Chapter 2

• Emma stepped out of the taxi in front of Mitchell Tower, a gleaming seventy-story monument to her grandfather's business success. Sunglasses firmly in place, she'd swapped yesterday's jeans for a simple navy dress. Her divorce-papers-to-the-face makeover.
• The security guard nodded as she entered. "Morning, Ms. Carter."
• She smiled at the use of her mother's maiden name—the one she'd been using professionally for the past year. As far as anyone knew, Emma Carter was just another employee at Mitchell Industries, not Emma Mitchell Reynolds, granddaughter of Franklin Mitchell and soon-to-be-ex-wife of hockey star Jack Reynolds.
• The executive elevator whisked her to the top floor. No scan, no keycard needed—it recognized her face. Money couldn't buy happiness, but it could buy really cool tech.
• Franklin Mitchell's assistant—a perpetually frazzled man named Walter who'd been with him for thirty years—jumped up when she arrived.
• "He's waiting for you, Ms. Carter. Can I get you coffee?"
• "I'm fine, Walter. Thanks."
• Emma paused outside her grandfather's office, collecting herself. Don't cry. Don't break. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the heavy oak door.
• Franklin Mitchell sat behind a desk the size of a small boat. At seventy-eight, he still came to the office daily, even though doctors had been telling him to slow down for a decade. His white hair was immaculately combed, his bow tie perfectly centered. The only concession to age was the oxygen cannula in his nose, connected to a discreet tank beside his chair.
• "There's my girl." He beamed, pushing himself up with surprising strength.
• Emma crossed the room and hugged him, careful not to squeeze too hard. He smelled like peppermint and old books.
• "Sit, sit." He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. "You look like hell, Emmy."
• Emma laughed despite herself. "Good morning to you too, Grandpa."
• "I'm old. I get to skip pleasantries." He studied her over his glasses. "So he finally did it?"
• "Last night." Emma sank into the chair. "How did you know?"
• "Because I know everything." Franklin tapped his temple. "And because his agent called our PR department asking how to handle press for a friendly divorce."
• Emma's eyebrows shot up. "Already? The papers aren't even signed."
• "Jack moves fast. On and off the ice." Franklin's face darkened. "Ungrateful little pissant."
• "Grandpa!"
• "What? I'm not wrong." He shuffled papers on his desk. "I've never liked him."
• "You came to our wedding."
• "I gave a speech!"
• "You told him if he hurt me, you'd make sure his body was never found."
• Franklin shrugged. "I stand by that."
• Emma rubbed her temples. "Please tell me you're not actually planning a murder."
• "Of course not." Franklin waved dismissively. "Too messy. Tax audit is much more effective."
• "Grandpa."
• "Fine, fine." He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I called you here for something else, anyway."
• He opened a drawer and pulled out a manila folder, sliding it across the desk. Emma took it, noting the Mitchell Industries logo embossed on the front.
• "What's this?"
• "Your future."
• Emma opened the folder to find organizational charts, financial statements, and a stack of legal documents with sticky notes marked "sign here."
• "You've been working in management for a year now," Franklin continued. "Learning the business from the inside. It's time to stop hiding, Emmy."
• Emma flipped through the papers. "You want me to take over the company? Now?"
• "Not all at once. But yes, eventually." Franklin's expression softened. "I'm not getting any younger, kiddo."
• "You're fine," Emma said automatically.
• "I spent last Tuesday in the hospital." He tapped the oxygen tank. "Didn't tell you because you were dealing with enough."
• Emma's throat tightened. "Grandpa..."
• "I'm not dying tomorrow. But I'm not immortal either." He leaned forward. "It's time to start the transition. You've proven yourself—quietly building that downtown revitalization project, restructuring the pension plan."
• "No one knows that was me," Emma said.
• "Exactly. You've been doing the work without the credit." Franklin's eyes twinkled. "Just like I did when I started. But now it's time for Emma Mitchell to step out of the shadows."
• Emma ran her fingers over the papers. "What about the hockey team?"
• Franklin grinned. "Thought you might ask about that." He pressed the intercom. "Walter, send him in."
• The door opened, and Emma turned to see who "him" was.
• Her first thought: Tall.
• Her second thought: Really tall.
• Her third thought: Sweet baby Jesus on a hockey stick.
• The man who entered looked like he'd been carved from granite by an artist with a thing for sharp angles. Six-foot-four at least, with shoulders that filled his charcoal suit jacket to capacity. Dark blonde hair, cut short on the sides but with just enough length on top to hint at waves. Cheekbones that could slice bread. A straight nose that had clearly never been broken, surprising for someone who looked like he could bench-press a car.
• "Emma, meet Aleksander Volkov. CEO of the Boston Blades and the only other person who knows about your... unique employment situation."
• The man extended a large hand. "Ms. Mitchell. A pleasure to finally meet you properly."
• His voice was deep with just a hint of an accent she couldn't place. Eastern European, maybe?
• Emma stood, suddenly very aware of her height (average), her hair (unwashed), and her handshake (clammy). "Mr. Volkov. I didn't realize we were having a meeting."
• "Alek, please." His hand enveloped hers, warm and dry. "And this isn't a meeting. Your grandfather is matchmaking."
• "Business matchmaking," Franklin clarified, poorly hiding a smile. "Though I wouldn't object to grandchildren before I die."
• "Grandpa!" Emma's cheeks flamed.
• "What? He's single, you're almost single."
• Aleksander—Alek—looked mortified but recovered quickly. "I believe what Mr. Mitchell means is that we'll be working closely together as you transition into your role as co-owner of the Blades."
• Emma's jaw dropped. "Co-owner?"
• "I'm signing over forty percent of my stake to you," Franklin explained. "Alek has twenty percent. The remaining forty stays with me until I kick the bucket, then goes to you."
• "That would make me majority owner." Emma sank back into her chair.
• "The first female majority owner in league history," Alek added. "If you accept."
• "It's a lot to process," Emma admitted.
• "Which is why you'll have time." Franklin softened his tone. "Keep working as you have been. Learn from Alek. When you're ready—and when that jackass husband of yours is legally out of the picture—we'll make the announcement."
• Emma looked up at Alek. "You've known who I was this whole time? Even when I was getting coffee for the marketing department?"
• The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Yes."
• "And you never said anything."
• "It wasn't my place." His blue eyes met hers directly. "But I was impressed by how quickly you learned the business. Your ideas in the budget meeting last month about restructuring player bonuses were brilliant."
• "You were in that meeting?" Emma tried to recall who else had been there.
• "Back corner. You wouldn't have noticed me."
• Franklin snorted. "He's six-five and built like a refrigerator. Everyone notices him."
• "Six-four," Alek corrected mildly.
• "Whatever. Point is," Franklin tapped the papers, "it's time for a new generation to take the helm. Starting with the team."
• Emma looked between them. "Does Jack know any of this?"
• Alek shook his head. "No one on the team knows. They think you're..."
• "The plain girlfriend who doesn't fit in?" Emma supplied.
• "I was going to say 'private,'" Alek said diplomatically.
• "Well, Jack made it very clear last night that I don't belong in his world." Emma squared her shoulders. "Maybe it's time I showed him whose world he's actually been playing in."
• Franklin grinned. "That's my girl."
• "I need to think about all this," Emma said, standing. "But... I'm interested."
• "Good." Franklin nodded. "Alek will brief you on the team's financial situation. It's a little more complicated than the public knows."
• Emma turned to Alek, who was watching her with an unreadable expression. "When would you like to start?"
• "How about dinner?" he asked, then quickly added, "To discuss business, of course."
• "Of course," Emma echoed, ignoring her grandfather's knowing smile.
• "I know a quiet place where no one will recognize you—or ask for Jack's autograph."
• "That," Emma said, surprising herself with a genuine smile, "sounds perfect."
• As she left the office with a promise to call her grandfather later, Emma realized she hadn't thought about Jack or the divorce papers for the past hour. Instead, she found herself wondering what Aleksander Volkov would be like away from the office, and whether his eyes were actually that blue or if it was just the lighting, she was getting intrigued by him.
• Stepping into the elevator, she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall. For the first time in months, she looked... excited. Maybe Jack throwing those papers in her face was the best thing that could have happened.
• The doors closed, Emma smiled. Game on.