"Yeah?" Becker puffs his chest out. "I literally fight people on ice for a living."
"That's not even—" Marcus stops, recalibrates, probably counting to ten in his head. "You play hockey. You don't fight for a living."
"Tell that to my penalty minutes."
They're chest to chest now, both over six feet of pure stubborn male ego, and the entire bar has noticed. Conversations are dying down. People are turning to watch. Someone's definitely filming this.
Petrov appears next to me, also watching. "Is good entertainment."
"Better than Netfllix," I agree.
Ace materializes at my other elbow, because apparently everyone's abandoning their posts to watch this unfold.
"Should I stop them?" I ask.
Ace's eyes do this thing—this slow, deliberate drag from my face down to my feet and back up again. There's a little smirk playing at his lips, one eyebrow's raised, and he looks so fucking smug. "You sure are confident."
I squint. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing." The smirk gets bigger, and I want to bite it off his face. "I guess being short has its disadvantages."
Oh.
Oh, he wants to play? Well, game on then.
I turn to face him fully, leaning one hip against the bar, making sure I have his complete and total attention. I let my eyes go half-lidded, slow and deliberate. "Oh, trust me. I'm the perfect size."
The change in Ace's face is fucking spectacular.
His smirk drops.
His eyes go wide.
His mouth opens slightly.
And then—oh, this is beautiful—his entire face goes bright red. Not just his cheeks. His whole face. His ears. His neck. It's like watching a stoplight change.
"That's not—" He stops, swallows. "I meant—"
I'm grinning now, fully committed, enjoying every second of his flustered panic. "For breaking up fights." I pause, let it hang there. "What did you think I meant?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again like a fish drowning in air.
These hockey players are way too stiff, and not in the fun way. Someone needs to teach them how to loosen up, and apparently that someone is me.
Also, Ace is hot when he's flustered. Sue me.
Finally, Ace laughs. "You're absolutely batshit crazy."
"Keep telling yourself that, hockey boy."
The fight's still happening in the background, Becker and Marcus now arguing about custody arrangements while Parker tries to mediate and Hendrix continues to look thrilled about the whole situation.
Eventually they work it out. The firefighters get Hendrix for twenty-four hours, Becker gets unlimited visiting rights, and everyone's honor remains intact. Marcus picks up Hendrix, who goes willingly, and Parker grabs the travel cage from behind the bar.
"We'll take good care of him," Parker promises.
Becker looks like he's about to cry. "He likes his water room temperature. And he needs at least six hours of attention per day. And—"
