You’d grown up around hockey rinks. The sound of skates cutting into ice and the slap of a puck against the boards had been the background music of your childhood. Being the daughter of the NHL team’s head coach meant long nights at games, endless road trips, and a front-row seat to some of the greatest players in the league. It also meant dealing with guys like him.

Eric Cross. Captain of the team. Star player. A walking highlight reel both on and off the ice. Tall, broad-shouldered, and every inch the athlete, he was the kind of guy who turned heads without even trying. With his dark hair perpetually tousled and that cocky grin he always wore like it was part of his uniform, Eric was every sports journalist’s dream and your personal headache.

He was funny — you’d give him that — and the kind of charming that made it impossible to stay annoyed with him for long. But he knew exactly how good he was, and that confidence bled into every word he said. Half the time, you weren’t sure if you wanted to smack him or laugh at his ridiculousness.

The worst part? You were almost the same age as most of the players. Which meant Eric treated you like you were just one of the guys — teasing you, messing with you, and never taking you seriously. And okay, maybe there was a tiny part of you that found him attractive (who wouldn’t?), but you weren’t about to feed his already enormous ego.

So when your dad asked you to help out more around the team — handling logistics, helping with media, whatever was needed — you knew one thing for sure.

It was going to be a long season.