Page 3 of Ice-Cold Truth

Holding his gaze, I raise the spoon to my slightly parted lips. The melted ice cream drips down the curved metal surface. Slowly, deliberately, I wrap my lips around the spoon, savoring the sweet, creamy flavor on my tongue.

Jack’s eyes blaze. I hear his breath hitch and see him swallow as he watches me intently. The air between us grows charged, like the heavy stillness before a storm.

I lower the spoon, licking the remnants of ice cream from my lips. “Mmm, delicious,” I murmur, my voice a throaty purr. “But I think I’d like to try something new…”

Jack’s eyes darken as I trail off, his gaze locked on my mouth. He takes a step closer, the air between us charged with an electric tension. The broad expanse of his chest rises and falls with each measured breath.

“Something new, huh?” His deep voice sends a shiver down my spine. “I might be able to help with that.”

Boldly, he plucks the spoon from my fingers and sets it aside. His palm skims along the bare skin of my arm, leaving a trail of delicious heat in its wake. I suck in a sharp breath as he steps even nearer, his muscular frame towering over me.

“What did you have in mind?” I ask, tilting my chin to meet his stormy gaze.

The corner of Jack’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “Let’s start with this.”

He reaches for the blender, pouring a generous amount of the thick green smoothie into a glass. Holding my gaze, he brings it to his lips and takes a long, slow sip. I watch, transfixed, with each swallow.

When he’s drained the glass, Jack sets it aside and licks his lips deliberately. “Your turn.”

My heart thunders in my chest as he offers me the blender pitcher. Tentatively, I raise it to my mouth and take a sip of the cool, creamy concoction. The flavors explode across my tongue—tart berries, crisp apples, and a hint of ginger.

“Good, right?” Jack’s voice is a low rumble.

I nod, unable to find my words as his intense stare pins me in place. Emboldened, I take another long pull straight from the pitcher, the sweet liquid sliding down my throat.

His eyes darken further, his jaw tightening as he watches me drink. When I finally lower the pitcher, he plucks it from my grasp and sets it aside.

“You’ve got a little…” His thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, swiping away a stray droplet.

The touch ignites sparks low in my belly. On impulse, I dart out my tongue, catching his thumb and tasting the tangy smoothie on his skin.

He groans before asking, “More?”

“I don’t know,” I say, my voice taking on a sultry lilt. “This seems to be doing the trick for me.”

His fingers tighten fractionally on my hip, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. We’re treading into dangerous territory now, the air thick with unspoken promises.

Just then, the sound of a key in the lock breaks the spell. Jack steps back, raking a hand through his tousled hair as Sam strides in, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“Hey guys, what’s—” Sam stops short, brow creasing as he takes in the charged atmosphere. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all,” says Jack, grabbing his smoothie. He shoots me one last glance before brushing past Sam. “I was just heading out for my evening run. See you later.”

He disappears down the hall, leaving me flushed and flustered, clutching my half-melted ice cream. Sam arches a questioning brow, but I just shake my head. This is going to be a disaster.

Chapter 2: Jack

The puck slices across the ice as I take a shot on goal. My stick makes solid contact, the carbon fiber shaft vibrating in my hands from the force. The puck rockets toward the net, but the opposing goalie is ready. With feline reflexes, he shifts his bulky frame and deflects it away with his blocker.

Frustration surges through me, my competitive drive burning hot. I clench my jaw, nostrils flaring as I inhale the crisp, recycled arena air. My skates churn up shavings of ice as I pivot, already scanning for the next opportunity.

Sam circles behind me, his presence a reassurance. We’ve played together for years, our chemistry honed to an instinctive level. A subtle shift in his stance is all the signal I need. I read his intent and break toward the net, cutting a path through the defensive tangle.

The opposing players converge, bodies slamming together with the percussive crack of fiberglass. Sticks clatter and blades screech, the sounds of warfare echoing through the rink. I bracefor impact, using my size to fend off the hits, shrugging them aside like raindrops.

Sam’s pass finds me in a sliver of open space. The puck arrives with a sharp thwack against my blade. In one fluid motion, I corral it, wind up, and unleash a blistering slapshot. The puck blurs past the screened goalie, clanging off the crossbar and ricocheting into the net.

A roar of approval rises from the bench as my teammates celebrate, but the thrill of scoring is short-lived. A burning ache lances through my shoulder, the familiar pain flaring with each movement. I grit my teeth, refusing to show weakness.

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