Felix sets his mug down a little too hard, ceramic clinking against stone. “Fine by me.”
Liam's expression shifts somewhere between amusement and challenge. "I guess I could use the warm-up."
* * *
The glass breezeway to our rink stretches out ahead.
Felix leads with that restless bounce in his stride like he’s already halfway through warm-ups in his head. Liam walks in the middle, hands in his pockets, gaze skimming the snow piled against the glass.
I bring up the rear, watching them both.
At the end of the breezeway, the double doors sit closed, the rink beyond them dark.
Felix reaches for the handle, pauses for a second like he’s bracing himself, then shoves one door open.
The lights roar on in segments, banks of LEDs humming to life overhead, and the rink comes alive. First the boards, then the glass, and finally the ice itself.
Home.
Chapter four
Naomi
Well, damn.
The chalet doesn’t just sit on the mountain; it owns it. Timber beams, stacked stone, wide stretches of dark glass… it looks like a private luxury resort.
I ease the SUV into their driveway and kill the engine.
For a second I stay there, hands on the wheel, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror to make sure I look presentable. "Okay," I murmur. "Let's get ready for a fight."
I grab my handbag from the passenger seat and step out. Cold immediately bites at my face, my breath fogging in front of me as I crunch over the stone path toward the front door.
I press the doorbell.
Somewhere inside, a chime echoes.
I wait. Count to fifteen.
Nothing.
I press it again, longer this time. The same chime, the same silence after.
My watch says 4:00 p.m. on the dot. They know I’m coming. Mia texted. These alphas might be many things, but ill-informed shouldn't be one of them.
Okay, I didn’t fly across the country to end up ghosted and frozen.
I step off the front stoop and follow the shoveled path that curves along the side of the house. Through the trees, I catch glimpses of glass… a breezeway connecting the chalet to another structure. The path gives way to packed snow where the shovel work got lazy, and I pick my way carefully until a low building comes into view. It has an arched roof and dark wood siding.
The rink.
I move closer, hugging the exterior wall, looking for a way to see inside. My boots crunch softly in the snow, and after a moment, I hear the faint scrape of blades on ice.
I finally find a window, and peer through.
On the other side, three players carve across the ice, passing a puck between them. The tallest, 71 on his jersey, has broad shoulders, dark hair, and a frame that could put someone straight through the boards.
That must be Silas Reed. Captain. Center.
