Chapter 7: Olive's POV

Chapter 7: Olive's POV

I'd found a reasonable place to have coffee not long after, tucked into a corner of the hotel café, nursing lukewarm coffee and debating whether my life had always been this much of a trainwreck or if it was a recent development.

Spoiler: It was recent.

Three days in Chicago, and I'd already been mistaken for a creative director, cornered by the hottest hockey player alive, offered some mysterious deal I'd been smart enough to refuse, and spent every waking moment trying not to think about said hockey player's bare chest and wet dreams.

I was doing great.

The café was quiet-thank God-just the soft hum of espresso machines and the occasional clink of dishes. I'd needed this. Space to think. To breathe. To figure out what the hell I was doing with my life.

And then the door opened.

I looked up.

And immediately wanted to throw myself out the window.

No.

It had been two years since I'd seen Ryan Mitchell, and the universe had been kind enough to keep it that way. But apparently, my luck had officially run out.

He spotted me instantly-because of course he did-and his face split into that same obnoxious grin I remembered from college. The one that made you want to punch him and also wonder if he was actually aware of how annoying he was.

He started walking toward me.

I considered running.

But my legs didn't move. Just stayed frozen as I watched him approach, all cocky swagger and that stupid hair flick he'd never grown out of. He swiped a hand through his sandy blonde hair, blowing out fake heat from his face like he'd just run a marathon instead of crossing a café.

His teeth were too white. His smile too wide.

I almost gagged.

"Oh, come on." He stopped in front of my table, hands on his hips, looking like he'd just won the lottery. "Don't tell me who we have here. If this isn't fate, I don't know what is."

"Fuck off, Ryan." I took a sip of my coffee, not bothering to look at him. "Fate is for paranormal romance novels. And you, buddy, don't look paranormal to me."

He burst out laughing.

That was the thing about Ryan-he didn't understand insults. Not because he was slow, but because he'd somehow convinced himself that verbal abuse was flirting.

"God, I love it when you insult me." He pulled out the chair across from me without asking and sat down. "It makes me hot. Turned on, even. That's why I always came to you. Free spank bank material, you know? Easier that way."

My face folded in disgust. "You're a walking HR violation."

"And you're still gorgeous when you're pissed." He leaned back, completely unbothered. "So what's new? Break any hearts lately? Ruin any lives?"

I set my cup down, debating whether throwing hot coffee in his face would be worth the assault charge.

I'd been sitting here, spiraling about my encounter with Zane. About the possibility-the dangerous possibility-that I might actually end up in over my head with him. The kind of over my head that involved his hands, his mouth, and a very bad decision.

And now Ryan had barged in and ruined even my fantasies.

"You're a child, Ryan," I said flatly. "And I'm glad I gave you the best three months of your freshman year. Now fuck off."

He laughed harder. "Oh, come on. That was four years ago. I graduated last year, pulled my life together, and here I am. Living the dream."

I grunted, already exhausted. "Good for you. Door's that way."

"Still got those daddy issues, huh?" He tilted his head, studying me like I was a science project. "That tone sounds exactly like the one you used to give when your dad-"

"Shut the fuck up."

I slammed my cup down hard enough that coffee sloshed over the rim.

Ryan blinked, startled for half a second before his grin returned.

That was Ryan's specialty-pushing until you snapped, then acting like your reaction was the punchline. He didn't care how much he hurt you as long as he got under your skin. It was his life's work.

And I'd been stupid enough to sleep with him in college.

"Okay, okay." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Touchy subject. Got it. So is it daddy issues or new boyfriend issues? Because that look on your face screams 'man trouble.'"

I pressed my fingers to my temples. "Why are you here, Ryan?"

"Funny you should ask." He leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. "I got myself a hobby. Joined the NHL."

I stared at him.

Blinked.

Stared some more.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"NHL, baby." He tapped the table twice. "Chicago Wolves. Just got called up."

My brain tried to process this information and failed spectacularly.

"They're just picking up random scumbags off the street now?" I asked slowly. "Or did DADDY pull some strings for his little boy?"

Ryan's jaw tightened. "Always going for the throat, huh?"

"You make it so easy."

"I worked hard for this, Olive." His voice dropped, and for a second-just a second-he almost sounded serious. "Really fucking hard. You think I'd end up useless? And leave my dad out of this. I've got stronger connections through my mom's side."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so Mommy helped you out."

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "You're impossible."

"And you're still talking."

"My uncle," he said through gritted teeth, "Gary Mercer. Senior VP of NHL operations. He helped me pull the strings. And now I'm here, playing on the same team as my favorite cousin."

My stomach dropped.

"Cousin?"

Ryan's grin returned, sharper now. "Zane Mercer. You might've heard of him. Best player in the league. Total god on the ice. Ring any bells?"

I couldn't breathe.

Zane Mercer was Ryan's cousin?