On Thin Ice (A Dallas Demons Hockey Romance)

by Aven Ellis

  I take the lone contact out, conceding defeat. I put on my trusty glasses and scrunch up my nose. Not quite the look I was going for, but it will have to do. I grab my silver sequined clutch, and anxiety begins to build in my chest, knowing it’s almost time to leave. I rationalize with myself as I enter the kitchen and pick up the invitation and Kenley’s keys.

  I’ll know people there. I know Kenley, Nate, Kenley’s sister and mom, and her best friend, Lexi. I hung out with all of them at the Dallas Demons Casino Night last month, and I did okay at that event. It helped that I was working as an operative to help get Lexi and Niko together, so I had a role to distract me, but still. I didn’t get twitchy until later in the evening.

  I lock the door behind me and head to the elevator.

  And I know Matt Rhinelander.

  As soon as I think of him, my stomach does a loop-the-loop. Heat radiates across my cheekbones, and my throat goes dry.

  I’ve known Matt for years now. He’s always been a teammate of Nate’s, from their start in Minnesota to when they were both traded to the Dallas Demons last summer. Nate has brought him home for dinners, cookouts, and holidays when he couldn’t go back home to Wisconsin. He’s always been sweet to me, asked how I was doing and how school was going.

  I know he was only being nice. A good guest.

  And yet I have this stupid crush on him that won’t go away.

  I hit the down button on the elevator and close my eyes. The dumbest crush in the history of all crushes in the universe. Matt is never going to see me as anything other than Nate’s sister. Besides, he likes gorgeous girls who have no problem throwing down shots in a bar and dancing on tabletops.

  I’m not his type.

  Yet here I am. Dealing with stupid butterflies because I know I’ll see him tonight.

  Ugh. I should stop the elevator. I should go home. I should—

  The chime of my Harry Potter ringtone fills the air of the elevator. I snap out of my thoughts and retrieve my phone from my clutch. It’s Nate.

  God, he really could have a second career as a psychic.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Are you on your way?”

  “Yes,” I say as the elevator doors open. “I’m in the parking garage right now.”

  “You’re not bailing?”

  I swear Nate knows me better than anyone.

  “No. I considered it, though,” I admit.

  “CiCi would send security out to retrieve you if you pulled that stunt,” he says, referring to Kenley’s strong-willed mother.

  I don’t laugh. I could totally see CiCi doing that.

  “No, I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  I hang up with Nate and make the drive over to Highland Park, an exclusive suburb of Dallas. My GPS helps me along, as Dallas is still foreign to me. Before I know it, I’m pulling up to a line of cars that are waiting for valet service in front of Peter Deveraux’s luxurious French-style estate.

  I can’t help but laugh. Thanks to Nate’s hockey career, I’ve ended up in a completely foreign universe.

  The car in front of me comes to a stop, and I see Demons’ forward JP Rochat step out of a sleek black Maserati. He hands his keys to one valet, while another runs toward me. He opens my door and helps me step out into the freezing December night.

  “Good evening, may I have your name, Miss?” he asks me.

  “Good evening, I’m Holly Johansson,” I say.

  He picks up a walkie-talkie and repeats my name, and I know he’s having someone ensure I’m on the guest list, which is quickly confirmed.

  “I’ll take care of your car,” he says, smiling at me. I drop the keys into his open hand and thank him. “Have a good evening, Ms. Johansson.”

  Right. Good evening. I’m sure it will be great with sweating and twitching and panic, but hey, it’s New Year’s Eve and time to celebrate, right?

  I so know how to party.

  “Holly?”

  I turn and see JP is waiting for me on the circular drive.

  I smile. I met JP at Casino Night last month, and I have to say, he’s very handsome with his hazel eyes and dark hair. Very sweet, too.

  “Hi, JP, how are you?” I ask as I walk toward him.

  I quickly realize these high heels are going to murder my feet tonight.

  If I don’t fall flat on my face first, that is.

  I concentrate on walking while JP waits, smiling brightly at me.

  “I’m good,” JP says. “You look beautiful tonight, Holly.”

  Heat rises again in my cheeks. “Thank you.”

  We walk toward the estate, and as I see the swell of people outside the entrance, my social anxiety makes its first appearance of the night. I swallow hard. Maybe if I pretend I have a task like I did at Casino Night, I can be normal longer. I’m a writer. I need to script something and act it out, and then I’ll be okay.

  “Aren’t you cold?” JP asks.

  I blink. “No. Why?”

  “It’s thirty-five degrees out, and you aren’t wearing a coat.”

  Ha! If he only knew I’d be sweating in about ten minutes, he’d understand why I don’t need to mess with a coat tonight.

  “I’m from Minnesota, this isn’t that cold,” I say lightly.

  Which is true. Compared to Minnesota right now, Dallas is practically tropical.

  We step up to the sweeping entrance, and I’m surrounded by all kinds of people. I know this party is for everyone in the Demons organization, from ticket sales staff to players to the vice president of operations. Live jazz music floats through the air, and once I step inside, I’m greeted with soaring foyers and opulent marble floors. Servers walk around with trays of champagne and wine. There’s a coat check to my left, and I see a lavish buffet set up across the long hallway, complete with carving stations. The mansion is completely decked out for the holiday, too, with exquisite Christmas décor everywhere.

  The halls are crowded with people celebrating as far as the eye can see.

  So. Many. People.

  I might set a new record for world’s worst panic attack.

  People are talking and laughing around me. Drinks are being poured. A group is dancing across the marble floor in the living room at the end of the hall.

  And I am frozen in place.

  “Would you like a drink?” JP asks me.

  My throat is going dry. Oh, shit. Shit. Symptom number one is already kicking in.

  “Um, would you excuse me?” I say, realizing I’m about to hit complete panic very soon.

  “Sure, of course,” JP says. “I’ll see you later.”

  As I turn away, I see a group of players’ wives and girlfriends. They’re all gorgeous. Talking, laughing, being fun.

  Do I even know how to be fun?

  Doubt riddles me. I see a familiar face from Instagram. Her name is Lauren, and she’s dating the goalie. She has a modeling contract with a huge agency. I’ve seen her in magazine ads. She’s wearing a killer short dress that shows off her long, gazelle-like legs. Next to her, I see Kenley with Nate, laughing and talking with Niko, the Dallas Demons producer, and his girlfriend Lexi.

  They aren’t freaking out about what other people think. They aren’t feeling their chests grow tight in fear.

  Why can’t I be normal? I know I’m being irrational.

  But I’m powerless to stop it.

  Sweat. Now I feel sweat.

  The walls are already closing in, faster than usual. I need to regroup. I need air. My eyes dart around the room, like a secret agent looking for an escape.

  I see it. A huge row of French doors that I know lead outdoors. I head to them on instinct. I’ll find a terrace or garden or pool on the other side. Some place where there won’t be
as many people, I know that.

  Sweat is starting to drip down my back. I’m burning up. I feel like I might pass out.

  I weave through the mass of people, feeling lucky that very few of the guests know who I am and I can retreat undetected. I reach the door handle and pop it open, greeted by a whoosh of cold air as I step into the dark Dallas night. I find myself on a terrace overlooking a lush manicured garden, illuminated by strategically placed lights.

  I shut the door behind me and draw a deep breath of air. I’m shaking now. Every symptom is in play except for the eye twitch, which is going to happen any second. I fight back tears. I will not let my social anxiety be seen by anyone. Nobody is here. I can collect myself. Then, when I’m calm, I can return to the party, talk to the people I need to talk to, and go home.

  Shame fills me. Nobody can know about my problem. Nobody would understand. People will think I’m insane.

  But out here I’m alone.

  My anxiety is my secret.

  I’m safe.

  “Holly?”

  I drop my clutch.

  I know that Midwestern-accented voice.

  I find Matt Rhinelander emerging from the corner of the terrace, his blue eyes locked directly on mine.

  Chapter 2

  Oh no. No. Of all the people in the world I don’t want to see right now, Matt is at the top of the list.

  “Are you okay?” Matt asks, concern evident in his vivid blue eyes, the ones the same shade as the deep end of a swimming pool.

  And that’s how I feel, I realize with a jolt. Like I’m in the deep end of a pool, about to go under.

  And he’s the last person I want to see me drown.

  “Hey,” I manage to get out, forcing a smile on my face. “What are you doing out here?”

  Shit. The last part of the sentence came out in a squeak because my throat is dry.

  Matt moves across the patio until he’s standing in front of me. Oh God. His eyes are still locked on me, and I fear he’s seeing everything I’ve never wanted him to see. I begin to tremble as I watch him furrow his brow, as if he’s trying to figure out what the hell is wrong with me.

  “Holly, what’s going on?” he asks quickly. “You’re shaking.”

  “Nothing!” I say, stepping back from him. I take a breath, desperate to draw more air into my lungs so I can speak without sounding like Minnie Mouse. “I just need a minute alone.”

  “You’re cold,” Matt says, ignoring my comment.

  “I’m not,” I insist.

  Matt whips off his black suit jacket, revealing a crisp white dress shirt that hugs his body. He moves closer and gently drapes his jacket over me in a protective way.

  I freeze as soon as the fabric hits my bare arms. I’m in his designer jacket, the luxurious material covering my skin, the scent of his cologne lingering on it.

  “Let me take you inside,” he says.

  “No! I can’t!” I gasp, my panic hitting full force. I retreat from him and put my hand out. “No. I won’t go in there. I can’t. I can’t.”

  Breathing is getting harder. I take a breath, and then another, and now I’m gasping for air.

  I’m having a full-blown attack now.

  Matt’s face is one of complete alarm. He thinks I’m sick. Well, I am, but not in the way he’s thinking.

  “I’m getting help,” Matt says urgently. “The team doctor is in there. I’ll find him. And Nate.”

  “No,” I gasp in horror. “No!”

  “Holly, you can’t breathe,” Matt yells, his own eyes showing fear.

  “It’s panic!” I blurt out. “I’m having an attack!”

  Matt freezes.

  Sweat begins to pour off me. I’ve never told anyone about these attacks.

  And now I’ve told Matt.

  I stumble backward, still fighting for air, but wanting to flee.

  Matt grabs my hand, and his face blurs in front of my eyes as tears pool.

  “Don’t feel sorry for me,” I say between breaths. “Please go.”

  “You need to sit down,” Matt says simply, as if I’ve told him I want pizza for dinner or something.

  He takes my hand in his, leading me down the steps of the patio and into the gardens. We follow a path surrounded by huge boxwood bushes, and Matt sets me down on a stone bench.

  “Deep breaths,” Matt says softly as he kneels down in front of me. He places his hands gently over mine and begins rubbing them. “It’s just us. You and me. Nobody can see us here.”

  Tears stream down my face as my attack continues.

  “I want you to think only about breathing,” Matt says as he continues to rub my hands. “Okay?”

  I nod.

  The attack continues, and I know from experience it will last a while longer, but Matt doesn’t move. He stays down in front of me, holding my hands, encouraging me to take breaths.

  Finally, after what seems like an eternity, I begin to feel panic slip away.

  As calm begins to come over me, I realize the impact of what has happened.

  I’ve fallen apart in front of Matt.

  And he knows my deepest secret.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, fresh tears filling my eyes. I take my hands out of his, and as soon as I do, it hits me that he was holding them throughout the whole attack.

  Without a word, Matt gets up and sits beside me on the stone bench.

  “What happened?” he asks, his words hanging in the frozen air between us.

  I shift my gaze down to my lap. I wring my hands. I already miss the calming presence his touch provided.

  “I have social anxiety,” I say in a whisper.

  “You?” Matt asks, surprise etched in his voice. “But how? Holly, I’ve seen you at parties before. You seemed fine.”

  “I wasn’t.” I turn to him, and his face is blurry through my tears. “I’m good with small groups of people I know well. Over the years, I’ve figured out ways to manage it. Go early before things get crowded. Leave after I see the key people. But I was so out of my element tonight, Matt.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Matt, come on,” I say. “I’m Nate’s little sister. I don’t belong here.”

  “You belong here as much as anyone else does.”

  “You’re wrong,” I say as the tears continue.

  “I’m not.”

  “You’re saying that to be nice, and while I appreciate your kindness, I know the truth.”

  “You obviously don’t,” Matt counters, his blue eyes holding steady on me. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Please don’t say things like that,” I plead. “You don’t have to pity me, Matt.”

  “Why can’t I be glad you’re here?”

  “Right. I’m sure you came to a New Year’s Eve party going, ‘Now, if only I could spend the evening watching Holly have a full-blown panic attack, that would be fun!’”

  “You know, you’re not very good at listening,” Matt says. “But I am glad you’re here, whether you want to believe it or not.”

  A silence falls between us, and now that my body is calming down, I become aware of how cold it is. How the stone bench is freezing to sit on. And how Matt must be chilled without his suit jacket.

  “You should go back inside,” I say softly. “It’s freezing out here.”

  “I’m from Wisconsin, I’m fine,” Matt says. “And I’m not going back inside unless you go with me.”

  “No, I’m not ready,” I say.

  “Then we stay out here.”

  “But you’re missing the party,” I insist. “Trust me, I know how un-fun I am. Please go back inside, get a cocktail, and have fun.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, I can go to a party
and not get shitfaced,” Matt says, his voice taking on an edge. “I can have fun without drinking.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Didn’t you imply it?”

  “No. You put that on yourself.”

  “We’re not talking about me right now,” Matt says, trying to redirect me.

  “Oh, I think we are,” I challenge. “And what you think I meant by what I said. You were wrong, by the way.”

  “Come on. I know what most people think of me,” he says. “And while most people think I’ll party anywhere, do you think I’d get drunk at the owner of the Dallas Demons’ house? The man who signs my checks? I’m not drinking at all tonight.”

  “No, but there is Harrison’s after party later,” I say, grinning at him to let him know I’m teasing. “That’s where you can get your drink on.”

  “Ha, nice,” Matt counters, flashing me a smile that lights up his handsome face.

  Ohhhhhhhhh. That smile. It’s the first time I’ve seen it tonight and every time Matt smiles at me, I have the same reaction. My skin gets goose bumps, and my heart flutters inside my chest.

  I take a moment to really see him for the first time tonight, with a clear head. His blond hair has amazing curls, ones I long to loop through my fingers. He’s studying me with those vivid, deep-blue eyes, his sexy full lips curved up into a heartbreaker smile.

  Yes. I’m a writer. I know heartbreaker smile is incredibly cliché and I should do better than that.

  But that’s exactly what it is.

  And all I can do is stare because Matt is a heartbreaker. He parties and he moves from girl to girl.

  The exact opposite of what I want for a boyfriend.

  Boyfriend and Matt don’t belong in the same sentence.

  And like he’d want me anyway? The girl who can’t handle parties and prefers to write fantasy novels instead? Or re-read Harry Potter in her favorite Ravenclaw T-shirt and yoga pants? Who is more comfortable with an Earl Grey latte than booze?