The Billionaire's Regret: The Ex-Wife Return with a Baby

LENA

I was already running late when I pushed through the café doors, the smell of burnt coffee still stuck in my hair. My feet hurt from the early morning shift, and my backpack felt like it weighed a hundred pounds with all my art supplies inside. 

Northcrest University was usually busy, but today it was straight-up crazy.

Students were everywhere, crowding the main quad, shouting and waving jerseys. Someone had started a chant that kept getting louder.

“Cole! Cole! Cole!”

I rolled my eyes so hard it almost hurt. Another hockey win. Big deal. These people acted like the team had just won the Olympics instead of beating some random school last night.

 I kept my head down and tried to weave through the crowd, but it was impossible. Everywhere I looked, there were girls in tight Northcrest hoodies screaming about how hot the captain was.

Like I cared.

By the time I finally made it to my morning lecture, I was ten minutes late and out of breath. I slipped into the back row and tried to focus, but my mind kept drifting. 

The scholarship email from last week was still burning a hole in my chest. One bad semester and I’d be back home, working double shifts with no future. I couldn’t let that happen. Not after everything I’d gone through to get here.

My phone buzzed during class. I checked it under the desk.

From: Editor – Northcrest Daily**

“Lena, your last three pieces have been weak. The paper needs clicks. One more chance. Don’t waste it.”*

Great. Just what I needed.

After class, I dragged myself to the newspaper office in the student center. The room smelled like old pizza and energy drinks. My editor, Sarah, didn’t even let me sit down before she hit me with it.

“You’re covering the hockey team,” she said, not looking up from her laptop. “And before you start complaining, this isn’t up for discussion.”

I froze. “Wait, what? No way. I don’t know anything about hockey. And I don’t want to.”

Sarah finally looked at me, eyebrows raised. “You want to keep your stipend? Then you’ll do it. The team just won their opener and everyone’s obsessed. I need an exclusive feature on Cole Arden. The captain. Get close to him, get quotes, whatever it takes. People eat this stuff up.”

I crossed my arms. “Athletes are just walking egos with sticks. I’m here for fine arts, not to stroke some guy’s pride because he can slap a puck around.”

Sarah leaned back in her chair. “Then stroke it with your words and get paid. Deadline is end of next week. Don’t screw this up, Lena. A lot of people would kill for this spot.”

I left the office pissed off but knowing I didn’t have a choice. The stipend covered my books and part of my dorm. Without it, I’d be screwed.

The arena was louder than I expected.

Even though practice was still going, the place echoed with skates cutting into ice, sticks slapping pucks, and guys shouting at each other.

 The cold hit me the second I walked in. I pulled my jacket tighter and found a spot in the stands, camera ready even though I already hated this assignment.

The players moved fast. Really fast. They slammed into each other like it was nothing, boards rattling every few seconds. It looked more like fighting than playing.

My eyes kept going back to one guy.

Cole Arden.

Even from up here, he stood out. Tall, broad shoulders, dark hair sticking out from under his helmet. He moved like the ice belonged to him. Every time he had the puck, the other players seemed to hesitate. When he shouted instructions, they listened.

But something felt off.

Towards the end of practice, one of the forwards said something to him. I couldn’t hear what, but the next second Cole had him pinned against the boards, gloves dropped, face inches away. The whole rink went dead quiet. No one moved. The coaches didn’t even jump in right away.

Cole’s voice carried across the ice, low and sharp. “Say that again. I dare you.”

The other player backed down fast, muttering something. Cole let him go and skated off, jaw tight. The tension in the air was so thick I could feel it from the stands.

Practice ended a few minutes later. Most of the guys headed for the locker room, laughing and shoving each other like nothing happened. Cole stayed behind, taking slow laps like he was trying to cool down.

This was my chance.

I took a deep breath, walked down the steps, and stepped onto the edge of the ice. My sneakers slipped a little but I caught myself.

“Cole Arden?” I called out.

He didn’t stop skating at first. I tried again, louder.

“Hey. I’m Lena Hale from the Northcrest Daily. I need to set up an interview with you for a feature.”

Cole finally slowed down and glided over. He stopped right in front of me, still on the ice while I stood on the rubber mats. Up close he was even taller than I thought. His eyes were this crazy light blue, almost gray. Cold.

He looked at me like I was wasting his time.

I waited. He said nothing.

“Good communication skills for a captain,” I said, unable to keep the sarcasm out.

That got his attention.

Cole turned fully toward me. He pulled off his helmet, shaking out his damp hair. For a second he just stared, silent. Then he stepped off the ice and moved closer. Too close. I had to tilt my head back a bit to meet his eyes.

“You should leave before you annoy me,” he said. His voice was low, rough around the edges.

I didn’t step back. “I’m just doing my job. You don’t have to be a jerk about it.”

Something flickered across his face. Not quite anger. Something sharper. His hand flexed at his side, and I noticed it was trembling slightly, like he was holding something back.

Behind him, another player — tall with messy brown hair — was watching us. Noah, I think his name was. He looked like he was ready to jump in if things went bad.

Cole leaned in just a little. “You don’t know what you’re walking into, Hale. Go write about something else.”

Before I could fire back, he turned and walked away, shoulders stiff. But as he headed toward the tunnel, I caught it — just for a split second, his eyes looked... wrong. Too pale. Almost glowing under the arena lights.

I stood there, heart beating faster than it should.

Later that night, back in my dorm room, I was going through the photos I’d taken during practice. Most of them were fine. Action shots, sweaty players, the usual.

Then I opened one particular photo.

My stomach dropped.

It was Cole mid-skate, right after the almost-fight. His head was turned slightly toward the camera. And his eyes… they weren’t blue.

They were bright, almost white. Like an animal’s eyes catching light at night.

I zoomed in, heart hammering.

No way. It had to be the lighting. Or a reflection. Or my tired brain playing tricks.

But the longer I stared at the photo, the more I felt this weird chill run down my back.