I scan the rink, hunting for the tattooed menace I’ve been assigned to wrangle.
Then it happens.
Bryce Blackhorn shoots down the ice like he owns physics, stops on a dime near the boards, and lifts his helmet off with one hand. His jersey clings to shoulders made of stone and questionable decisions. His eyes sweep the rink with the bored intensity of a man who could ruin your life and not lose a minute of sleep.
Oh no.
He hops over the boards in one smooth motion. Effortless. Powerful. A little too graceful for someone with his disciplinary file.
He walks right past me without noticing. Then he stops.
He turns. Slowly.
His gaze locks on me like he’s trying to decide if I’m real.
Great. Now I’m being inspected by a walking PR crisis.
Bryce grips the hem of his jersey and lifts it over his head. My brain short-circuits. He drops it on the bench and grabs a towel, dragging it across a very shirtless, very glistening torso.
“Nope,” I whisper to myself. “Absolutely not. I am not attracted to chaos wrapped in muscle.”
He tilts his head. “You’re new.”
“I’m your new problem,” I reply before my mouth can think better of it.
A slow, amused smile curves across his face. One of his teammates skates by and calls, “Good luck with him, princess!”
Bryce steps closer. Close enough that I can see a faint scar near his collarbone and the wicked amusement in his eyes. He looks at me like I’m interesting. Like I’m a puzzle he wants to take apart.
I straighten, pretending I’m immune.
He isn’t buying it. His smile turns lazy, sinful, confident.
“Name?” he asks, like I’m checking in for an appointment with trouble.
“Annabelle Hacker,” I say. “Executive Operations.”
His brows lift. “Owner’s daughter.”
“Very observant.”
“So why are you my ‘problem,’ Annabelle Hacker?”
“Because my father assigned me to keep an eye on you.” I lift my chin, trying not to notice that he smells like winter and sin. “Apparently you need supervision.”
He laughs under his breath. “Do I?”
“That’s what I’ve been told.”
“So, you’re here to babysit me?”
“Think of it more like… professional oversight.”
“That sounds like babysitting.” He leans in a little, studying my face, amused and infuriatingly confident. “You don’t look like a babysitter.”
“And you don’t look like someone who needs one,” I say. “But here we are.”
He studies me like he’s trying to figure out which part of me is bluffing.
