I arch a brow.“I’m Wren Harper, your new athletic trainer and rehabilitation specialist.”
A few of the guys look disappointed I’m not strutting in wearing lingerie.
A few look like they wish I was.
A few look like they're imagining it anyway.
And then he steps out.
Kael Mercer.
Captain.Defenseman.Boston legend.
Tall, bare-chested, towel slung low on his hips, droplets of water sliding down his torso like they’re being pulled by gravity and a higher power.Chest carved.Shoulders wide.Jaw sharp enough to cut glass.And those eyes—ice-gray, assessing, dangerous in the way a loaded gun on the coffee table is dangerous.
He freezes when he sees me.
Not long.
Just enough.
His gaze skims my face.My throat.My chest.The line of my waist.Not sleazy.Not lingering.Just...thorough.Like he’s cataloguing things he shouldn’t be noticing.
“You’re early,” he says, voice low and gravelly.
“Should I be late?”I ask.
His eyes flicker with something—interest or irritation, hard to tell.
Before he can respond, another body slides into view.
Tall.Lean.Smirking like he sins recreationally.
Finn Rourke.
Goalie.Darling of Boston’s sports media.Tattoo on his ribcage peeking over the edge of a towel like it’s flirting too.
He looks me up and down without shame.
“Well damn,” he purrs, “if I knew our new trainer was going to look likethat, I would’ve sprained something last week.”
I blink.“Give it ten minutes.You still might.”
He grins, wicked and beautiful.“Promise?”
A deep scoff echoes from behind him.
And thenAtlas Wardappears.
The Reapers’ enforcer.
The league’s favorite hooligan.
Tattooed from throat to wrist, muscles stacked on muscles, expression carved from violence and boredom.
He looks at me like I’m a new problem he didn’t ask for.
“Great,” Atlas mutters.“A kid.”
