Icebound Hearts
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Lizette Combrinck
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15.8K
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Chloe thrives on control, sharp comebacks, and fixing impossible reputations. So when the Frozen City Vipers hire her to clean up their latest scandal, she walks in ready to work. The problem? Ryder. The team’s brooding captain would rather skate through a wall than smile for a camera, and he definitely doesn’t want a PR queen telling him what to do. Forced into staged appearances and fake teamwork, their constant bickering quickly turns into dangerous chemistry neither of them can ignore. Between icy stares, late-night strategy sessions, and tension hot enough to melt the rink, Chloe and Ryder start slipping past each other’s defenses. But secrets, pride, and careers make falling for each other the riskiest play of all.
Chapter 1
CHLOE
You know your day’s going to hell when the private jet smells like bourbon and regret.
I adjusted my sunglasses and stared out the window as Frozen City’s skyline came into view, all glass and steel and snow-capped rooftops. The city was exactly as cold and polished as its name suggested. Fitting. I wasn’t here for warmth.
“Touchdown in five,” the pilot crackled over the intercom.
Great. That gave me five minutes to mentally prepare for walking into a PR disaster big enough to make national headlines—and possibly tank the reputation of one of the most powerful teams in the NHL: The Frozen City Vipers.
Home of sold-out arenas, millions in merch sales, and—as of this morning—a DUI scandal so messy it had already landed three players on suspension and sent the team’s sponsors into a tailspin.
And that was before the captain decided to blow off every press appearance since. Which is exactly why I was here.
Chloe Bennett. Fixer. PR crisis management expert. Flame-retardant personality in heels.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and ran a hand through my hair, fluffing the curls just enough to soften the edge of my tailored navy blazer. My assistant, Gracie, had already sent me five folders full of media fallout and four passive-aggressive texts from the team’s general manager.
I didn’t need the files. I knew this game. When a team was burning, they didn’t call in the coach. They called me in.
The town car was waiting on the tarmac. Black, sleek, and ominous. Just the way these franchises liked to move—silently and under the radar. I slid inside and pulled up the most recent clip making the rounds on Twitter.
A Vipers player—someone I didn’t recognize—stumbling out of a club and into the arms of an officer. Slurring. Aggressive. Belligerent. I cringed.
The camera panned up just long enough to catch Ryder Kane, the team captain, in the background—stone-faced, cold-eyed, and walking away without saying a word. No damage control. No comment. No sign of leadership.
That was the headline: Captain Cold: Ryder Kane Silent as Vipers Implode
I closed the video with a sigh. I’d dealt with toxic team cultures before, entitled athletes, fake apologies, and carefully crafted redemption arcs. But this was different. Because Ryder Kane wasn’t just some spoiled rookie with an attitude problem. He was a legend.
And from what I’d read in his press record, the man was also a PR nightmare—fiercely private, almost allergic to interviews, and deeply uninterested in playing nice.
Well. That was about to change.
The Vipers’ headquarters was a sleek sprawl of glass and steel nestled downtown, with a high-rise tower that housed offices, recovery suites, and executive quarters. The media had already started circling the front entrance like vultures.
I gave the driver a new drop-off point—loading dock, side access. I’d walked through enough war zones in heels to know how to avoid landmines.
A security guard buzzed me in and escorted me to the executive floor. My heels clicked sharply against polished concrete as I stepped into the lion’s den.
Claudia Desrosiers, the team’s owner—and a woman who could command a boardroom with a single arched brow—was already waiting.
“Ms. Bennett,” she greeted, extending a manicured hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly.”
“Thank you for flying me in first class,” I replied, shaking her hand firmly. “Now tell me how deep we are in it.”
Claudia’s lips quirked, but her eyes were tight. “Deep. Three sponsors have paused contracts. Our top winger is facing charges. And Kane is—well. Kane.”
I raised a brow. “Has he made any statements?”
She laughed, sharp and humorless. “Ryder Kane doesn’t speak to anyone. Not unless he absolutely has to.”
“He’s the captain. He has to.”
“Try telling him that.”
Oh, I would.
I followed her down the hallway toward the media room. A handful of interns scurried past, eyes wide and worried. The tension was thick enough to skate on.
“I need a meeting with the whole team,” I said. “Today.”
Claudia nodded. “Already arranged. They’ll be in the locker room at two.”
“And Ryder?”
She hesitated. “He’s…a bit unpredictable.”
I offered a tight smile. “So am I.”
***
The Vipers’ locker room was bigger than most Manhattan apartments—all dark wood, brushed steel, and testosterone. The scent of leather and pine-tinged sweat lingered in the air, along with the charged tension of half a dozen men pretending not to notice me.
I stood dead center in the room, a small clipboard in my hand and four inches of strategic heel beneath me. My blazer was fitted, my posture military-grade, and my expression carefully neutral.
It wasn’t my first time walking into a room full of jocks with bad PR. But it was the first time one of them made my spine tighten before I even saw his face.
“Gentlemen,” I said, scanning the space. “I’m Chloe Bennett, here on behalf of team ownership and the PR division. I’m not here to make friends, I’m here to save your reputations.”
A few muttered chuckles. One guy actually winked. I fixed him with a stare that made him look away fast.
“I don’t care about your egos, your stats, or how many endorsement deals you think you’re entitled to. As of this moment, your careers are on life support, and I’m the only thing between you and public humiliation.”
That got their attention.
“I expect full cooperation. No leaks, no bar crawls, and no off-the-record remarks to your favorite podcast host. You will attend every mandated interview. You will stick to the talking points I provide. And if you step out of line even once—”
“Who the hell brought in a babysitter?” a deep, male voice cut in.
I turned toward the sound, and there he was. Ryder Kane. Holy hell. He stepped through the locker room door like a storm wrapped in tailored black.
Six-foot-something of sharp jawlines, storm-gray eyes, and a build like he’d been carved from frost and fury. His hair was damp, pushed back from his face, and he wore nothing but joggers and a sleeveless training shirt. His arms were pure sin.
And the glare he leveled at me could have flash-frozen water.
“Ah,” I said lightly, “Captain Kane. How nice of you to join us.”
The room went pin-drop silent.
He stalked forward, every movement precise and predatory. I held my ground, even when his presence filled the space in front of me like a freight train. “You’re the new PR director,” he said flatly.
“I prefer the term crisis manager.”
“Of course you do.” His voice was low, rough, and not the least bit friendly.
“I’m here on direct orders from Claudia Desrosiers,” I said evenly. “You’re familiar with the concept of direct orders, I assume?”
A flicker of something in his eyes. Annoyance. Or amusement. It was hard to tell. He crossed his arms, biceps flexing. “We don’t need a spin doctor. We need a clean locker room.”
“No,” I said calmly. “What you need is not to lose another sponsor. What you need is to show the public that you’re not a bunch of overpaid man-children who think consequences don’t apply to them.”
Ryder’s jaw clenched. “I don’t drink,” he said. “I don’t party. I haven’t missed a media appointment in five years.”
“But you also didn’t say a word when your teammate got cuffed outside a nightclub,” I replied. “You’re the captain. That silence costs you more than you think.”
He stepped closer, voice colder. “You don’t know the first thing about this team.”
“Then educate me,” I shot back. “But don’t confuse silence with strength. The world’s watching, and they’re not impressed.”
Ryder stared at me for a long beat, then turned to the rest of the team. “Out,” he ordered.
The guys scrambled, practically stampeding to the exits. Ryder and I were left alone, the hum of the vending machine the only sound in the room.
He took a breath. Then another. Controlled. Calculated. “I don’t like this circus,” he said. “I don’t trust the press, and I don’t perform for cameras.”
“You’re going to have to,” I said softly. “Because the only thing more damaging than scandal…is silence. And you’re standing in it.”
Our eyes locked—flint meeting flame. “You’re not afraid of me,” he said quietly.
“No,” I said. “But you’re terrified of something. And I’m going to figure out what.”
He didn’t answer. Just turned and walked away, leaving behind the scent of clean sweat, frost, and frustration.
And the undeniable fact that this job was about to be the hardest one I’d ever taken. Not because of the scandal. But because of him.
RYDER
She was trouble the second she walked in. Not the usual kind—not some reporter trying to bait headlines or a puck bunny chasing a roster spot in bed. No, Chloe Bennett was something worse.
She was composed. Calculated. Sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued. And she made my locker room feel like a battlefield.
I hated that.
I leaned against the corridor wall just outside the training room, arms crossed over my chest, pretending to skim a clipboard I didn’t need. I could feel her voice still echoing in the back of my head—clipped, firm, no-nonsense. She didn’t blink when I challenged her. Didn’t flinch. Just fired back like she owned the air between us.
Most people backed off when I stared them down. She leaned in. I should’ve been pissed. I was…something else.
“You good?” Boone asked as he passed, one of our defensemen. Good guy. Quiet. Dependable.
“Yeah,” I lied.
He smirked but kept walking.
The truth was, I wasn’t good. Not because of the DUI scandal—that was predictable. Idiots drink, idiots drive, we deal with it.
But I’d been holding this team together with tape and grit since last season. Ever since we lost Coach Harvey and the new ownership took over, it was like skating blindfolded.
But I’d been prepared for that. What I wasn’t prepared for…was her.
I replayed the conversation again in my head: “Don’t confuse silence with strength.” She didn’t know anything about me. About why I kept my mouth shut. About how fast the press could twist a man’s words into a weapon.
My dad had been a firefighter. Ran into burning buildings for a living. Old-school, tough-love, win-or-die mentality. He used to say the media was just another kind of fire—but one you couldn't douse with water.
I’d learned early: speak less, get burned less. And it had worked. Until now. Now, the vultures wanted a soundbite, and ownership wanted damage control. And apparently, Chloe Bennett was their weapon of choice.
I pushed off the wall and headed toward the back offices. Claudia wanted me in on the next round of damage control strategy—whatever that meant. Probably another press release I’d refuse to read.
But the door to the conference room was already ajar, and her voice was unmistakable. “He’s not the problem,” she was saying. “He’s the anchor. He’s the image the fans still trust. But if he doesn’t speak up soon, that trust crumbles.”
My gut tightened.
“Then fix him,” Claudia said dryly. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”
A pause. Then Chloe, quietly: “Fixing him isn’t the job. Earning his respect is.”
Damn. She understood more than I thought.
I walked in without knocking. Chloe was perched on the edge of the table, legs crossed, tablet in hand, hair pinned in that effortless I-woke-up-perfect way that women like her somehow mastered.
Judging from the half-finished box of Thai food next to her, she still did need to eat like the rest of us.
She didn’t jump when she saw me. Didn’t even blink.
“I’ll do the media rounds,” I said. Claudia raised a brow. “But I do it my way,” I added. “No cheesy slogans. No half-truths.”
Chloe smiled slightly. “Honesty’s good press. I can work with that.”
Her confidence was annoying. And compelling.
“So we’re clear,” I said, leveling my gaze on her. “You don’t run me. You don’t know me. You’re here because ownership thinks public image matters more than results. I’m here because results are all I care about.”
She tilted her head. “And I’m here to make sure those results don’t go unnoticed by the people who keep your paychecks flowing.”
The air between us sparked. I couldn’t decide if I wanted to shake her or kiss her. Instead, I gave a tight nod and turned to leave.
“Ryder?” she called after me.
I paused.
“I’m not here to make you into something you’re not,” she said. “But don’t mistake my smile for submission. I’m not afraid of captains. Especially ones who hide behind silence.”
I didn’t answer. But the edge in my chest? It wasn’t just irritation anymore. It was interest.
And that… That was dangerous.
