Page 45 of Puck Struck
"Just keeping tabs." He shrugs. "I was curious what became of you after you filed that ridiculous restraining order."
"Ridiculous?" I hiss, leaning forward. "You stalked me. Slashed my tires. Left threatening notes."
"I was invested in your success," he corrects. "And you repaid me by ruining my life."
"I ruinedyourlife?"
"That restraining order cost me my position at the firm." His smile vanishes. "I had to relocate. Start over. Three years of rebuilding what I lost because you couldn't accept what we had."
"We didn't have anything." My blood bubbles in my veins as I struggle to keep my voice even.
"A client who kept you playing hockey," he reminds me. "Who paid your bills. Who made you feel special when no one else did."
My stomach turns. "You're delusional."
"And you're ungrateful." His voice hardens. "After everything I did for you."
The bartender puts a drink on the table in front of me. I don't touch it.
"I don't owe you anything, James. I never did."
"And yet, here you are." He gestures around the bar. "You accepted my invitation and followed my rules."
"I'm here to tell you to leave me alone. The restraining order is still valid."
He laughs, loud enough that nearby patrons glance our way. "You think I'm afraid of a piece of paper? I'm here because I choose to be. And I'll leave when I choose to leave."
"What do you want?" I ask again, fighting to keep my voice steady. But the rage gathering force in my chest is so damn close to spewing all over this psychopath.
"What I've always wanted." He leans closer, his cologne overwhelming to the point where I almost choke. "You."
I recoil. "Fuck that."
"Then I suppose these will have to find their way to the press." He slides his phone across the table, screen lit up with aphoto of me from three years ago. In a hotel room. With a client I can't even remember.
My blood runs cold. "You kept photos?"
"Insurance." He swipes again. More photos. Different hotels. Different suits. "And not just photos. I have videos, names, dates, client reviews. Quite the little collection. I had access to your other clients and paid big money to gather all of the evidence. And now I own you."
"The hell you do. No one will care about what you think you have over me." I swallow down the panic, trying like hell to sound confident. "It was years ago."
"Will they care about this?" Another swipe. My breath hitches and I grip the edge of the booth.
It's me and Logan. Outside the rink after practice, his hand on my arm. I tense, just like I did the first time I saw it. There’s nothing explicit about the photo, but we look intimate in a way that can't be misinterpreted.
"How did you?—?"
"I have eyes everywhere, Connor." James takes his phone back. "What do you think the NHL would make of their golden rookie's sordid past? What would your teammates think? Your fans?" His smile widens. "What would Logan Shaw think?"
The name hits like a physical blow, a machete to my chest. "Leave him out of this."
"I could." He drums his fingers on the table. "For a price."
"What price?"
"Come back to New York with me. Just for a while, so we can reconnect." He says it like he's offering a vacation, not a prison sentence.
I laugh, the sound harsh and bitter. "You're insane."
