“Can you help me?” she says, taking a seat.
I stare at her. Has she never lifted a finger to do anything in her life? She’s like a helpless little fawn, staring up at me with big brown eyes.
“Ryan tied my skates extra tight. I need help loosening the laces, so it doesn’t hurt when I pull them off.”
“Are you going to ask me to carry you next?” I say.
“Are you offering?”
“Fuck no,” I scoff.
“Just help me take the goddamn skates off,” she says.
She’s got a mouth on her, talking to me like I’m some sort of butler boy and not team captain for a half a billion dollar franchise. That’s going to change.
“Ask me nicely,” I suggest.
“Please help me take the fucking skates off,” she replies, giving me two middle fingers and a death glare instead.
“You’re beyond help,” I say.
Her dark eyes are pointed daggers, and a sense of satisfaction fills me. I’m not usually one to poke sleeping bears, as we say back home, but I want to make her hate it here.
“Untie my skates, Falkenberg, or I’ll have my father make LeBlanc team captain.”
I don’t want to give her the victory of getting a rise out of me, but I can’t keep the withering look off my face. LeBlanc may be on the younger side and full of himself, but he’s currently our top-scoring forward and likely to give me a run for my money once he matures a little. Maybe she knows more about the Monarchs than I thought.
Gritting my teeth, I concede, if only in the interest of time and because I don’t want to miss the entirety of my first practice because of her. I squat down in front of her and take the boot of her uninjured foot in my hands. With her leg extended, I notice the toned length of her calf and thigh, the way her leg meets the round curve of her ass. My eyes linger a moment too long, and I force myself to think of baseball, my mormor’s smörgåstårta recipe and other mind-numbing shit before my blood has the chance to rush south.
Clearing my throat, I don’t look up at her as I say, “So the princess has done her homework.”
She wasn’t lying, her cameraman really did lace these skates up tightly—and incorrectly, I might add. It takes me too long to undo the first knot.
“Princess?”
My fingers still. I’m not sure why, but I feel caught, like someone’s walked in on me jerking off.
I glance up. “Aren’t you?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “You don’t know what my life’s like.”
I shrug and resume undoing her skates, carefully sliding one boot off. I toss it to the side, then start on the other.
“Let me know if I’m hurting you,” I say absently.
The second set of laces takes more time to undo, and though I don’t look at her again, I can feel her watching me. Once I’ve got everything untied, I gingerly peel the boot off, making sure to not twist her ankle more in the process. She’s wearing socks, but I’ve rolled my ankle enough times to know it’s probably swelling already.
“You should invest in a decent pair of skates if you’re going to be on the ice with us. Rentals are duller than butter knives.” I don’t know why I’m giving her tips when I’ve made it my mission to make her fail, but it slips out anyway.
“Roger that, Captain.”
I give her a wry look.
“What? Mockery works both ways. Besides, ‘Captain’ is charitable compared to the things I’ve called you in my head.”
My skin prickles. She’s called me things in her head.
“Such as?”
