chapter 5

Emma tugged at the collar of her blouse for the fifteenth time in five minutes. The Boston Blades boardroom was freezing, probably because the ten men around the table all wore suits thick enough to stop bullets. “And now, item seven: player performance concerns,” droned Board Chairman Wilson, a seventy-something former banker who treated hockey like a particularly confusing investment strategy. Emma sat in a chair against the wall, her notepad balanced on her knee. As far as anyone knew, she was Emma Carter, Franklin Mitchell’s assistant, taking notes because he wasn’t feeling well today. Only Alek knew the truth. He caught her eye from across the table and gave a barely perceptible nod. Showtime. Team Coach Donovan cleared his throat. “I need to address Jack Reynolds’ performance. It’s becoming a problem.” Emma’s pen stilled on the page. “Reynolds is our star,” said Marketing Director Peterson. “Three commercials running right now. Face of the franchise.” “His face is all over billboards,” agreed Wilson. “Very photogenic young man.” “His face is fine,” Coach Donovan growled. “It’s the rest of him that’s the issue. Late to practice, missing team meetings, sloppy on the ice. Last four games, he’s been a liability.” Emma kept her expression blank, but inside, a small, petty part of her was doing a touchdown dance. “Perhaps he’s injured?” suggested Dr. Klein, the team physician. “Only injury is to his ego,” Coach snorted. “Ever since the divorce news broke, he’s been distracted. Partying with that model.” Emma fought to keep her face neutral. The divorce wasn’t even final yet, and already it was boardroom gossip. “Is this a short-term issue?” Alek asked, his deep voice drawing everyone’s attention. “Or do we need to consider other options?” “Like what?” demanded Peterson. “Trading him? The fans would riot.” “Fans riot when we lose, too,” Coach pointed out. “If Reynolds keeps playing like this, we’ll be doing a lot of losing.” Emma wrote in her notepad: Karma’s a bench-warmer. “Give him two more weeks,” Alek said finally. “If there’s no improvement, we discuss options. All options.” The meeting moved on to merchandise sales, arena repairs, and ticket pricing strategies—all areas where Emma had secretly contributed research. Hearing her ideas discussed without credit was both frustrating and thrilling. Two hours later, the boardroom finally emptied. Only Alek remained, gathering papers into a leather portfolio. “Well,” he said once they were alone, “that was your first board meeting. What did you think?” “I think Peterson needs to unclench before he gives himself a hernia,” Emma replied, stretching her stiff back. “And I think you were surprisingly gentle about Jack.” “Was I?” Alek raised an eyebrow. “I just put him on a two-week performance improvement plan. In hockey management terms, that’s like putting him on an iceberg and giving it a push.” Emma laughed. “Poor Jack. Such high expectations.” “Not really. Just ’show up sober and try.’” Alek checked his watch. “Have dinner plans?” “Just me and a frozen pizza. Mia’s out of town.” “Cancel the pizza. I have something to show you.” Alek’s office was nothing like she expected. Instead of hockey memorabilia and dark wood, it was all glass and light with abstract art on the walls. The only hint of sports was a single framed jersey—Moscow Dynamo, number 77, VOLKOV. “Nice office,” Emma said, setting her bag on a chair. “Very un-hockey.” “I get enough hockey everywhere else.” He gestured toward the windows, where snow had begun to fall. “Looks like it’s starting.” “Starting what?” “The storm. Didn’t you check the forecast? Eight to twelve inches expected tonight.” Emma groaned. “Of course. The one day I don’t bring boots.” “We have time before it gets bad.” Alek opened a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of vodka and two glasses. “Russian weather survival kit.” “Is that wise? I need to get home eventually.” “One drink. Then I show you what I brought you here for.” The vodka burned going down, but left a pleasant warmth in her chest. Alek opened his laptop and turned it toward her. “These are the real financials. Not the ones the board sees.” Emma leaned closer, scanning the spreadsheets. “These numbers don’t match what was in the meeting.” “Because the board gets the sanitized version.” Alek pulled up another file. “The arena renovation went thirty percent over budget. Sponsorship revenue is down. And the broadcast deal is expiring next year with no guarantee of renewal.” “The team is underwater,” Emma said, reading between the lines. “How bad?” “Not bankruptcy bad. But bad enough that player salaries might need restructuring.” “Meaning trades.” “Potentially. High-cost, underperforming players would be first to go.” “Like Jack,” Emma said quietly. Alek didn’t confirm or deny, which was confirmation enough. “Show me everything,” she said, pulling her chair closer to his desk. “I need to understand exactly what we’re dealing with.” Three hours later, Emma’s eyes burned from staring at spreadsheets. Empty takeout containers littered Alek’s desk—they’d ordered Chinese when it became clear this would be a long night. “If we restructure the vendor contracts and implement my concession pricing strategy,” Emma said, pointing to her calculations, “we could offset the shortfall without touching the roster.” “Maybe.” Alek rubbed his eyes. “But it’s tight.” Emma stood, stretching her cramped muscles. “I need to walk. My brain is fried.” She moved to the window. Outside, snow swirled in thick clouds, the parking lot already blanketed in white. “Wow. It really came down fast.” Alek joined her at the window. “I don’t think you’re going anywhere tonight.” “What?” He pointed to the street, where a snow plow was already getting stuck. “Boston is shutting down. When the plows can’t move, nothing moves.” Emma pulled out her phone to check traffic apps. No cars were moving on any nearby streets. “Great. Trapped in a hockey office during a blizzard. This was not in my five-year plan.” “Could be worse. At least there’s heat, food, and vodka.” Alek’s shoulder brushed against hers as they both stared at the worsening storm. “And you’re not alone.” Something in his voice made her turn. He was looking at her with an intensity that had nothing to do with spreadsheets. “Alek...” “I know. Bad timing. Complicated situation.” He stepped back. “I’m your business partner. Your soon-to-be-ex-husband’s boss.” “And yet,” Emma said softly, “I can’t stop thinking about you.” The confession hung in the air between them. Emma’s heart pounded so loudly she was sure he could hear it. Alek took a careful step toward her. “If you want me to keep my distance, just say the word.” “And if I don’t?” His eyes darkened. “Then I’m going to have to break my rule about not mixing business with pleasure.” Emma closed the distance between them, placing her palm against his chest. She could feel his heart racing beneath her fingers. “Maybe some rules need to be broken.” Alek’s hand came up to cup her cheek, thumb brushing her lower lip. “Emma,” he breathed, leaning down. The first touch of his lips was gentle, questioning. Emma answered by sliding her hands up his chest to his shoulders, rising on tiptoes to press closer. The kiss deepened, his arm circling her waist to steady her as he explored her mouth with a thoroughness that made her knees weak. They broke apart, breathless. Alek rested his forehead against hers. “I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you.” “Even when I was getting coffee for the marketing team?” “Especially then. You looked so serious, like you were memorizing everyone’s order for a final exam.” Emma laughed, then pulled him down for another kiss. This one was hotter, hungrier. Alek backed her against the window, his large frame sheltering her as his hands learned the shape of her waist, her hips. “We should stop,” he murmured against her neck. “We should,” Emma agreed, making no move to release him. “We’re at work,” he reminded her, even as his fingers tangled in her hair. “True.” She nipped at his lower lip, enjoying his sharp intake of breath. “Very unprofessional.” The office door swung open with a bang. “Alek, my agent’s freaking out about—” Emma and Alek sprang apart, but it was too late. Jack Reynolds stood frozen in the doorway, his expression morphing from confusion to recognition to absolute fury as he took in the scene: his not-yet-ex-wife in the arms of his boss, both clearly disheveled from something that was definitely not a business meeting. “What. The. FUCK.” Jack’s voice echoed in the suddenly silent office.