CHAPTER 3: THE BAD BOY ENFORCER

As I walked through the backstage corridor of the North Am Arena, every rhythmic click of my heels echoed against the walls, sounding less like footsteps and more like a count down to a confrontation five years in the making.

My heart was hammering an uneven rhythm against my ribs, but I forced my lungs to remain calm. I had spent the last five years training to handle the most difficult Celebrities in the professional sports industry,I just had to convince myself that Julian Vane was no longer the boy who held my world in his hands, but simply another interview subject..

I reached the heavy, reinforced double doors of the private athlete wing. As they swung open, the scent of the rink hit me like a physical blow,. I paused, smoothing the front of my tailored charcoal suit jacket, ensuring my silhouette was as sharp, untouchable, and armored as the regal bun holding my hair in a grip. I wasn't the girl he had left behind in pain, I was a professional at the absolute zenith of her game, and I needed him to see that before I said a single word.

Then, I saw him.

Julian was taller than the memory I'd been nursing, broader, too, his shoulders stretching the heavy fabric of his team tracksuit to its limit. He was walking toward the media scrum with a terrifying, predatory grace that made the air in the hallway feel thin. He was the bad boy enforcer, the man who had just dismantled a rival on the ice with a series of hits that were as surgical as they were brutal. Up close, he looked every bit the part, cold, ruthless, and entirely too handsome for a man who made a living out of violence.

As he drew closer, the distance between our past and present dissolved. Our eyes met.

For a split second, the ghost flickered. His steps faltered for a second, such that a casual observer would have missed it before his features settled back into a mask of impenetrable ice. He didn't stop. He didn't offer the courtesy of a nod. He walked right past me, the sheer force of his walk ruffling the hem of my blazer and leaving a wake of cold air behind him. The dismissal was so sharp, so calculated, that it felt like a physical slap across my face.

"Mr. Vane!" I called out. My voice was steadier than I expected, projecting a cold authority that masked the tremor in my hands. "A moment for The Daily Blitz?"

He stopped. Slowly, with a deliberation that screamed of a man used to controlling the room, he turned back. The media surrounding us,the cameramen, the interns and the local reporters who had gone deathly silent after sensing the sudden, violent shift in the atmospheric pressure.

Julian looked down at me, his burning gaze pinning me to the spot like a specimen under a microscope. It was the same look he used to give me when we were teenagers in the back of his father's car, but now it was layered with five years of calcified resentment and something else,something dark and dangerous.

"I don't do private interviews," he said. His voice had changed,it was deeper now, a low, gravelly rasp that sent shivers down my spine.

"The league contract says you owe the press ten minutes," I countered, my fingers tightening around my press pass until the plastic dug into my skin. "And I'm the only journalist here with an exclusive pass for the entire championship run. Unless, of course, you'd like me to report a breach of contract to the board before the second period even begins?"

Julian stepped closer, invading my personal space with a total lack of hesitation until I was forced to tilt my head back just to maintain eye contact. He was intentionally trying to use his size to intimidate me, but I didn't flinch. I stood my ground, my chin high, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me loose my composure.

"You always were good at following the rules, Valeria," he whispered. My name sounded like a curse or a prayer on his lips.

"And you were always good at breaking them, Julian."

A muscle jumped in the corner of his jaw, the only crack in his icy composure. The bad boy enforcer was leaning in now, his massive shadow completely swallowing me against the wall. To the cameras and the few staffers in the hall, it looked like a tense professional battle between a stubborn journalist and a temperamental star. To me, it felt like the opening volley of a war that had been brewing since the day he disappeared.

"Ten minutes," he whispered, the words intended only for my ears. "But not here. Not in front of these vultures. My private lounge. Now. If you're late... I won't be so accommodating."

He turned on his heel and vanished behind the doors of the VIP wing without looking back, leaving me standing in the middle of the hallway with my pulse racing and my lungs burning. The theme of the season's marathon was becoming all too real. I had the interview I wanted,the one that would cement my career and finally provide the answers I'd been dying for, but as I walked toward the VIP wing, the weight of the silence in the hall felt heavy. I realized I wasn't just chasing a story,I might be walking straight into a trap he had been carefully setting for five long years.

I reached the door of the private lounge, my hand hovering over the handle. I took one final, deep breath to steady the fast beating of my heart and pushed it open.

The room was dimly lit, smelling of leather and expensive cologne and air. Julian was already there, his back to me. Without a word, he began to strip off his heavy team jacket, the movement revealing the raw, coiled power of his athletic frame beneath a thin compression shirt. The sheer physical presence of him seemed to suck the oxygen out of the room.

"Close the door," he said, his voice dropping an octave, still not turning around to face me. "And lock it."

The metallic click of the lock sounded like a gavel falling in a courtroom. I leaned against the wood, the coldness of the handle seeping into my palm, knowing that for the next ten minutes, there were no rules, only us.