One Night With My Unknown Mr. Hockey

Caleb POV:

My head ached, but it was a dull, familiar throb from too much whiskey, not the sharp, cutting pain that usually woke me from nightmares.

For the first time in five years, I had slept. Deeply.

Stranger still, my skin didn't itch. My throat didn't close. No rash. No shortness of breath.

A woman. I remembered a woman. A warm, soft body pressed against mine. I had touched a woman, held her through the night, and I was fine.

It was impossible. How could this be? I should be allergic to all women.

I sat up in bed. The space beside me was empty. The sheets were cold, but the air still held a faint, sweet scent. Vanilla and sugar. Like a bakery.

I rose to my feet, my body feeling unaccountably relaxed, and searched the entire suite. She had left no trace. No note. No forgotten clothes.

Except…

I frowned. On the carpet beside the sofa, something small and silver glinted. I picked it up. A delicate earring, shaped like a crescent moon and a star.

I closed my fist around it, and a fragmented image flashed in my mind: a pair of wide, frightened green eyes. Like a startled deer.

Five years. It had been five years since it happened. Since then, any physical contact with a woman had sent my body into a violent, psychosomatic rejection. Healers, specialists, none of it helped.

Who was this woman? Why was I unaffected by her touch?

I grabbed my phone and dialed my agent.

"Tristan, I need you to find someone for me," I said, my voice rough with sleep and whiskey.

"A woman. Last night, at the St. Regis, the penthouse. Pull up all the hotel security footage. I want to know who she is. Whatever it costs."

"Yes, Mr. Kensington," Tristan replied, his voice as calm and unquestioning as ever.

I walked into the bathroom and stared at my reflection. The old scar above my left eyebrow, and the one along the side of my neck, were clear reminders of the sport's brutality. But the deeper scars, the ones no one could see, were the ones that truly ruled my life.

This woman… she might be the cure. The cure for my mind.

I had to find her.

After my shower, I pulled on my training gear. My body felt light and strong. I found myself actually looking forward to practice.

I had barely arrived at the training facility when Tristan called back. His tone was strained, which was unusual.

"Mr. Kensington, there's something… about your wife."

I frowned. Wife. Right. Chloe Miller. The woman I had signed a two-year contract with, just to get my mother off my back about settling down.

"What about her? She signed the divorce papers, didn't she?" I said impatiently.

Tristan paused. "She just called me. She claims… your mother went to her apartment this morning. She found a man's shirt, accused Miss Miller of infidelity, and publicly humiliated her."

I blinked, then a surge of annoyance rose in me. My mother was meddling again.

"A man's shirt?" I let out a short, humorless laugh. "So she really is sleeping around. Tell her to handle her own mess and keep me out of it."

I hung up and dismissed it. A soon-to-be ex-wife who only cared about money was a distraction. Finding the woman from last night was my mission.

I threw myself into practice, the familiar burn in my muscles a welcome distraction from the strange restlessness in my chest.

When I returned to my penthouse, Tristan was waiting for me, his expression grim.

"Mr. Kensington, the hotel security logs… there was a thirty-minute gap in the system after your arrival last night. No footage."

My chest tightened. "And when she left?"

"Only a blurry image. A figure in a hoodie. No identifiable features," he said, handing me a tablet.

The only lead, gone. I tossed the tablet onto the sofa in frustration.

"However," Tristan continued, his tone careful, "we cross-referenced the guest list from the party you attended. And… I just spoke with your mother about this as well. The shirt found in Miss Miller's apartment is currently in her possession. Based on the brand and the size…"

He paused, choosing his words.

"Get to the point, Tristan."

"That shirt," he said quietly, "was a custom order. Made for you. Last month. One of a kind."

I slowly lifted my head and stared at him, my mind going blank.