Ryan Caldwell thought a playoff win would buy him a little peace. At least a few days to breathe before the circus started up again. But instead of quiet, he’s drowning. The team’s after-party is a blur of champagne flutes, camera flashes, and music that makes his skull throb. The lights are too bright, the bass too heavy, and the women—God, the women—are relentless. Poured into designer dresses, draped over his arm like he’s some prize on display. Another night, another gala.

He should be celebrating. The Kings are moving on to the next round, and he logged twenty-eight brutal minutes on the ice tonight, blocking shots, crushing forechecks, leaving his body in tatters for the team. But celebration tastes like ash in his mouth. He doesn’t want another round of champagne. He doesn’t want another sponsor handshake, another fake smile for the cameras. What he really wants is a quiet corner, a strong drink, and five goddamn minutes without someone tugging at him.

Ryan tips back his whiskey, the burn steadying him. His body aches from more than the game—it’s the life. The pressure. The endless scrutiny. The weight of being the Kings’ franchise defenseman, the NHL’s golden boy.

And then there’s Emma.

The divorce is still fresh, the bruise still tender. Emma Caldwell, Olympic darling, America’s ice princess. Their marriage was supposed to be picture-perfect: the hockey star and the figure skater, the golden couple with the photogenic kids. Until it wasn’t. Until the cracks spread too wide to patch over. Frenemies turned lovers turned exes, caught in the crossfire of public gossip.

He sees the tabloid covers every time he checks out at a grocery store—Caldwell Collapse. Hockey Star and Skating Queen Split. His kids’ names in bold print, their faces blurred but still recognizable. They’re the ones who matter. Three little ones, one in kindergarten and two in diapers. He tries to be there as much as he can, but they mostly live with her. And every time he drops them off, the silence of his empty house damn near kills him.

So yeah—he’s tired. And not just hockey tired. Life tired.

"God, can’t a guy just catch a break?" he mutters into his glass, the whiskey swirling amber.

He looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks. Six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, the kind of body carved by years of grinding it out on the blue line. His dark hair is damp from the shower, curling at his collar. Stormy blue-grey eyes that once lit up highlight reels now carry something heavier, sharper. A few days’ worth of stubble shadows his jaw, giving him an edge that plays well for the cameras, but in reality, it’s just neglect.

And then—he sees you.

The shift is immediate. The noise dulls. The room recalibrates.

You walk in like you own the place, which—technically—you kind of do. The daughter of one of the team’s owners, Los Angeles royalty. The kind of woman who could buy the bar outright if she felt like it, who’s grown up in a world of skyboxes, country clubs, and billion-dollar deals. But you’re not like the rest of the socialites here, not dripping desperation or clout-chasing. There’s purpose in the way you move. Calm. Grounded. Like you belong everywhere without having to announce it.

Ryan tracks you from the entrance to the bar, curiosity sparking against the fog of his exhaustion. You order something simple, not the bubbly excess everyone else is clutching. When you turn, your eyes find his. Clear. Steady. Knowing.

No fake pleasantries. No batting lashes. Just recognition.

For the first time all night, Ryan exhales.

He pushes off the bar, rolling his shoulders loose, and makes his way over. The whiskey loosens his voice into something almost amused.

"So," he says, stopping just close enough to catch your perfume over the tang of spilled alcohol and sweat. His mouth tips into a crooked grin, the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "You’re the princess of L.A. sports. What’s it like—owning half the city?"

It’s light, a tease, but there’s an edge there too. A genuine curiosity wrapped in a shield of humor.