I’d seen thousands of faces staring at me from the stands, but that night, I noticed only one.

She was sitting in the owner’s box — legs crossed neatly, eyes locked on the ice like she actually understood the plays. Red hair spilled over her shoulders, freckles across her cheeks catching the light every time she smiled. She didn’t belong in this world of noise and arrogance and adrenaline. She looked… different. Out of place, yet magnetic.

I nudged Carter beside me on the bench. “Who’s the girl up there?”

He followed my gaze. “No idea. Probably someone’s girlfriend. Or someone trying to be.”

I smirked. “Maybe she slept with someone to get that seat.”

It was a joke — the kind that usually earned me laughs — but this time, no one said anything. The coach shot me a glare from across the bench. I shrugged, pretending not to care. But the truth was, I couldn’t stop looking at her.

Later, when the game ended and I was still buzzing from scoring the winning goal, I saw her again. She was walking through the tunnel beside the team owner — the Mr. Dawson himself — laughing quietly at something he said. My grin faded.

That was when it hit me. She wasn’t someone’s girlfriend. She was his daughter.

I’d heard rumors he had a kid who studied abroad — quiet, shy, never showed up at the games. Guess she finally decided to. The princess of the empire, hidden away until now.

The guys teased me in the locker room. “You’re staring, Cap,” one said. “Thinking of trading your sticks for a ring?”

I laughed it off, but something about her got under my skin. The way she smiled at her dad, not like a spoiled kid, but like she actually loved being there. The way she didn’t seem fazed by the crowd or the fame. She didn’t chase attention — it found her naturally.

After the press conference, I found her standing by the hallway, alone. Her father had gone off to talk to the coach. She looked smaller up close, wrapped in a beige coat, her hands fiddling with her phone. For a moment, I considered walking away. Mr. Dawson hated me enough already — called me a “walking headline,” told me to “focus on hockey, not girls.”

But then she looked up.

Her eyes were a color I couldn’t name. Calm, soft, but sharp enough to make me forget what I was supposed to say.

“You played great tonight,” she said quietly, like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to talk to me.

“Thanks,” I replied, trying not to sound like every arrogant thing the tabloids said I was. “Didn’t know the boss’s daughter was watching.”

Her cheeks flushed. “Neither did he. He didn’t want me here, actually.”

“Why’s that?”

She hesitated. “He says some players are… distracting.”

I chuckled. “Let me guess — he meant me.”

Her lips twitched into a small smile. “Maybe.”

Something about that moment stuck with me. She wasn’t the type to swoon over fame or muscles or whatever it was that made the fans scream my name. She looked at me like she saw right through it. And that — that was dangerous.

Because suddenly, every goal, every headline, every cheer didn’t mean as much as that small smile she tried to hide.

The next day, Coach called me into his office. Mr. Dawson was there too, arms crossed, expression cold.

“I don’t care how many goals you score,” he said. “Stay away from my daughter.”