HOSTILE WITNESS

Julio's POV

I'm well aware that I'm ten minutes late, and I don't give a damn.

The entirety of this hassle from the scandal is all so irksome. There's no bloody reason why one punch I gave to an inconsequential idiot who deserved it should be putting me in the mess I'm in.

It's crazy. Even more crazy how the media blows things out of proportion, scrutinizing every one of my past and present actions—The Daily Post actually called me a “violent, careless playboy” this morning.

None of those fuckers know me. And fuck those comments. The so-called fans are singing a different tune now, when just a week ago they were thirsting over me and singing my praises after I won yet another game, just as I've been doing my whole damn life.

And now I'm expected to be in a stupid fake relationship with some girl who will no doubt piss me the fuck off even more.

This shit had better work. I cannot lose all I've worked for for years because the media decided to believe a bully's sob story of how I punched him in a fit of violence for no reason.

God, when I set my eyes on that idiot Ketz again…

I shove open the glass doors of Vance's conference room, jacket unbuttoned, fully expecting a star-struck sophomore ready to sign anything I slide across the table.

Instead, I find a woman who looks like she was literally carved from granite.

Crisp white shirt. Dark blazer. Wire-rimmed glasses. Dark hair pulled back so tight it looks like a threat. She doesn't jump up. She doesn't gasp. She finishes a note in the margin of a document, caps her pen with a click that sounds like a gavel, and squares a stack of papers.

She's making me wait.

And the worst part, the part I'll never admit out loud, is that she's gorgeous. Severe, untouchable, don't-you-dare gorgeous.

"You're late, Mr. Hayes." Her voice is smooth as glass and twice as cold. "Ten minutes late. It's not a good look considering the predicament you're in."

I drop into the chair across from her, kick out my legs, and throw an arm over the empty seat beside me. Full sprawl. Full smile.

"Traffic. You must be Sierra. Thanks for coming out to babysit."

She doesn't smile. "I'm not here to babysit, though your carelessness and recklessness may warrant a strong-willed sitter. I'm here to enforce a behavioral contract. Break the terms and I document it, report it, and your draft protection terminates with it."

Excuse me???

"Look, sweetheart—"

"Sierra. Or Ms. Rosso." She doesn't even blink. "You don't have clearance for pet names."

Vance coughs from the corner and half-rises. I hold up a hand. He sits back down.

Something ignites in my chest. The same thing that shows up right before a faceoff.

"Fine, Ms. Rosso." I lean across the table. "Let's see the masterpiece."

She slides a twelve-page packet across the glass. I flip it open.

Page one: my jaw tightens.

Page two: the back of my neck goes hot.

"An eleven p.m. curfew?" I read aloud. "I'm twenty-two, not twelve."

"Then you're old enough to understand why it exists."

"Pre-approved talking points for post-game interviews?" I flip again. "Scheduled social media posts?" I toss the packet down. "Are you insane?"

"Me?" One perfect eyebrow lifts. "You threw a punch in a crowded nightclub three months before the draft. You've proven you lack impulse control. These are non-negotiable parameters to reduce your liability."

"I was protecting a rookie!" My palm slams the table. The bang cracks through the room like a gunshot. Vance flinches.

Sierra doesn't.

"Then you should have used your words, Captain." Soft. Lethal. "The scouts don't care about your intentions. Follow this schedule to the letter, or don't bother showing up."

I've been screamed at by coaches. Judged by scouts. Dismissed by my father my entire life. But nobody has ever looked straight through my armor with that much calm.

She isn't scared of me. She isn't impressed by me. She looks at me like I'm a badly drafted loophole she's about to close.

It pisses me off.

And God help me, something low in my stomach tightens.

"Now the rules," she says, sliding a single sheet forward. "One. No unnecessary touching. Two. No improvising. Three. No disappearing without notice. Four. No public scenes."

"That's four. What's five?"

"Five." Her eyes lock on mine. "Do not confuse this arrangement with reality."

I lean in until our faces are six inches apart. Up close, I can see gold flecks in her dark eyes. I can smell vanilla and printer paper on her skin.

"What's in it for you, Sierra?" I keep my voice low, let it scrape the bottom of my register. "Nobody babysits a hockey player for five grand. Especially someone who seems to hate hockey like you do. What's the real angle?"

The mask slips.

Just for a second. A flash of heat behind her eyes, dark and hungry. It isn't greed. It isn't fandom.

It's desperation. The exact same kind I'm drowning in.

"I get what I need," she whispers. "And you get to keep your career. Sign section four, or I walk out, and Vance can explain to the press why his star player failed a behavioral review."

We freeze there, locked in a silent war. Our breathing syncs up in the narrow space between us. The hatred in this room is thick, heavy, and strangely magnetic, like the suspended second before the puck drops in a championship game.

And I realize, with a sinking, terrifying feeling, that I have zero control over this woman.

I drag my gaze off her mouth. Grab the silver pen. Sign hard enough to nearly tear the paper.

"Six months, Ms. Rosso." I toss the pen onto the table and give her my darkest smirk. "Try not to fall in love with me."

She gathers the contract, stacks it neatly in her binder, stands, and smooths her blazer. Then she gives me a cold, mocking little smile that makes my heart skip a beat.

"Don't worry, Mr. Hayes. I'm immune to trash."

The door clicks shut behind her.

Silence.

Vance exhales like a man who just survived a plane crash. "Well. She's perfect."

"She's a nightmare."

"Same thing."

But I'm not looking at him. I'm staring at the door.

Because nobody gets that desperate over five grand and a job babysitting a hockey player.

Sierra Rosso is hiding something.

And I'm going to find out what.