1
IVY
An Eyeful of Manhood
The Metro Raptors’ training facility looms ahead like a testosterone museum. The place for men who dream about skating on ice, smacking each other, and flipping a freaking six-ounce puck around two hundred by eighty-five feet.
I stand in the lobby, clutching my worn leather messenger bag like it's a shield. Everything here gleams: polished floors, trophy cases, even the receptionist’s smile as she waves me through security. This place is built to worship men who chase rubber discs for millions of dollars.
My phone buzzes. Sloane.
“Do you even understand what this means?” she squeals through the phone. “You're stepping into a tower of million-dollar abs. Actual living, breathing, sculpted legends, and you get to study them!”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. I duck into a side hallway, lowering my voice.
“They’re hockey players, Sloane. Not Greek statues carved by lust.”
“Oh, please.” There's a rustling sound, probably her flipping through a magazine she pretends to read. “Half of them are glorious lust wrapped in muscles. Just promise me you'll get me one. Preferably tall, rich, and stupid.”
“That's oddly specific.”
“Just my type. I don’t follow sports. I barely know what hockey is. Do they use a ball or that flat disk thing?” She chuckles. “But I can’t be picky about where a good-looking, loving man comes from.”
I roll my eyes. “They use a puck. And you’re hopeless.”
“I’m selectively educated. Sports equals waste of brain cells. I’d rather see a good movie.”
A sigh sneaks past tight lips. The Raptors’ logo glints from every surface; a predator mid-strike, all sharp edges and frozen glory. Somewhere in this building, my brother Marcus is probably grinding his teeth at the thought of his younger sister invading his sacred man-space.
“Marcus already hates this,” I mutter, adjusting my bag. “He thinks I'll embarrass him or... I don't know, get body-checked into next week.”
“Then don't embarrass him. Seduce one of his teammates instead.”
“Sloane!”
“What? Call it research. You're just... gathering empirical data.” She pauses. “But seriously, Ivy. Remember why you’re there. You’re Dr. Ivy Chandler, not Marcus Chandler's littlesister. You've got groundbreaking research that is going to change how teams handle concussions. Focus on that.”
“I know, I know. That's exactly what I'm trying to do.”
“Good. Now go be brilliant. I've got to get back before Dr. O'Connell realizes I'm not actually in the bathroom.”
The call ends, and I'm left standing in the hallway with my racing thoughts.
I've deliberately avoided hockey for as long as I can remember. While Marcus moved from the shining high school star to building his NHL career, becoming the golden boy who could do no wrong, I buried myself in academics. Undergrad at sixteen. Masters at twenty-two. Doctorate at twenty-six.
Now, my research is going to revolutionize how professional teams identify and manage concussion risks before permanent damage occurs. If I'm right—and I am—teams will be able to intervene earlier, potentially saving careers and lives.
The hallway narrows as I venture deeper into the facility. Framed photos of championship celebrations, game-winning goals, and men who look like they were sculpted by someone with very specific fantasies line the walls. My sneakers squeak against the tiles with each nervous step.
A left turn, then another. The sign reads: Recovery and Rehabilitation wing. Perfect. Dr. James Logan is supposed to meet me here at nine a.m. sharp to give me a tour of the facility and introduce me to the training staff. I check my watch. It's eight fifty-seven a.m. Early, as always.
But the hallway is empty. Just the soft thump of bass-heavy music drifting from one of the therapy rooms.
I hesitate. Maybe Dr. Logan stepped into one of these rooms? The music grows louder as I approach a door and knock.
A voice answers. Deep. Lazy. Dangerous.
“Come in,” it drawls.
