Page 2 of Pucking Daddy

He sits. The space between us suddenly feels charged, like the air before a storm. He smells like cedar and something sharper—stress, maybe. Exhaustion. I recognize it because I wear it myself often enough.

"Rough night?" I ask, nodding toward the whiskey Dolly places in front of him.

"You could say that." He doesn't elaborate, just wraps long fingers around the glass and stares at the amber liquid like it holds answers.

On screen, the hockey game shifts to a replay. A player in a Raptors jersey scores, and the announcer's voice pitches up with excitement. "Morrison with the game-winner! Jake Morrison cements the victory—"

The stranger’s attention snaps to the TV. A muscle flickers in his jaw, his expression otherwise unreadable.

“You a fan?” I ask.

“Something like that.” He takes a drink, then sets the glass down. “You?”

“Honestly? I can barely tell which direction they’re supposed to skate. Also, isn’t everyone missing half their teeth?”

A quiet laugh slips out of him.

Before he can answer, I press on. “Anyway, I prefer my men fully dentally equipped.”

His gaze drops to my mouth.

Slow. Deliberate.

My pulse stutters.

“Good to know,” he murmurs.

Oh.

I try to play it cool, like his tone doesn’t land low in my belly.

I gesture at the screen with my beer. “Why is that guy sitting alone in a little glass box? Is that a time-out? Do grown men get time-outs?”

The ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Penalty box. He cross-checked someone."

"Cross-checking sounds violent."

“It is.” He turns to face me fully, and God, his eyes are intense. Not just blue—they’re focused in a way that makes me want to shift under it. Or lean closer. Or both.

“You’re really not a hockey fan.”

“I’m really not. I’m more of a ‘watch people bake stressful cakes on television’ kind of girl.” I extend my hand. “Zara.”

He hesitates for just a beat before taking it.

His palm is warm, calloused, rough in a way that absolutely does not belong to a man who looks this put-together. My skin prickles at the contact, like my body clocked him as dangerous before my brain could catch up.

“Jax.”

“Just Jax?”

“Just Jax,” he affirms.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jax.” I grin at him. There’s no harm in a little flirting, right? It’s my last night here anyway. I’ll never see this man again.

“Likewise, Zara,” he says.

There’s something in his voice—low, almost amused, like he knows exactly what I’m doing and is choosing not to call me on it.