CHAPTER ONE

Nora

“Ryan, rumors have recently surfaced about you and model Isla Hart. What is your relationship with her?”

He smiles at the camera, that calm, poised smile that I’m sure is polished, practiced from years of media training. 

“My only concern right now is helping the Northstars make the playoffs.”

“With only one must-win game remaining, chances are low that you’ll make it far this year. Do you have plans for the offseason?”

“I wouldn’t count us out yet, Greg,” he says, his smile not faltering, as he rubs his thumb over the top of his stick. 

I tilt my head, watching him. Is that a nervous tell? I’ve noticed it before, but it’s not as though I know him well. 

“But come the offseason, whenever that is, I’ll be doing what I always do, which is preparing for the next season.”

“Thank you, Ryan,” the reporter says, although when the camera pans to him, his frustration is clear.

I shake my head. What does he expect? A professional hockey player as good as Ryan Cole has been trained from birth to never give any answers that might go against his carefully curated public image. 

Not dissimilar from the career Isla has built for herself, which is why they will be the perfect match, fake or not.

“That was Ryan Cole before the Northstars’ loss to the Saints last night. He declined to address additional postseason questions after the game, so we will just have to wait and see how he spends his offseason,” the sportscaster at the desk says as I point the remote at the TV, turning off the sports highlights and returning to my notebook calendar in front of me. It is neat, organized, and full of lists just waiting to be checked off, although the growing number of them is slightly concerning.

Focus, Nora, I chastise myself. I pride myself on my multitasking, but sometimes a woman just needs to focus on one thing at a time.

And not think about how handsome Ryan Cole is, especially when he smiles. There is a dimple in even his fake smile. I don’t even want to think about how deep those indents might be if he ever turns on the full wattage.

But that doesn’t matter right now, I realize as I check my watch, noting that my move ring hasn’t closed yet despite my 5K run and upper body workout this morning. More importantly, however, if I don’t leave within five minutes, I am going to be late. 

Which I cannot be. Isla’s career is in my hands—as it is most days—and if the first day of this charity campaign is going to be successful, I have to arrive at the venue before anyone else.

I jump in my Ford Escape, pulling out of my small condominium in downtown Vancouver. It’s small, but I love being in the midst of all of the city’s activity yet close enough to the beaches and hikes that it’s a quick drive whenever I have a free moment.

Not that I have much time for any of that, although it’s nice to know the option is there.

The arena appears quiet at this time of day. The only cars in the lot are likely those belonging to staff and players, judging by the Lamborghinis and G-Wagons that dot the parking spaces.

Slightly confused by which entrance to choose, I settle for the main box office, instantly overwhelmed by how cavernous the arena space feels without any fans filling the thousands of seats. The ice is empty, and I assume players are clearing out lockers or meeting with coaches after their loss last night.

The silence is almost unsettling.

I pause just inside the arena, the door swinging shut behind me with a soft thud that echoes far louder than it should. The building is too big and empty for a space meant to be filled with noise and purpose.

I fish my phone out of the front pocket of my bag, finding the email from Veronica, the Northstars’ marketing coordinator, to review her directions again. 

Media corridor. Lower level. Access through… something that might as well be written in another language, because none of the signs in front of me seem remotely helpful.

Of course.

I exhale through my nose and readjust the bag, weighed down with my laptop, planner, and hundreds of registration forms. My shoulder is already sore from my morning workout, and this will only make it worse.

I take the stairs down to the lower level. One step closer. I follow the signs until I spot one that makes sense, then choose a door that looks promising. Veronica gave me a key card that should provide access through the team’s back hallways, which I swipe, opening the door to find a long corridor. It’s wide, well-lit, and empty.

I push open another door at the end of it.

And lift my head just in time to run into a wall of muscle and sweat, nearly bouncing off backward until a large hand shoots out and grips my waist to steady me.

I stop short with a sharp intake of breath, my heart leaping into my throat as he also steps back, his hand retracting as quickly as it came forward. For a split second, we simply stare at one another.

He isn’t smiling.

He isn’t poised.

He’s in workout gear, light brown hair damp, cheeks flushed, water bottle in his hand, blue eyes assessing. 

Ryan Cole. 

The version of him in front of me looks nothing like the one that filled my television screen an hour ago.

“Sorry,” he says first, his voice low, unpolished. “Didn’t see you.”

“My fault,” I reply automatically, my eyes flicking to the gym behind him. “Wrong door.”

He glances over my shoulder, then back at me, the corner of his mouth lifting in something close to amusement, giving me a glimpse of that famous dimple. “That happens a lot.”

I nod. Somehow, that does make me feel a touch better, even if he’s lying. 

“I was looking for the media corridor,” I say, gesturing vaguely behind me.

He lets out a quiet huff of a laugh—not the polished one I’m used to hearing from him. “Not here. You’re about two hallways off.”

I sigh. “Of course I am. Directions are not my strong suit.”

He hesitates, then shifts his grip on his water bottle. “I can walk you.”

“Oh—that’s not necessary,” I say quickly. Surely Ryan Cole has far better things to do than escort me through the arena. “I can find my way.”

“Can you?” he says, lifting a brow. “Seems otherwise to me. Helping you will save me time. Otherwise, you might end up back here—or worse, in the dressing room.”

That logic is… annoyingly sound.

I nod once. “All right.”

We fall into step together, not close enough to brush arms, not far enough to feel distant. The arena feels even bigger when it’s just the two of us walking through it, our footsteps echoing softly.

“I’m Nora,” I say, tilting my head to watch him out of the corner of my eye. “Nora Hart. Isla Hart’s sister? I’ll be helping with the Open Ice Initiative this week. When Isla signed on, Veronica mentioned she was helping you until the team could hire someone to oversee the campaign, and I volunteered. I’m sorry, I’m rambling, but I feel like I need to explain myself.”

Recognition flickers across his face, but not in the way I expect. Not polite, not distracted.

“You’re the one who’s been sending the emails,” he says.

I blink. “You’re reading them?”

I imagined that the only people who might see them would be his own assistant or the team staff.

“About the schedule for the camp?” His heavy brow furrows again. “Of course. I’m on it, am I not?”

Something shifts in my chest—small, but undeniable.

We reach the corridor just as the quiet begins to fracture. Voices drift toward us, punctuated by the clicking of heels echoing off the barren halls. Ryan slows, then stops.

“Thanks,” he says, turning to me, “for pretending you didn’t recognize me.”

I smile before I can stop myself. “Thanks for treating me like I wasn’t an idiot.”

A beat passes. Something settles between us, warm and unexpected.

Then he steps back, all professionalism again, the moment neatly tucked away.

“I’ll see you soon, Nora.”

The way he says my name—like it’s already familiar—lingers long after he turns and disappears down the hall.

I’m still staring after him when I hear my name. 

“Nora, there you are!”

Veronica, the team’s chief marketing executive, pockets her phone as she rounds the corner, her black hair pulled back in a perfect knot on the top of her head. 

“Veronica,” I say, trying to find my adeptness once again. “Thank you for arranging everything today. I’m sorry, I meant to arrive earlier, but I got lost trying to find the media room.”

“Of course,” Veronica’s red-painted lips part in a smile. “This charity means so much to Ryan that the Northstars would like to do everything we can to support it. Here’s the press room. Everything should already be prepared. We have the press releases printed. Thank you for your help writing them. Everything else is ready, so should we go to the conference space for the meeting? Have you ever been in the arena before?”

“I’ve been to a couple of games,” I say as I follow her out the door, not wanting to spend too much time remembering dates with my ex-boyfriend. I wouldn’t even call them dates, since I was primarily tagging along as he and his friends drank beer and shouted at the players as though they were coaches themselves.

“Anytime you’d like to see a game, please reach out, and I’d be happy to get you tickets,” Veronica says as she leads me down a hallway, through a locked door, and to another area of the building that I wouldn’t even know was here if she hadn’t shown me herself. 

“The team’s offices are that way,” she said, pointing down a hallway, although it still seems like a maze to me. “This way is the space we’ll be using. For the event, doors will open right into the conference centre, so you won’t have to worry about finding your way.”

“Perfect,” I say, as my phone vibrates in the bag bumping against my hip. I’ve missed a few calls already — this camp might be a bit more work than I anticipated. Veronica opens the door to a large conference room. The floor is tiled, the walls are a navy blue, and sconces around the room provide ambient light that will be perfect for the gala night. 

The team has provided staff to help with today’s press conference and sign-in, and they begin to trickle through the door. 

“Is there anything else you might need?” Veronica asks as she glances around the room.

“I think I’ve brought everything,” I say. “Today, we will set up the space and meet to discuss logistics for the next few days, before the press conference begins. An hour later, registration will open up for the youth attending the camp. I have all the forms ready and just need tables set up.”

“Tell everyone where you want them. Most of the press already know their way to the media room, and we’ll direct the others. We can have someone show you and Isla how to find it,” Veronica says as her phone starts buzzing. “This is a good cause,” Veronica says softly, a smile playing on her lips.

“I agree,” I say, understanding all too well how some kids just need a chance. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

I get to work, knowing that soon enough, Ryan’s manager will arrive to discuss logistics. Isla is fairly certain that we won’t see Ryan himself until the press conference. He might be known as the nice, dependable player, but I have a feeling these types of events are more about optics than the actual cause.

Not like a photoshoot for one of the watches or colognes he always seems to be representing. 

I turn to strategically place my pile of pens when one of the Northstars staff freezes beside me.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, but her eyes are fixed just behind my left shoulder.

“He’s here,” she says in awe, and as I pick up on the shift of energy in the room, all the heads turning, whispers rippling, I turn to follow her gaze.

There he is. Ryan Cole. 

Again.