chapter 3

Emma stared at the signature line on the divorce papers, pen hovering above the page. Her lawyer—a shark in Louboutins named Diane—sat across from her in Mitchell Industries’ fifty-eighth-floor conference room. “You’re getting a good deal,” Diane said. “The house, the investments you made together, plus alimony. We could push for more, but...” “But then I’d have to reveal my actual net worth.” Emma finished her thought. “Precisely.” Diane tapped her red fingernail on the table. “Sign now, surprise him later. Much more satisfying.” Emma’s pen scratched across the paper. Eight years of marriage reduced to a signature and a date. “Congratulations,” Diane said dryly. “You’re almost a free woman.” Emma closed the folder. “Now what?” “Now you wait for the judge. Shouldn’t take long with the settlement uncontested.” Diane stood, smoothing her skirt. “Meanwhile, live your life. Preferably somewhere that doesn’t remind you of Jack Reynolds.” Three days later, Emma unlocked the door to her new apartment in the Back Bay, wheeling in a single suitcase. The divorce wasn’t final, but she couldn’t stay in that house another minute. The apartment—bought through one of her grandfather’s shell companies years ago as an investment—was three thousand square feet of pristine luxury with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Charles River. Emma had always considered it an unnecessary extravagance. Now, she was grateful for the sanctuary. Her phone buzzed as she stood admiring the view. A text from Alek: Business meeting tomorrow, 10 AM. Wear comfortable shoes. Taking you somewhere interesting. Emma stared at the message. Comfortable shoes? Where on earth was the CEO of a professional hockey team taking her? Before she could respond, another text arrived—from her friend Mia, with an image attachment. Thought you should see this before someone else shows you. Emma opened it to find a gossip website’s front page. The headline screamed: “BOSTON BLADE FINDS SHARP NEW EDGE: Jack Reynolds Spotted with Supermodel at Nobu.” There was Jack, hand in hand with a woman so stunning it hurt Emma’s eyes. The caption identified her as Veronica Wells, Victoria’s Secret model and the new face of some designer Emma couldn’t pronounce. You ok? Mia texted again. Emma surprised herself by typing: Actually, yes. Thanks for the heads-up. It was true. The knife-twist she’d expected didn’t come. Instead, she felt something between relief and pity. Jack looked like a boy who’d found his mother’s credit card—excited but way out of his depth. She texted Alek back: Comfortable shoes it is. Should I be worried? His response came quickly: Only if you’re afraid of heights. The following morning, Emma met Alek in the lobby of Mitchell Tower, wearing jeans, a sweater, and her most comfortable boots. He was waiting by the security desk, dressed similarly casual in dark jeans and a navy quarter-zip that did unfair things for his shoulders. “Good morning,” he said, handing her a coffee. “Ready for an adventure?” “That depends. Does this adventure involve parachutes? Because I should warn you, I’m not great with falling.” His mouth quirked in that almost-smile. “No parachutes. But we will need these.” He handed her a hard hat with “VISITOR” printed on the front. Twenty minutes later, they stood on metal scaffolding fifty feet above the ice at Boston Arena. Below them, maintenance crews prepared the rink for that night’s game, their voices echoing in the empty stadium. “Welcome to the catwalks,” Alek said, his voice low. “Best view in the house.” Emma gripped the railing, both terrified and exhilarated. “This is... not what I expected for a business meeting.” “I thought you should see the whole operation. Most owners never come up here.” Alek gestured toward the massive scoreboard hanging from cables nearby. “That’s being replaced next season. Eight million dollars for higher resolution screens.” “Eight million for a TV?” Emma whistled. “My grandfather would have a heart attack.” “It was his idea.” Emma laughed. “Of course it was. Grandpa loves gadgets.” They made their way along the catwalk, Alek pointing out various systems—lighting, sound, the broadcast booths. Emma absorbed everything, asking questions that clearly surprised him with their specificity. “You really did your homework,” he said as they descended a metal staircase. “I’ve been studying the business for months. Just never saw it from this angle.” She paused on the stairs. “Jack never brought me to the behind-the-scenes stuff.” Alek’s expression darkened slightly. “Jack thinks hockey is what happens on the ice. He doesn’t see the full picture.” “Speaking of Jack...” Emma hesitated. “Have you seen the photos?” “With the model?” Alek nodded. “PR sent them to me. We monitor players’ public appearances.” “And?” Alek shrugged. “And nothing. His personal life is his business.” “Until it affects the team,” Emma said. “Exactly.” He gave her an appraising look. “You’re handling it well.” “Yes, well, turns out being dumped by text is great practice for seeing your husband with a supermodel.” Alek stopped walking. “He broke up with you by text?” Emma waved dismissively. “Before the divorce papers. Said he needed space. Then came home a week later with legal documents.” Alek muttered something in what sounded like Russian. “I don’t speak the language, but I’m guessing that wasn’t a compliment.” “It wasn’t,” Alek confirmed. “Come on. One more stop.” He led her to a private elevator requiring a keycard. They descended to the basement level, where he unlocked a door labeled “HOCKEY OPERATIONS.” Inside was a wood-paneled room with a massive table surrounded by leather chairs. The walls were covered with whiteboards filled with player names, statistics, and arrows connecting them. “War room,” Alek explained. “Where we make trades, plan drafts, decide the future of the franchise.” He pulled out a chair. “Have a seat.” Emma sat, running her hands over the polished wood. “How many women have been in this room?” “Exactly three, including you.” Alek took the seat next to her. “Our head of analytics, our legal counsel, and now you.” “Soon to be the boss.” “Yes.” Emma swiveled her chair to face him. “Why are you showing me all this, Alek? The real reason.” He met her gaze steadily. “Because I want you to understand what you’re getting into. Hockey is tradition and superstition and masculinity. Some people won’t accept you, no matter your last name.” “Are you one of those people?” “Would I be here if I was?” His eyes—definitely blue, no lighting tricks—held hers. “I believe in putting the best person in charge, regardless of gender. Your ideas about modernizing the franchise operations are exactly what we need.” “You’ve read my proposals?” Emma was genuinely surprised. She’d submitted those anonymously through the employee suggestion program. “Every one. The statistical analysis of concession pricing versus attendance was brilliant.” “That was just a hobby project,” Emma mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. “That ‘hobby project’ could increase revenue by seven figures if implemented.” Alek slid a folder across the table. “Which is why I’d like you to lead the implementation team.” Emma opened the folder to find her own research, formatted into an official presentation with her name—Emma Carter—on the cover. “I can’t take credit for this,” she said. “Not until...” “Until the divorce is final. I understand.” Alek nodded. “But you can still do the work. Quietly, for now.” Their fingers brushed as she closed the folder, and Emma felt a jolt that had nothing to do with static electricity. Alek must have felt it too, because he pulled his hand back quickly. “There’s, um, one more thing.” He cleared his throat. “We should discuss the financial situation in detail. The team isn’t as profitable as the public thinks.” “Grandpa mentioned that.” “It’s complicated. Multiple revenue streams, debt structure from the arena renovation.” Alek checked his watch. “Too much for today. Perhaps we could continue over dinner?” Emma raised an eyebrow. “Business dinner?” “Of course.” His face remained professional, but something in his eyes gave him away. “Unless you’d prefer to discuss debt-to-equity ratios in the conference room.” “Debt-to-equity ratios are definitely dinner conversation,” Emma said, smiling. “When and where?” “Tomorrow? My place?” He must have seen her surprise, because he quickly added, “I cook. And no one will see us there. No risk of running into... anyone.” By anyone, they both knew he meant Jack. Or reporters. Or Jack with reporters. “Your place,” Emma agreed, surprising herself. “Text me the address.” As they left the war room, Emma felt a thrill that had nothing to do with hockey operations and everything to do with the way Aleksander Volkov’s hand had accidentally brushed against her lower back as he held the door. Just business, she reminded herself. But the butterflies in her stomach apparently hadn’t read the memo.