The Speech

I was mid-sentence when he walked in, and I forgot every word I'd ever learned.

The Denver Avalanche annual welcome dinner was my event. My speech. My perfectly rehearsed talking points about team culture, playoff expectations, and the honor of wearing our colors. I'd given versions of this speech for five years, starting when I was twenty-two and my father thought it would be "good experience."

Now I was VP of Operations and the speech was actually mine, not just borrowed gravitas from the Ashworth name.

"and as we head into this season, we're not just building a team. We're building a legacy that..."

The ballroom doors opened.

Every head turned. Mine included.

He moved like he was already on the ice, economical, purposeful, aware of exactly how much space he occupied. Tall. Lean but powerful in a way that suggested coiled energy rather than bulk. Sandy blond hair that looked like he'd run his hands through it one too many times. And when he looked toward the front of the room, toward me, I registered pale blue irises. Glacier blue. The kind of color you'd remember whether you wanted to or not.

My mind went blank.

Three hundred people in this room. Team executives, coaching staff, players, sponsors, media. And I was standing at the podium with my mouth slightly open, staring at Mika Virtanen like I'd never seen a Finnish hockey player before.

I'd seen plenty. Dozens. None of them had ever wiped a rehearsed speech clean out of my head.

"that will define this franchise for years to come," I heard myself finish, though the words had apparently handled themselves.

He found an empty seat near the back, folding his long frame into the chair with an apologetic gesture to the people around him. Late flight, probably. Helsinki to Denver wasn't exactly a quick commute.

Focus, Blair.

I looked down at my notes. The words blurred and rearranged themselves into nonsense. I was supposed to talk about something. Statistics, probably. I always had statistics.

"The expectations are high," I continued, finding my rhythm again. "We finished last season four points out of a wild card spot. That's not failure, that's proximity. And proximity to success is just another word for opportunity."

Better. That was better. I didn't look at the back of the room.

I finished the speech without further incident, handed off to Coach Brennan for his welcome remarks, and retreated to the corner where Sarah Chen was waiting with two glasses of champagne and an expression that said she'd noticed everything.

"Smooth recovery," she said, handing me a glass. "Only three people noticed you blue-screened."

"I did not blue-screen."

"You absolutely blue-screened. What happened?"

I sipped the champagne. "Delayed flight arrival. Threw off my timing."

Sarah followed my gaze to where Mika Virtanen was now being introduced to the coaching staff. He shook hands with his left hand extended slightly forward, the way Europeans sometimes did when they weren't sure of the American protocol. Someone made him laugh, a quiet sound, barely visible from across the room, and his whole face changed.

"Ah," Sarah said.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You said 'ah.' That's saying something."

"It's saying that I understand why you forgot your speech." She tilted her glass toward him. "That's Virtanen, right? The Finnish acquisition?"

"Twenty-six. Played in Liiga until last year. Led the league in assists for three consecutive seasons. We paid thirty-two million over four years." I recited the stats like a defense mechanism. Which they were. "He's projected to center our second line."

"Uh-huh. And his eyes? Did you get the stats on those?"

I didn't dignify that with a response.

The dinner proceeded the way these things always did. Networking. Small talk. Everyone being very careful around me because I was Richard Ashworth's daughter, and therefore either someone to impress or someone to avoid. I made the rounds, shook hands, asked after families and injuries and off-season training regimens. I smiled until my face hurt.

And I watched him.

I couldn't help it. He moved through the room differently than the other players, less swagger, more observation. He listened more than he talked. When someone spoke to him, he gave them his complete attention, head tilted slightly, like every word mattered.

My father found me near the dessert table, reviewing the event timeline on my phone while pretending to consider the crème brûlée.

"Good speech," he said.

"Thanks."

"Little hiccup in the middle there."

"Late arrival." I didn't specify.

"Come meet him properly." My father put his hand on my shoulder, steering me toward the cluster of people around our newest acquisition. "Virtanen. Good kid. Quiet, which is a nice change from the Brodys and Petrovs of the world."

I wanted to say that I didn't need to meet him. That I'd already met him, in the way that your body meets a cold lake. Total immersion, no warning. That getting closer was probably the worst idea I'd had all year.

Instead I said, "Sure."

Mika was talking to Anders Lindqvist, our Swedish defenseman, when we approached. They were speaking in what sounded like Swedish, Mika with a slight accent that suggested Finnish was his more natural fit. Anders saw us coming and straightened, nudging Mika.

He turned.

Up close, the ice-blue eyes were even worse. Not cold, that was the surprising part. There was warmth there, and curiosity, and something that might have been recognition.

"Mika," my father said, all owner-in-charge heartiness, "this is my daughter Blair. VP of Operations. She keeps this whole circus running."

"We have met," Mika said. His English was precise, careful. "The speech. You were speaking when I arrived." A pause. "I am sorry for the interruption."

"You didn't interrupt," I said. "You were just... punctual in your own way."

The corner of his mouth lifted. Not quite a smile. "Finnish punctual. Twenty minutes early or fashionably late. Nothing in between."

"I'll remember that for scheduling purposes."

My father had already turned to greet someone else, leaving us in a pocket of relative quiet. Anders had drifted toward the bar. For a moment, it was just the two of us, standing too close together in a crowded room.

"You are the owner's daughter," he said. Not a question.

"Among other things."

"They mentioned this in the briefing. That you run the operations." His brow furrowed slightly. "They did not mention the speech."

"It's a tradition. Welcome dinner, welcome speech. Nothing special."

"I disagree." His eyes stayed on mine. "The speech was very good. What I heard of it."

I should have said something professional. Thank you, or welcome to the team, or I hope you find Denver to your liking. Instead I said, "What part did you miss?"

"The beginning." That almost-smile again. "And the middle. And some of the end, I think."

"So basically all of it."

"Basically all of it," he agreed. "I was... distracted."

"By what?"

The question hung between us. Too forward. Too charged. I'd asked it anyway.

He didn't answer immediately. His eyes moved over my face like he was cataloging details, storing them for later reference. Then he said, quiet enough that I had to lean in to hear, "I think you already know."

My pulse tripped. I swallowed hard and hoped he hadn't noticed.

"Mr. Virtanen..."

"Mika."

"Mika." His name felt dangerous in my mouth. "I should go. There are... people to speak with. Networking. It's expected."

"Of course." He stepped back, creating a proper distance between us. Professional. Appropriate. "It was nice to meet you, Ms. Ashworth."

"Blair."

His smile finally broke through, small, private, meant only for me. "Blair."

I walked away, knees unreliable, smile locked in place. Made conversation with sponsors and coaches and PR people. Laughed at jokes I didn't hear. Checked my phone seventeen times for messages that weren't there.

And every time I looked up, he was watching.

Not obviously. Not in a way anyone else would notice. But I noticed. I noticed because I was watching too, and we kept catching each other looking, across the crowded room, again and again, like neither of us could help it.

The dinner ended. People filtered out. I stayed late because I always stayed late, because someone had to oversee the cleanup and the catering invoices and the hundred small details that made events run smoothly.

When the last stragglers left and the ballroom was mostly empty, I finally let myself breathe.

He was trouble.

I knew it the way you know a winter storm is coming, a gut-level certainty, the same way animals sense earthquakes. Mika Virtanen was the most expensive player on our roster, my father's prized acquisition, and the absolute last person I should be thinking about at 11 PM while folding abandoned programs.

I thought about him anyway.

The way he'd looked at me. The quiet certainty in his voice when he said he'd been distracted by the same thing I had.

Walk away, Blair.

I was very good at telling myself that.

I was getting worse at listening.