Page 62 of If You Give a CEO a Chance

Only this time, his gaze locks on mine, and I swear a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips. I narrow my eyes in response, irritation flaring at his earlier antics, demanding I removeAleksandr’s jersey in front of an audience. There’s no chance I’m admitting that it was hot as hell… but damn his possessive behavior made my skin flush and a shiver run down my spine.

Now, here I am, wearing his shirt, the tension between us burning even hotter. His smirk widens, like he enjoys seeing me in it a little too much—and I hate how much I like it.

I avert my gaze and roll up my shirt-sleeves as I stand, and head to the kitchen to finish prep for the smoothie bowls and chicken wraps for the team. They’ll have to shower and change first, so no doubt they’ll be starving when they’re ready to eat.

An hour later, I’m just finishing getting the food set up when the team files into the room. Aleksandr’s at the front of the line, grabbing a chicken wrap, and coming around to stand by me so he’s out of the way. He lets out a low groan after his first bite.

“I was right. You really are a magician. How do you make a simple wrap taste this ridiculously good?”

“It’s the sauce,” I answer politely, but I’m barely paying attention as my eyes drift around the room, searching for Harrison.

Despite my annoyance at his earlier behavior, a twisted part of me wants him to see me talking with Aleksandr again. My lips press into a thin line when I don’t see him.

What’s wrong with me?

“I see you ditched my jersey,” Aleksandr remarks.

I blink, realizing he’s talking to me. “What was that?”

He chuckles.

“Oh, right.” I glance down at Harrison’s button-up. “I’m actually not sure what happened to it,” I admit sheepishly.

“Don’t sweat it.” Aleksandr pauses to take another bite of his wrap. “One of the guys mentioned Harrison made you take it off. I’m pretty sure I won’t be seeing that jersey again.”

My cheeks grow warm as I shift uncomfortably. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”

He smirks, waving me off. “I think I do, and the last thing I want is to be on his bad side.”

Aleksandr might be a bit full of himself, but there’s an undeniable sweetness about him. If I weren’t living with a certain moody billionaire who happens to own the team, I might consider agreeing to go out with him. Then again, I don’t feel a spark with Aleksandr and wouldn’t want to lead him on. Unfortunately, I’ve always been drawn to the brooding, tall-dark-and-handsome type. Even though I wish I wasn’t.

“You shouldn’t be intimidated by Harrison,” I say.

“I take it you haven’t seen him on the ice. He’s a powerhouse, and I’m not just saying that because he has influence over my career,” Aleksandr replies.

It’s not hard to imagine that Harrison is every bit as intense on the ice as he is in person. The idea of watching him in action, sweat glistening, muscles straining—my breath catches just thinking about it. Good thing I haven’t had to watch him play, or I might be in more trouble than I already am.

I laugh softly. “He has control over my career too. I’m his private chef.”

Aleksandr lets out a low whistle. “That explains so much.”

I tilt my head, frowning. “Meaning?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just wouldn’t accept another man’s clothes in the future if you don’t want to ruffle his feathers again,” he chuckles.

I nod, pretending to understand why Harrison cares so much if I wear someone else’s jersey.

“Duly noted.”

Harrison never shows up, making me even more vexed. He doesn’t get to storm in and make demands, then hide out when he knows damn well I want to speak to him.

It’s late by the time I’m finished cleaning up, and most of the hockey team and staff have went home for the night.

I adjust my bag on my shoulder, the strap digging into my sore muscles. A scalding hot bath is practically calling my name, and all I can think about is getting back to the apartment. Yet, as I walk down the hallway, the faint glow of the arena lights catches my eye, and the sound of skates carving through the ice drifts down the corridor.

Too tired to think it through but too curious not to investigate, I change directions, veering off toward the open double doors at the far end of the hallway where a Zamboni is parked off to the side.

As I get closer to the rink, the chill of the air hits me. I peek out to see a lone figure gliding effortlessly on the ice. When he looks to the side, his face comes into view, and my breath hitches when I see that it’s Harrison. There’s something mesmerizing about the way he controls the puck, his stickwork fluid and instinctive, a testament to years of practice.

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