“Bullshit.” His carved features were schooled in careful impassivity. “My team’s still finding their feet with the new lineup. If the knuckleheads on the Board of Governors pulled their heads out of their deskbound asses for two seconds, they’d see...” He froze, realizing what he had done. Two lines etched his high forehead. Two more between his arrogant brows. Cracks in the stony veneer.
“Mmm-hmm. Knuckleheads... and deskbound asses—now, there’s a turn of phrase.” Neve licked her lips in slow triumph. “I’m afraid their rebuttal won’t be nearly as flowery.”
Shadows haunted his high cheekbones, the angles sharp and unforgiving, inherited from whatever Viking ancestor also bestowed that thick blond hair. It didn’t take much imagination to picture Tor Gunnar’s doppelgänger plundering hapless Scandinavian villages during the Dark Ages. He looked warlike even when standing still and breathing.
And yet...
And yet.
She didn’t step back in retreat. He couldn’t take a full step forward either, not when she was still squished against him. The only feature not absolutely brutal in his face was his wide mouth, the bold, sensual lips that hovered close to hers as he bent and whispered in a rasp, “What the fuck do you want?” His breath held a trace of wintergreen.
She was ready to dish back a serving of sass, except no plucky banter came out. Only a moan, one that hitched raggedly on the end note and carried a heavy dose of breathlessness.
Her brain stuttered, unable to get back in gear. What was she doing, standing here dazed and confused, thinking less about getting a scoop and more on what it would be like ifhescoopedherup? Hauled her against the brick wall behind them. Tore open her shirt and sucked her nipples through the thin cotton of her bra with those big mean lips?
His gaze lasered on hers in stunned surprise, as if he’d been granted security clearance to review her most confidential fantasies. A hum buzzed through her stomach. No gentle fluttering of butterflies, but a hive of bees, and it wasn’t clear if they were about to sting or make sweet, sweet honey.
Somewhere a door slammed and voices filled the night. The press pool rounded the corner. The best and brightest had finally pieced together what she had deduced two minutes earlier.
Tor was making a getaway.
Her face heated; thank God it was night. She moved back, but her gestures were awkward, clumsy even. Restless energy coursed through her. In the distance a siren wailed.
“Shit,” Tor muttered.
Her colleagues gaped, their eyes still adjusting to the darkness.
“What’s going on?” Todd’s nose had gone red from the biting November wind. He’d invited Neve out for drinks once. When she’d turned him down, he’d inquired if she was a lesbian, as if that was the only plausible explanation.
“Nothing.” Tor strode towards his car.
“Didn't look like nothing a second ago,” Todd kept pushing. “What gives? You two have a thing?”
“Yeah. Right.” His laugh was dismissive. “Sorry, not into cold fish. If I got off on a dick freeze, I’d fuck a penguin.” With that he shot off without so much as a backward glance.
Neve didn't flinch. Later she was going to be proud of that fact. Instead she pursed her mouth into what might appear to be mild amusement. She could nail this look better than those double salchows from her figure skating days. No, she didn't give a single sign that Coach’s words sliced through her softest, most sensitive pieces.
Cold fish. Cold fish? Cold fish! Hell no, she was a red-hot barracuda of revenge.
His Porsche roared to life, mirroring the blood accelerating through her veins. She watched him tear from the parking lot with steely-eyed resolve. Freedom of speech was all well and good, but Mr. Fuck-a-Penguin had issued serious fighting words.
This meant war.
Language could be wielded like a weapon; she knew that better than anyone, and with the lockout in place, she was going to have to get more creative with her story ideas. Readers, and her pain-in-the butt editor—Scott Moore—loved top-five lists. She mentally rubbed her hands together as she selected the perfect clickbait title to pitch:
Top Five Worst Coaches in the NHL
Guess who’d just earned himself a primo spot?
Chapter Four
Tor stalked into his foyer and kicked the front door closed behind him. He bypassed the couch and flat-screen in favor of the kitchen, where he opened the liquor cabinet and removed a dusty bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label. He didn’t drink much, but when the urge struck then he didn’t mess around.
The new leopard gecko that his daughter Olive had suckered him into buying sat on a log under its aquarium heat lamp. He checked its water. His ten-year-old daughter hadn’t been able to decide on a suitable name before her mother had picked her up and so it was stuck nameless until her return.
“What was I supposed to say?” he asked the lizard.
The gecko stared back, eyes wide, body unmoving.
