“They won’t like you wandering around alone.”
I smirk and push to my feet. “Yes, well, they do like what I pay them, so they can suck it up.”
Once I escape that stifling mirror, the air comes a little easier. The practice building is smaller than the cavernous arenas I’m accustomed to, more laidback and intimate with its carpeted hallways and team memorabilia lining the walls. Best part, with the Trojans out of town on an East Coast road trip, this place is a ghost village except for the occasional maintenance worker or member of my crew. I’m sure the main rink area is packed with press and guests, but back here, I’m free to be no one. Gosh, I just want to be no one for a while.
I run my fingers along the wall as I wander the corridors like a new Disney princess in her first castle. If I started singing, would a handful of creepy talking rodents assemble? Maybe those annoyingly happy birds. See, no one talks about the excrement those rats and birds would leave behind. Still, I’ll take a fake castle over a real one any day. The deserted conference room could be my pretend dining hall. The training rooms, my royal spa. Oh, and the weight room—
“Fuck!”
I stop cold at the cry—very close, very male, and very violent. Peeking through the wall of glass to the team gym, I find two men glaring intently at each other.
“Ollie, you need to stop for today.”
“I can do it!”
“I’m serious, man. You’ve been at it since the crack of dawn and—”
“I can fucking do it, Carlos!”
The older man grunts and steps back as the younger one lifts his right leg to balance on his left. He lowers about an inch, holding the position for a split second before buckling. Carlos lurches forward to catch him before he hits the ground. A long string of French expletives rushes from his lips as his trainer helps him to a nearby weight bench. I don’t speak French, but I’m fluent in frustration.
The player shoves his hands in his hair, pulling hard while the older man looks on with a mixture of sympathy and severity.
“You’re pushing too hard, Oliver. You have to follow the protocol.”
“I know.” Oliver doesn’t look up, his fingers gripping harder in his medium-length brown locks.
“Look, I get how difficult this is, but it’s imperative that we not rush this.”
“I know.”
“There’s a reason for the protocol. If you push too hard, you’ll re-injure—”
“I fucking know, okay?” he snaps, blasting a glare at the trainer. His dark eyes flare with anger. Pain. Frustration. Failure. I bet he despises mirrors right now as well.
He releases a heavy sigh and shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I just…”
Carlos’ expression softens as he clasps Oliver’s shoulder. “It’s hell, man. I know it is, but you’re gonna get through it. We’re getting you back on the ice, got it?”
Oliver returns a weak nod that tugs at something inside me. In fact, my entire stomach feels clenched in one giant knot.
“Okay, well you have about a half hour to get ready for that meet-and-greet. Grab a shower and clear your head. You did good today.”
Oliver huffs a dry laugh as the trainer moves toward the exit. I’m far enough from the door that the man doesn’t see me when he takes off in the other direction. Oliver clearly doesn’t know he has an audience either when he swats at his eyes. Tears of pain or anger, I don’t know, but they only last a second. Cursing again, he pushes himself to his feet and rips off his sweat-soaked shirt to wipe his face.
Maybe I’m a creeper, but the fires of hell couldn’t chase me from this view. My life revolves around beautiful people and beautiful bodies, but there’s something about this man’s raw power combined with the raw pain on his face that takes my breath away. Every muscle in his form is trained to its flawless peak, and yet physical perfection can’t overcome the one weakness that’s knocked him down. A few tattoos litter his skin and burn more questions into my inquisitive brain. Why the desolate tree on his ribs? The weathered guitar on his shoulder? The script emblazoned over his heart? There’s more on his right arm but he turns too quickly for me to interpret them. All I see now is a broad, sculpted back clearly unaccustomed to weakness. I shudder at the contrast of what those shoulders should do and can’t. Yes, Oliver Levesque is an astonishing human specimen, a gladiator, a god—and young. Gosh, so young, like me, but with that same ancient soul that lives a much older existence. Is he alone on a distant plane as well? What happens when you live for a game that’s moved on without you?
I see all of that when he faces the window to the hallway again, his harsh reality fully on display now that he thinks no one’s watching. He takes a tentative step, grimacing in a way he wasn’t a moment ago in the show for his trainer. The mask. The lie. The story that everything’s fine when inside it’s an exploding nightmare thrashing to come out. But it won’t. It can’t when you’re the hopes and dreams of everyone else. When you’re Genevieve Fox.
I watch the young hockey player limp across the weight room toward the showers.
And maybe when you’re Oliver Levesque.
Oliver is a different man when he joins us in the conference room twenty minutes later. Still smelling strongly of shampoo and bodywash, he’s obviously cleansed himself of any visible demons as well. The ends of his wet hair curl around a backwards Trojans ball cap, and a Trojans tee stretches over his broad shoulders, hinting at the power beneath. His smile is wide and contagious. Dark eyes that blistered with pain just minutes ago now glow with a warmth that has me wondering if I misinterpreted that entire scene in the weight room. Have I met someone who plays the game as well as I do?
“It’s so strange to be in this room without Coach yelling at me,” he says, eyes bright with humor. Everyone laughs, quickly falling under his spell. Can’t really blame them. Even I’m cracking a real smile through my polished lips. “Genevieve, it’s so nice to meet you.” His Quebec accent stirs my blood, sending my thoughts back to an expletive-laced stream of frustration. Dimensions—complicated is my kryptonite. And his eyes. Up close, a girl doesn’t stand a chance against those dark thick lashes and hint of laid-back amusement. A small dimple appears in his left cheek when he smiles, and his brows are so perfect they almost look sculpted. His whole face really, but there’s no way the man I saw in the weight room gives a second thought to his appearance. In my refined and polished world, Oliver’s effortless appeal might be the most infectious thing about him. He walked out of the shower like this; my routine takes an entire morning.
I take his hand, returning my own well-trained smile.
“Great to meet you as well,” I say, lifting my gaze to his. He’s a good foot taller, so it’s no easy feat.
Our fingers linger in a strange connection, and our smiles falter for the briefest of seconds. He lets go first, tucking his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.
“It’s so nice of you to visit us here. I’m sure you’re very busy,” he says. I try not to notice how his t-shirt stretches over his chest when he stands in that position, again highlighting the toned body beneath it.