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My stomach drops before he says another word.

"It's worse than last season, Miles. Fletcher's cut their wholesale order in half. Weekend visitors are down, and the ones who come spend less. And the resort contract money you're out there earning…" He hesitates. "It's already gone, man. Before it's even reached the accounts. Fuel, the loan payment, the baler repair. It'll cover the bleeding. It won't stop it."

I lean against the corridor wall and close my eyes.

"Maybe people just don't love Christmas as much as they used to," Will offers, going for a joke like we always do to soothe the pain.

I open my eyes and look through the windows.

Below me, thousands of lights glow across the Christmas Market. Families carry wrapped gifts and fresh wreaths between the huts, kids line up for sleigh rides, and every chalet on the mountain is booked solid because people are paying obscene money to live inside a perfect Christmas bubble.

"No," I say quietly. "I don't think that's the problem."

I don't know what the problem is yet.

But it isn't Christmas.

"Look, don't stress," Will says. "We'll hold it together here. Your job is to play hockey, look enormous on camera, and bring home the Wildcard money. Honestly, it's about time one of us got paid for being oversized and good at handling his own stick."

I laugh and shake my head. "How long you been saving that one?"

"Since you left. Now go celebrate. You earned it."

We say goodbye and I stand in the corridor with the phone heavy in my hand.

I always knew this tournament isn't a vacation.

I need the prize money. I need the scouts to notice me. I need one last contract big enough to buy the farm more than a few desperate months.

That's why I cannot afford to be distracted by a runaway bride, no matter how perfect she tastes.

I head back inside the locker room, but the second I reach my stall again, the door bursts open. Audrey walks through it carrying her tablet, still buried in that coat, and my entire internal lecture dissolves on contact.

Her cheeks are flushed pink, blonde hair escaping from beneath her knit hat in soft waves. The coat hugs her curves in all the right places, and I can see just enough of her legs beneath the hem to make my mouth go dry.

Christ. Even bundled up like she's preparing for arctic survival, she's the most tempting thing I've ever seen.

The memory of her taste floods back…sweet, warm, addictive.

The way she melted against me in that supply closet, the little sounds she made when I pressed her against the wall, how her fingers dug into my shoulders like she couldn't get close enough.

Fuck. I'm supposed to be thinking about the farm. About the money. About keeping my head in the game.

But Audrey's in the room.

So apparently, nothing else matters.

"Congratulations, Wildcards!" she announces to the room. "You won one hockey game and somehow avoided creating an international incident. Lunch is waiting upstairs, and I expect every single person wearing a red jersey to attend."

"Is there beer?" Baxter calls.

"There are jugs of beer already on the tables."

I have never seen professional athletes move faster.

Seriously.

Coach Dave leads the evacuation, Nate drags a still-flustered Eden along by the sleeve, and I can't help but laugh when Aidan pulls on a shirt that is very clearly Baxter's and very clearly backwards.