The California Cyclones had their first game tonight—a home game. I'd been aware of the constant traveling I'd have to do for the away games, and I was ecstatic. Since I was a kid, I dreamed of traveling and experiencing new places, but my parents didn't have the money growing up. Not that we were ever poor, but we didn't have the finances to go on extravagant trips, and I understood it. I never held it against them.

But last night, I reviewed the schedule for the multiple away games and felt an overwhelming sense of...nerves. The only place I'd ever traveled to was the Maldives with Esme and her family, but I had been with people. It's not like Brian would be traveling to every away game, nor would I expect him to. This is a big girl job, which means I have to travel alone. I'll be fine.

Everything will be fine.

The game is an hour from starting, and the stadium is already filled with rowdy fans drinking beer and shoving their faces with popcorn, creating a sea of white and black. I arrived early to ensure I got a view of the layout, attempting to determine where the best pictures should be taken, but truthfully, it's going to be a trial run tonight.

Although I graduated from college with a degree in photography, I've never shot professional athletes before. My work mostly stemmed from doing senior portraits or the occasional wedding, but never something as big as this. I'm fully aware that if Brian weren't the team's manager, I wouldn't have this job. My experience is non-existent compared to others.

"Where's your jersey?" Brian asks, coming to stand beside me.

My gaze strays to my jeans and a long-sleeved fitted shirt I put on while I was rushing to leave. Suddenly, my mouth seems dry. "I didn't know I was supposed to wear it," I admit, realizing how stupid it sounds as soon as it leaves my mouth. Of course, I'd be expected to wear it. It's their first home game!

One side of Brian's lips curves up. "Follow me," he says. "We keep extras in the locker room."

Guilt inks itself into my skin, crawling its way up my throat as I follow him into a hallway inside the stadium. I just started this job, and I've already fucked up in more ways than I can count. Brian put himself on the line for me, and I promised I wouldn't let him down. Not thinking to wear a jersey to the game was a stupid call on my part. One I won't make again.

"The team loved the headshots," he says, surprising me. "Everyone keeps raving about them. You even got Cal to smile. That's rare."

Cal, who I learned is another defenseman akin to Matti, seemed to be thoroughly annoyed about having to take headshots. The entire team was talking shit about Connor when he left for his interview, and when I added my two cents, not caring if my words carried back to him, the defenseman's lips tugged into a grin for a split second. I made sure to capture it.

I cling to the burst of pride that floods me as I say, "Well, I'm glad they liked them."

Brian pushes the door open to the locker room, completely unaffected by the men half-naked. I shield my face as he leads us to a grey storage closet in the back corner, opening it up to a multitude of shirts and jerseys to choose from. "Take your pick."

Doesn't he realize everyone around us is getting dressed? My cheeks are flaming red as I continue to keep my face covered, utterly annoyed that the only thing in my mind right now is Connor in those stupid tight briefs he wore when I was last in here. "Anything in a medium is fine," I squeak, desperate to leave.

As soon as a jersey is placed in my hands, I deem it good enough without looking at it and speed line for the door, but Brian clears his throat, capturing everyone's attention. A hush falls over the boys almost instantly, an air of respect washing through the room.

"You boys ready for tonight?" Whoops and hollers bounce off the walls, the pounding on lockers causing the room to shake. "Make me proud out there, alright? We've got a championship to win this year."

More cheers and shouts of agreement follow us out, and when we're finally in the hallway again, I exhale a deep breath, grateful I didn't run into him again. "I can walk back out there by myself," I start. "I don't want you to..."

"To what?" He asks.

"It just... It doesn't seem like part of your job responsibilities to keep checking in on me. I don't want to be an added task for you."

He chuckles, running a hand over his face. "Aria, you're like a third daughter to me. The least I can do is make sure you're settling in alright. Is it normally my job to be this involved with the staff? No, but you're more than just staff. You're family."

A knot of emotions works its way up my throat. "Thank you." We continue walking down the hall when something suddenly dawns on me. "Oh, I meant to ask. On the schedule you sent over, it doesn't give me any details about my flight information. Do I get that closer to the date, or am I supposed to book the flights myself?"

He snorts. "Do you honestly think I'd let you fly anything but private? You'll be flying with the team."

I almost trip—almost—until Brian sticks his arm out to balance me. "I'm sorry?"

"You'll be flying with the team," he reiterates.

But flying with the team means flying with him. I'll be stuck in an aircraft for hours with the one person I haven't been able to get off my mind. He'll be arrogant and flirtatious and those stupid dimples will come out and—

"That won't be necessary," I blurt.

Brian furrows his brows. "What? Why?"

"I..." God, I can't tell him that Connor and I have a past, and I don't want him to assume even for a second that something has occurred between me and one of his players. I can't lose this job. I refuse. "The other photographers flew on regular airlines, right? I'll be fine with that. I don't need special treatment."

We enter back into the stadium, the roaring of cheers erupting all around us. The announcer is gearing up for the game to start, revving up the crowd's energy.

"I know it sounds like I'm giving you special treatment, but it's cheaper this way," he shouts into my ear over the screaming. "We're already paying for the plane to travel the boys, and I trust you enough to fly with them. It's easier."

Well, not much I can say to that.

What would be my rebuttal? I'd rather him spend more money because I'd prefer to fly on a normal airline rather than a private plane? Nothing I'd say right now would be a sufficient reason.

"Enjoy the game!" He says, giving my arm a squeeze. "Can't wait to see the pictures!"

When he's gone, most likely to head up to his private suite, I shrug the jersey on and take my position diagonal to the goalie post on our end of the rink just as Lacey jogs over to me.

In leggings and a tightly fitted jersey of her own, it's clear she knew how to dress for the occasion. Her blonde hair is piled into a cute bun on top of her head, and her face is caked in makeup to near perfection. She looks like a lot of the hockey players wives on the team, and truthfully, I'm surprised she isn't one of them yet.

I wouldn't say I'm too far off from being her since I make sure my nails are always done, and I get my hair straightened once every two weeks to perfection. Regardless of my reasonings for straightening my hair, which I refuse to speak about, working in an industry this prestigious as a Black woman, I can't afford not to look the part. While pampering herself is a luxury to Lacey, it's expected of me.

"I need Connor, Mattie, Cal, and Levi's game day outfit photos forwarded to me immediately," she says, typing away on her phone.

I wrinkle my nose even though she can't see it. "I'm sorry?"

Her fingers still. "You didn't take them?" When I continue to remain silent, a tremor courses through her, and she lets out a massive sigh. "Honestly, who hired you? The game day outfits are the most important photos of the fucking game. It's what brings in my money."

"I thought them playing hockey brings in money," I remark, stating the obvious.

"Look, if you're new to this, then you have a lot to learn. The social media side of the team is almost as important as the team itself. Our hot players are what bring in ninety percent of our merchandise sales. The girls go feral when I post what the famous four are wearing."

"The famous four?" I think I might be sick at how nauseous that nickname is making me. This is why Connor has the personality he does. Because of names like that.

Her eyes drag down the scar lining my face, and I pretend not to let it get to me. "Love it or hate it, but they bring in the money, and I rely on you to take them for me. So will news reporters and gossip magazines across the country."

My lips thin into a thin line, but I truly don't know what to say to defend myself. I didn't realize I was supposed to take them. Maybe that's my fault for misunderstanding. "I'm sorry," I tell her. "I'll make sure to take them next game."

"Good." With another huff, she twists on one of her heels and stalks off towards the other end of the arena, where I'm assuming she'll be filming content for the socials.

Am I in over my head? Fuck, my palms are sweating. I wipe them on my jeans before I take hold of the camera around my neck—a camera courtesy of Brian. That man has been too good to me, and no matter what I try to tell myself, I know I don't deserve it.

I twist around to grab a new memory card, but a loud smack causes me to stagger backward, a hand flying to my chest as I whirl to find the source of the noise.

The boys have entered the ice for warm-ups, and I should have noticed since the crowd is going wild. Connor is laughing like crazy as Matti tries to shake off the hit—the source of the noise—smirking when he shouts, "I can't wait to see your ass in the penalty box tonight, fucker!"

"Right back at you!" He calls back as Mattie skates off for another drill. Then, Connor's eyes meet mine through his helmet, the glittering orbs of emerald shining through. He scans my face, then down my outfit, freezing directly on the ice when his gaze meets my chest. Is he that much of a douchebag?

"My eyes are up here," I snap, locking my eyes with his again. I draw in a shallow breath from the expression on his face. Gone is the carefree, lax version of him. His back is rigid, a muscle ticking in his jaw, but his eyes... Even through the helmet, they leave me breathless. It seems as if he wants to devour me.

"You're wearing my jersey," he says, pointing to my chest.

"I—what?" My eyes shoot down to the black and white material, cursing when the number three glistens beneath the stadium lights. "Okay, I didn't pick this. Brian did."

"Brian? The team's owner? Why the hell would he pick out a jersey for you?" He waits anxiously for my answer, but I can't help but wonder why he's still standing on the ice when he should be warming up with the rest of the team.

"I forgot to wear one tonight, so he took me to the locker room to get one." And nobody on the team needs to know how I truly know Brian. I don't want to be perceived as favored, even though flying private with the team will certainly seem like that.

That's a problem for later.

"And you didn't realize you grabbed my jersey?"

"I didn't grab it. Brian did."

He waves a gloved hand. "Semantics."

I arch a brow. "Wow. I didn't realize you had such a big vocabulary for a doofus."

At the nickname, he throws his head back with a louder laugh than I've ever heard, and dammit, why am I smiling too? "Doofus? That's a new one. I like it."

"Mmm. We'll see when I keep calling you it."

"Looking forward to it, baby."

My eyes narrow. "Don't call me that."

"Well, if you call me doofus, it's only fair I call you something as equally annoying in return."

My hands ball into fists at my sides, and Connor notices, his smile only growing wider. "Don't you have a game to play?"

"I suppose. Don't you have pictures to take?" He tilts his head to the side, crossing large, bulky arms over his chest. "I'll make sure you have a spectacular view. Just get my good side."

My lips twitch, threatening a smile. "You have a good side? That's news to me."

He nods. "You're right. They're both equally as handsome."

"You are so—"

He skates off before I can get in another comeback. He's won this round, and the laugh following even over the crowd of people lets me know he's fully aware of it.

I will not be affected by him. I keep telling myself that even through the skittering of my pulse. Even as I watch the muscular build of his body navigate the ice with lethal precision. Even when Levi passes him the puck and he races to the goalie, wielding the round disc like a trained, fluid dancer.

And right before the game starts, he whizzes around the rink, coming to an abrupt stop in front of me, chunks of ice smacking the clear panel between us. "By the way, baby, the number three looks exceptional on you."

In seconds, my skittering pulse resumes, blood races to places that should not be mentioned, and a heavy weight settles in my chest at the realization that not only does this man affect me, but I am so irrevocably doomed.

Author's Note:

There's no WAY we reached 200 votes overnight again lmaooooo guys I'm so excited like what in the world?!?!

What did you guys think of this chapter?!

Another challenge- 250 comments, 220 votes for the next chapter immediately! (If we don't reach it in two days I'll update regardless)

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