Page 2 of The Breaking Point

Not that anyone would care. I’d been around hockey my entire life. But I also hadn’t been around much in the past four years since I’d been away at college.

I wasn’t that naive little teenager who’d left. I was a woman now. And I knew that I had to grab life by the horns if I wanted to achieve anything of value.

I yawned, closed my laptop, and decided to call it a day. It was already past five o’clock. But I needed to take a few photos first before I went home.

One of my ideas had been to give an inside look at the team’s locker room. Okay, yes, it didn’t sound that exciting, but die-hard fans like Kelly loved that kind of stuff.

I went downstairs to where the locker rooms were and listened. I didn’t hear any voices, so everyone had likely already gone home. I knocked on the locker room door, then called, “Anyone inside?”

No answer. Shrugging, I pushed the door wide open and started taking pictures.

I was so immersed in taking photos that when a man stepped into the view of my phone, I nearly threw it straight at his head.

That was when I realized the man was naked. Wet, dripping, and naked.

I froze. And then I wanted to die right then and there because the man was none other than Brady Carmichael.

LA Blades defenseman. Playboy. Sex magnet. And my childhood crush, whom I’d never actually gotten over.

“What the hell?” Brady exclaimed. Then his eyes widened, recognition filling his expression. “Holy shit, Grace? Is that you?”

It was too late to run. Besides, I was frozen to the spot.

Brady Carmichael was a magnificent specimen of a man: his entire body was delineated with muscles. From his pectorals to his biceps to his abs to his—

I forced myself to look away. Because he was naked, and his dick was right there. And it was just as impressive as the rest of him.

He laughed. Laughed!

“What, you come in here to take dirty photos and then get shy? Come on now,” he teased.

I blushed so hot that I was sure my face was on fire. “I didn’t think anyone was in here,” I squeaked out.

Brady just stood there, arms crossed, not a care in the world. And then when he started to walk toward me, I did the only thing I could: I ran.

Sprinting toward the door, Brady shouted after me. I hurried to the elevator, but to my immense annoyance, it was too slow. He caught up to me and grabbed my arm.

“Hey, wait!” Brady said.

His skin was still damp, water dripping from his hair. But now he at least had some sweatpants on, even if those pants onlyemphasized the delicious V-cut of his hip bones. I forced myself to look anywhere but at him.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I really didn’t think anyone was in there.”

Brady let me go—I could still feel his touch like a brand—and he chuckled. “Oh, I believe you. Everybody knows Grace Dallas follows the rules.”

I wanted to scowl. I wanted to tell him he was wrong, but he wasn’t. I was a good girl. I’d never done anything to upset the apple cart. I did as my parents wanted. I’d never even gotten drunk in college.

In other words, I’d always been too much of a Goody Two-shoes for a man like Brady.

“Hey, come on.” Brady held out his arms. “A hug for old times’ sake?”

I hesitated, but I wasn’t made of stone. I let him give me a hug even though he got my shirt damp in the process.

“I didn’t know you were back,” he said.

“I got an internship with the team.”

His eyes widened. “Since when?”

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