Panther's Cage

I'm shaking hands with half-naked hockey players, smiling like a professional, and all I can think about is the stranger in the corner—the one whose mouth was between my legs six hours ago.

Oh, and he still has my bra.

"Boys, this is Kate Martin." Coach Julian's voice echoes through the locker room. "As you know, Richard Martin recently passed away. This is his daughter Kate, who is now the majority owner of the New York Blades."

A chorus of welcomes. Handshakes. Names I'll have to learn later because right now my brain is short-circuiting.

He's sitting on a bench twelve feet away, jersey half-unzipped, avoiding my eyes like I'm not even in the room.

"Ms. Martin." A massive defenseman sticks out his hand. "Welcome to the team."

"Thank you." My voice sounds normal. I have no idea how.

I move down the line. Shake after shake. Smile after smile. The whole time, my body is screaming at me. I can still feel him. The scratch of his stubble. His hands gripping my hips. The way he laughed against my neck when I—

"You okay?" Uncle John's hand lands on my shoulder. "You look pale."

"Fine. Just a lot to take in."

I keep moving. Keep shaking. Keep pretending I'm not six hours removed from the most reckless night of my life.

Finally, I reach him.

Tyler. That's what he said his name was. Just Tyler. No last name. No mention of being a professional athlete. No warning that he played for the team I was about to inherit.

He stands. He's taller than I remembered. Broader. Those dark eyes finally meet mine, and I see it—the same shock I'm feeling, buried under a mask of cool indifference.

"Tyler Carlson." Coach Julian gestures between us. "Our new center. Best acquisition your father ever made."

I stick out my hand. Professional. Steady. "Mr. Carlson."

His grip is warm and firm. Same hands that pinned my wrists above my head last night.

"Ms. Martin." His voice is lower than I remember. Rougher. "Pleasure to meet you."

"I've heard impressive things," I manage.

Something flickers in his eyes. "I aim to deliver."

I drop his hand like it's on fire.

The rest of the introductions blur together. I smile until my face hurts. When Coach Julian finally announces they need to prep for practice, I nearly collapse with relief.

"Gentlemen." I nod to the room. "Looking forward to a winning season."

I'm three steps from the door when his voice stops me.

"Ms. Martin."

"I have some contract questions. When you have a moment."

The locker room goes quiet. Not suspicious—just players who don't care about paperwork.

"Of course." I don't turn around. "Coach, is there somewhere private?"

"Use my office."

I walk. Steady steps. Controlled breathing. His footsteps follow behind me—heavier, faster.

Julian's office is small. Cluttered with playbooks and trophies. I step inside, and Tyler follows, pulling the door shut with a click that sounds way too loud.

We stare at each other.

"You're the fucking owner." His voice is barely controlled.

"You're a fucking hockey player."

"I told you I was new in town—"

"You told me you did 'nothing interesting.'" I cross my arms. "Meanwhile, you're a goddamn all-star."

"When were you going to mention you played for one?"

We're both breathing hard. Both furious. Both completely, utterly screwed.

Tyler runs a hand through his hair. "This is bad."

"You think?" I start pacing. I can't stand still. "I just inherited this team. My father's legacy. Everything he built. And if anyone finds out I slept with my star player—"

"They'll drag you through the mud and call me a genius." His laugh is bitter. "I know exactly how this plays out."

"Then you understand why this can never happen again."

"Obviously." He leans against Julian's desk, arms crossed. "You think I want my career tanked because I hooked up with the wrong girl?"

"Good. We're in agreement." I force my voice to stay level. "Last night was a mistake. We were strangers. We didn't know. It's over."

Tyler pushes off the desk and takes a step toward me. Then another.

This is dangerous.

"Here's the thing, Kate." He's close now. Close enough that I can smell him—soap, something woodsy, and underneath it all, a trace of my perfume still on his skin. "I've been with a lot of women."

"Congratulations."

"None of them walked away from me."

I remember the bar. The kiss. Throwing his own line back at him and leaving him standing there.

"Your point?"

"My point is you're different." His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second. "And I fucking hate that you're different, because you're right—this can't happen."

My back hits the wall. I didn't realize I'd been retreating.

"Tyler—"

"One night." His voice is low. Strained. "That's all it was supposed to be. So why can't I stop thinking about it?"

My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Because we're idiots."

"Probably."

"Because it was good."

"It was better than good." He's inches away now. Not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "It was the best night I've had in years."

My hands stay at my sides. I don't push him away. I don't move. I just stand there, pulse racing, remembering exactly how it felt when he—

A knock on the door.

We spring apart. Tyler's somehow five feet away by the time it opens, looking bored, like he wasn't just—like we weren't—

"Kate?" Piper pokes her head in. Her eyes dart between us. "Your uncle's looking for you. Dinner thing."

"Right." I smooth my hair. Force my hands to stop shaking. "Tell him I'll be there in a minute."

Piper's gaze lingers. She knows me too well.

"Sure." She closes the door slowly. "Take your time."

The silence stretches.

Tyler moves toward the exit, then stops with his hand on the knob.

"For what it's worth," he says without turning around, "I don't regret it."

"Tyler—"

"I know it was stupid. I know it can't happen again." He finally looks back at me. "But I don't regret a single second."

He's gone before I can respond.

Three hours later, I'm lying in my father's bed, staring at my father's ceiling, in my father's penthouse that still smells like his cologne.

I can't stop replaying it. Not just last night—though that's bad enough—but the locker room. The office. The way Tyler looked at me like he wanted to devour me and destroy me at the same time.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

I grab it, expecting Piper. Expecting Uncle John with another dinner reminder.

It's a notification. NYSportsGossip, one of those trashy accounts I followed back when I actually cared about hockey drama.

My blood turns to ice.

I click through. The photo is grainy—cell phone quality, bad lighting—but it's unmistakably us. Tyler leaning against the bar. Me standing too close, laughing at something he said.

The comments are already flooding in.

I scroll faster, heart hammering. Looking for anyone who recognized me. Anyone who put it together.

Nothing yet. But it's only been posted for two hours. And it already has four hundred likes.

I pull up Tyler's contact—the number I should have deleted this morning—and type with shaking fingers.

I stare at the photo again. My face is partially turned. Hair covering part of my profile. It could be anyone.

But it's not anyone. It's me. And somewhere out there, someone has the original photo. Someone who was close enough to take it might be close enough to recognize the new owner of the New York Blades.

Another text from Tyler.

The smart move is to say no. Delete his number. Burn the bridge and pray the photo never gets traced back to me.

I drop my phone on the bed and press my palms against my eyes.

One night. One stupid, reckless, incredible night—and now there's photographic evidence floating around the internet.

If anyone figures out that mystery brunette is Kate Martin, new owner of the Blades, my father's legacy goes up in flames. Everything he built. Everything I'm supposed to protect.

All because I couldn't keep my hands off a stranger at a bar.

Seventy-two hours earlier, I didn't even know Tyler Carlson existed.

Now he might be the reason I lose everything.