Chapter 3: See him For the first time in five years

{LAURETTA POV}

My alarm went off at six o’clock in the morning, but I had already been staring at the ceiling for an hour.

I wasn't anxious about the interview questions.I had spent years managing high-stakes corporate messaging, writing press releases under tight deadlines, and turning potential public relations disasters into strategic wins. I knew my worth. I knew my resume was flawless.

"Mommy, you look like a penguin," Raynell observed quietly from the kitchen doorway, holding her favorite stuffed bear by its ear.

She blinked her beautiful blue eyes, taking in my crisp white button down shirt and tailored black trousers.

"A very professional penguin, sweetie," I corrected, forcing a light tone as I poured milk into two bowls of cereal. My chest felt tight making my fingers twitch.

It’s just an interview,I kept repeating like a mantra in my head.

It’s a massive facility. He’s a player; he stays on the ice. The management offices are separate. You won't even see him.

"Mom! Mom!" Ryan exploded into the kitchen, entirely ignoring his cereal as he practically slid across the linoleum floors.

"Aunt Beatrice said you’re going to the place where the Chicago Blizzard play today! Are you gonna see the Ice King? Are you gonna see Aaron Carter?"

My stomach did a violent flip, but I kept my face smooth. "I’m just going for a business meeting, Ry. I'm going to talk to the people who run the company."

"But if you see him" Ryan pleaded, pulling on the hem of my blazer, his wide, hopeful eyes looking up at me with an intensity that made my throat ache, "can you tell him that Ryan says hi? And tell him I have his rookie card! Just tell him my name, Mom. He'll remember!"

A sharp pain pierced my chest. He wouldn't just remember the name, Ryan, I thought bitterly. If he looked at you, he’d see his own reflection.

"Eat your breakfast, buddy," I whispered, kissing the top of his unruly head before grabbing my briefcase. "Aunt Beatrice is in the living room. Be good for her."

______

The Chicago Blizzard Training Facility was an imposing fortress of glass, steel, and multi-million-dollar branding.

The moment I walked through the double height glass lobby, the sheer weight of Aaron’s success hit me like a physical wall.

To the left stood a massive, illuminated trophy case showcasing three championship cups. To the right, a two-story-high promotional banner hung from the ceiling.

It was a giant portrait of Aaron.

He was staring directly ahead, his gray eyes fierce and unyielding, his jaw set in a hard line under his helmet. The gold captain’s "C" was emblazoned proudly on his chest. Below his image, the text read:

‘THE ICE KING: REIGNING CAPTAIN’

I swallowed hard, looking away. Five years ago, I was the one who sat in a cramped, drafty college apartment, pressing ice packs to his bruised ribs when he couldn't afford a trainer, sharing a single sleeve of cheap crackers because our bank accounts were empty.

I had been there for the sweat, the blood, and the tears. Now, his face was used to sell out stadium arenas, and I was a stranger standing in his lobby, suffocating under his shadow.

"Ms. Hayes? I'm Chloe from HR. Welcome!"

A cheerful woman with a headset and a clipboard snapped me out of my trance. Beside her stood Marcus Vance, the team’s General Manager, a sharp dressed man with graying hair and an intense, calculating gaze.

"Thank you for having me," I said, shaking both of their hands with a firm, practiced confidence.

"We’ve looked over your crisis management portfolio, Lauretta" Marcus said as he guided me through the secure security turnstiles.

"Impressive work with the logistics firm scandal last year. Frankly, our players are elite athletes, but media-wise? They're a handful. They get into bar fights, they post stupid things on social media, and with the playoffs coming up, the press is looking for blood. We need a Senior PR Manager who doesn't flinch."

"I don't flinch, Mr. Vance," I replied smoothly, keeping pace with his brisk walk down the corridors.

"Most media scandals get worse because people panic. If we get ahead of the story early, we can usually control how it’s reported”

Marcus’s eyes lit up. "Exactly. Let’s see how you handle a live environment."

He led me into a glass-walled conference room where the assistant PR director was currently sweating over a laptop, surrounded by printouts of local sports blogs.

"We have a minor issue," the assistant director sighed, looking up. "One of our rookie forwards was spotted leaving a nightclub at three in the morning before a mandatory practice day. The local blogs just got the photos. The press conference is in two hours, and the reporters are going to twist this into a 'team lacks discipline' headline. What's the play?"

Marcus folded his arms, looking at me. It was a test.

I didn't even hesitate. I stepped up to the table, scanning the photos. "I wouldn’t deny it. That only makes reporters dig harder. And I definitely wouldn’t punish him publicly. That turns it into a bigger story.”

"Uh, no," the assistant checked his notes. "He was with his older brother who just flew into town."

"Perfect," I said, my voice commanding the room naturally. "Issue a statement immediately saying the rookie was hosting a family welcome dinner, and that the team fully supports players prioritizing family milestones, provided they meet their on ice commitments, which he did, considering he arrived at morning skate forty minutes early today. Frame it as family values, not a late-night bender. Then, have the rookie do a quick, two-minute locker room interview about how excited he is to have his brother in the stands for the game. The media will drop the party angle and run with the wholesome family story."

The room went quiet for a beat. The assistant PR director blinked in surprise, his fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Marcus let out a slow, appreciative whistle. "Brilliant. Cut the statement exactly like that, Chloe. Lauretta, you’re exactly what this front office needs. Consider the interview formality over; I’m ready to sign your contract today."

A wave of relief washed over me. I had done it. I had proven my worth completely independent of my past. I belonged here because I was excellent at my job.

"Let’s wrap up the tour," Marcus said, checking his watch. "I want to show you the heart of the operation. Let’s head down to the primary practice rink."

My entire body went rigid. The triumphant smile slid off my face, my stomach dropped.

The rink!

"Is... is the team on the ice right now?" I asked, my voice a fraction tighter than before, though I fought to keep it professional.

"Just finishing up optional conditioning lines" Marcus said, already pushing open the heavy, double doors that led to the lower level.

The temperature dropped instantly. The air became crisp and smelling distinctly of chilled oxygen and sweat. I could hear it before I saw it, the brutal, rhythmic clack of hockey sticks striking ice.

Every sound was a key unlocking a vault of memories I had spent five years trying to bury.

We walked down the tunnel toward the bench area. Standing by the glass, leaning casually against the boards with a clipboard in hand, was a tall, broad shouldered man in a Blizzard tracksuit.

"Mason," Marcus called out, gesturing to the man. "Come over here for a second."

The man turned around, his eyes scanning us before breaking into a wide, charming grin.

Mason. I recognized him instantly from the old college sports clips he was the team’s veteran defenseman and, if I remembered correctly, Aaron’s closest friend.

"Hey, boss," Mason said, skating over to the bench door and stepping off the ice onto the rubber floor mats. He wiped his brow with a towel, his eyes landing on me. He gave a polite, appreciative nod. "Don't tell me this is the new PR savior. Please tell me you're here to stop the reporters from asking me about my retirement plans.

"This is Lauretta Hayes," Marcus introduced. "Lauretta, this is Mason Taylor, our alternate captain."

"Nice to meet you, Mason" I said, offering a polite smile, desperately trying to keep my eyes fixed on him and only him.

"Likewise, Lauretta. Trust me, we need you"

Suddenly, a loud, commanding voice echoed across the massive rink.

"Mason! Bring the extra pucks over to the circle!"

The sound of that voice hit me, It was deeper than it used to be, rougher, hardened by years of shouting over roaring crowds and barking orders on the ice.

It was a voice I would recognize even if I were deaf, a voice that whispered promises into my hair during the dead of night and had shouted at me in a rain-soaked parking lot five years ago.

My breath caught in my throat. The entire world seemed to slow down.I didn't want to turn around. Every instinct in my body screamed at me to run, to sprint back up the tunnel, to get into my car and drive away from the life-changing salary and the overdue bills.

But my body wouldn't obey. Slowly, helplessly, my gaze drifted past Mason’s broad shoulders, past the glass boards, and out onto the white expanse of the ice.

A single player was skating toward the bench.

He moved with an effortless, terrifying grace, his powerful strides cutting deep, aggressive arcs into the ice. He wore the black-and-gold practice jersey, his helmet caught in one gloved hand, his dark hair damp with sweat and clinging to his forehead.

Aaron.

He was talking to one of the assistant coaches, pointing a hockey stick toward the net, his expression completely closed off, cold, and authoritative. The "Ice King" in his natural habitat.

"Hey, Aaron! Get over here for a minute, meet the new boss," Mason called out over the glass, entirely oblivious to the ticking time bomb he had just detonated.

Aaron didn't look up immediately. He just nodded, coasting lazily toward the bench on his skates, gliding with the effortless confidence that came from years of being the best. He threw his stick over the boards first, his gloved hand catching the ledge as he prepared to step through the bench door.

"Marcus, if this is about the media gala on Friday, I already told you—" Aaron started, his voice dropping off as his gray eyes finally lifted.

He looked at Marcus. Then, his gaze drifted to the left.

And he saw me.

Aaron froze.

The sentence died in his throat, completely severed. His entire frame went violently rigid.The hockey glove he was holding in his left hand slipped from his fingers, hitting the rubber floor mat with a heavy thud. He didn't even notice.

I felt my heart beating fast but I refuse to take a step or look away.

Beside me, Mason stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing as he looked between us. "Aaron? You good, man?" Marcus narrowed his eyes, his sharp PR instincts immediately picking up on the sudden, suffocating shift in the air.

Aaron’s icy gray eyes locked onto mine, burning with a sudden, storm of emotions. Shock flashed across his features first, making his chest heave as he stared at me as if I were a ghost rising from the ice.

But then, as the seconds ticked by, the shock receded, replaced by something far deeper, Recognition.

He took a slow step forward, his skates dragging against the rubber mat, his gaze never leaving my face. His jaw clenched so tight the muscles in his neck strained.

“Lauretta,” my name left his lips in a ragged, breathless whisper.

And in that terrifying second, looking into the eyes of the man who had ruined me, I realized that forgetting him had never been possible.