy

issues or new boyfriend issues? Because that look on your face screams ‘man’ trouble."

I pressed my fingers to my

temples. "Why are you here, Ryan?"

"Funny you should ask."

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning like the cat that ate the

canary. "I got myself a hobby. Joined the NHL."

I stared at him.

Blinked.

Stared some more.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"NHL, baby." He tapped

the table twice. "Chicago Wolves. Just got called up."

My brain tried to process this

information and failed spectacularly.

"They're just picking up

random scumbags off the street now?" I asked slowly. "Or did DADDY

pull some strings for his little boy?"

Ryan's jaw tightened.

"Always going for the throat, huh?"

"You make it so easy."

"I worked hard for this,

Olive." His voice dropped, and for a second—just a second—he almost

sounded serious. "Really fucking hard. You think I'd end up useless? And

leave my dad out of this. I've got stronger connections through my mom's side."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so

Mommy helped you out."

He groaned, dragging a hand down

his face. "You're impossible."

"And you're still talking."

"My uncle,"

he said through gritted teeth, "Gary Mercer. Senior VP of NHL operations.

He helped me pull the strings. And now I'm here, playing on the same team as my

favorite cousin."

My stomach dropped.

"Cousin?"

Ryan's grin returned, sharper now. "Zane Mercer. You might've heard of him. Best player in the league. Total god on the ice. Ring any bells?"

I couldn't breathe.

Zane Mercer was Ryan's cousin?