Page 122 of Break the Ice
“Fuck, I love that little giggle you do. It makes me so fucking hard.”
“Laughing. Stretching. Walking around my office. Murdering my creep of an ex. It seems like everything I do makes you hard.”
“You finally get it.” He nips at my throat, his hunger suddenly ravenous and overwhelming.
Flashbacks of last night blink in and out of my mind’s eye. Everything from the gruesome scene in the den to the bodies we’d buried deep in the woods.
We can’t relax just yet.
“We should talk about last night. From an official standpoint.”
“There’s nothing left to talk about,” he says, skimming fingers down my hips to my bare thighs. His featherlight touch is a contradiction to the roughness of last night. But it makes me shudder just the same. “You’re mine, Sugar. We did what we had to do to survive. My father wasn’t going to get off our backs. He wanted you to go down for everything.”
“But Seattle PD?—”
“You heard Mitch. We have enough evidence to point at my father. He’ll take the fall.”
“And the press?—”
“Never has to know all the gritty details. Those are for just me and you. A secret we’ll take to our graves.”
I twist around in his arms, peering up at his handsome, cocky face. “Then we have to get our story straight. We can spin this in our favor. Your father had one thing right—the masses love a good tragedy. If we play this situation right, we can generate more attention to the Wolves than the team’s ever had before. Rafe, you’ll be the face of the NHL more than you already were.”
He grins broadly at me, then presses his lips to mine. “After all the shit they put us through, we came out on top.” He releases me from his hold only to grab onto my hand and pull me in the direction of his hallway. “Let’s go take a shower. Then I’m taking you out for a day in the city. We need to let loose.”
I smile as he tugs me along with him.
For once, trusting in the man who holds my hand and the future we’ll have together.
32. Rafe
Marisse March is the best PR consultant in the world of sports. A fact I refused to admit from the moment I set eyes on her gorgeous face and tight little curvy body. But in the coming weeks, for once, I eat my words. I’ve got to hand it to Sugar—she’s damn good at what she does.
After all that’s happened, everything’s a giant dumpster fire of chaos.
The team’s under the microscope like never before as the tragedies and scandals are picked up by more than just the sports world. The greater media and public sphere cover what’s happened nonstop. It’s not unusual to see the Wolves trending on social media or for the country’s biggest news stations to be running new details about the situation.
We stick to the story we pieced together.
My father was behind what happened to Hawk. An old rivalry that had been given fresh life when Dad wasn’t able to let the past go and decided to act out of revenge.
The police investigation intensifies. I’m forced to give several statements under the advisement of not just Marisse but my attorney. Mitch comes through like he usually does with the evidence he’s planted and the paper trail left behind making sure Dad takes the fall.
Blackman’s even roped in. Easy enough considering his history with Dad and Hawk goes just as far back. In the end, the scandal looks like a pissing contest between three men long past their prime.
For once, I’m painted as a saint in the eyes of the public—the talented, albeit troubled, hockey star who was caught up in a decades-old feud between rivals.
Once the closets are opened, all the skeletons come tumbling out. Dad’s questionable behavior when he was in the league is discussed and dissected from every angle. Hawk doesn’t escape unscathed—as weeks go by and everybody on social media’s got an opinion, some feel like he brought it upon himself. They use his dirty business dealings and numerous sexual assault allegations as proof.
The longtime rumors about his cheating, scheming ways throughout his pro hockey career.
I don’t defend either of them. As far as I’m concerned, they both can burn in hell.
Dad made his choices. So did Hawk.
Now I’m making mine.
“How’re you holding up, Alpha?” Coach Oates yells out in a corridor at our training facility. He’s in his signature windbreaker jacket clutching his travel coffee mug. If possible, his walrus mustache has grown even thicker in the last few days since I’ve seen him. He comes up from behind and claps a hand to my back. “We understand if you need more time away. You’re our biggest asset, but you’ve been through too much of a kerfuffle these past few weeks to go about business as usual.”
