“I disagree. I earn my living playing games.”
She breathes out a quiet sigh, her expensive floral scent swirling around me. Roses, maybe?
“I know. You don’t have a serious cell in your body.”
I straighten, squaring up my shoulders. “Not true. Shows how little you know about me. I take hockey extremely seriously.”
“Great. Go out there and prove it.” She spins around and heads down the hallway, stilettos clicking loudly on the concrete.
Challenge accepted.
And I hope she fucking watches every single second.
The locker room door swings open behind me, loud male voices echoing off the cinder block walls.
“Steele! Let’s go.” Morrison shoves my shoulder, propelling me forward, and I move with the crowd toward the ice.
Coach Keller waits for us at the bench gate, clipboard in hand, scowling. Like he’s already pissed off and we haven’t started practice yet.
“Let’s go—warm up!” He shouts the command, arms folded across his dark blue Coastal Crushers sweatshirt.
I hustle over to the bench, sliding the guards off my skates. Every muscle in my body twitches, ready for action. Typically, practice isn’t my favorite — I much prefer games.
But today, I have something to prove.
I earned my spot on this team—and I’ll be damned if I’m about to lose it because of some stupid made-up rules.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Tori taking a first-row seat behind the glass near the gate. Her posture perfect, expression neutral. As if she’s a casual observer, not my own personal parole officer. Phone in hand, she’s tapping away. Probably trying to explain the pj incident to her fancy-pants client.
“Sometime today, Puck Bunny.” Weston nudges me offthe bench and I give my arms a quick shake, expelling a few nerves.
We take a couple quick laps, then Coach motions us to the boards near the blue line.
“Breakout to shot flow. D to winger, winger to center, center wide, take the shot. Got it?”
Heads nod and we get into formation. I’m first line, to the right of Weston, with Morrison on his left. The puck hits the ice, Coach blows the whistle, and we’re off the line, the snick of blades against the ice filling the air. Ford slices the puck to me and I smack it over to Weston. Gliding toward the net, Weston makes contact and the puck flies toward Vic. Head down, Vic takes the shot and Callum stops it with his glove.
“Next!” Coach barks as we circle back, the second line already running the drill.
We run through the breakout flow two more times and now I’m good and warm, sweat beading at my hairline. I sneak a quick peek behind the glass and catch Tori’s eyes on me.
Super. Let her watch.
“Heard Prince got you a babysitter, Steele.” Morrison swivels his stick, smirking. “At least she’s hot.”
“She’s not my babysitter, asshole.” I shove down the bubbling annoyance at both my teammate and my current situation. “And I hadn’t noticed.”
“Really? You haven’t clocked her? That’s out of character for you.”
“Shut the fuck up, Morrison,” I growl, grinding my molars. “That’s the owner’s daughter you’re talking about.”
“I’ll give Prince credit — he gave you a problem youactually want.” Morrison snickers and I tighten the grip on my stick so hard my knuckles crack.
“Again!” Coach blows his whistle, breaking the tension between us. I slap at the puck, shooting it over to Weston.
Morrison’s wrong. The Ice Queen is not a problem I want.
Even if I did like catching her off-guard in her pjs this morning. And am sort of looking forward to testing her boundaries, seeing just how far I can push her.
