“Because you look like trouble.”
His gaze drags over my face, my throat, my hips.
“And this team already has too much of that.”
I swallow.“Are you telling me not to do my job?”
“No,” he says quietly.“I’m telling you to be careful.”
It’s protective.
Almost intimate.
And annoyingly magnetic.
Before I can respond, the rink erupts in noise—shouts, the crack of bodies slamming into boards.
Kael curses under his breath and grabs his gear.
“Welcome to Boston,” he murmurs as he passes me, voice brushing my ear like a touch.“Try not to get yourself hurt.”
***
Practice is pure chaos.
Ice flying.Bodies crashing.Players growling at each other like wolves fighting over a carcass.
And Boston fans think hockey is a religion?Being down here is like walking into a cathedral where all the saints are sinners in disguise.
Finn is first to mess up.
He slides too hard into the post, slamming shoulder-first.He stands like nothing happened, but when he skates past me, I catch the tightness in his jaw.
“Finn!”I call.“Off the ice!”
He pretends not to hear, so I march over and grab his jersey.
His breath catches—just slightly.
“I said off the ice,” I repeat.
“You like grabbing me, Harper?”Finn asks, low and wicked.
“If I liked grabbing you, I’d hold tighter.”
He smirks like that just became his new religion.
But when he sits on the bench, he winces, then tries to hide it.
I press my fingers gently against his shoulder.His breath stutters again—this time from pain.
“You’re strained,” I say.
“I’m fine.”
“You will be, after treatment.That’s not a suggestion.”
He looks at me differently then.Not cocky.Not flirty.
