Page 1 of Power Play

ONE

PIPER

If one more man tells meI need to smile, I’m going to deck him square in the jaw and not give a damn about the repercussions.

I grumble about the audacity of the male species as I walk down the hallway of United Airlines Arena, home of the DC Stars hockey team, with a stride as determined as my five-foot-two frame can muster.

The team is deservedly off after a hard practice yesterday afternoon, and the building is quiet without their yelling and joking around. I savor the rare silence, knowing in thirty hours when we play against one of our biggest rivals, this place is going to be a madhouse.

The tension I’ve been holding onto all morning melts away when I push open the door to the athletic trainers’ area and collapse in a chair.

“I hate men,” I call out to Lexi Armstrong, one of my best friends and the head Stars trainer. “Can we eliminate them from the face of the earth? I’m thinking an aggressive strain of the man flu. That would knock them all out, and life would be infinitely better.”

“Well,” a deep voice says, and I jump a foot in the air. “This is awkward.”

I glance across the room. Liam Sullivan, our goalie, is lying shirtless on a medical table.

A towel is draped over his lower half. The white scrap of terrycloth looks indecently small on his six-foot-three body, and my eyes can’t help but drift to the tattoos I had no clue he had.

There are a pair of sparrows and intricate flowers on his ribcage. Fern leaves on his forearms. Artwork that’s so unexpected, so hot, it’s almost pornographic.

I squeak when I realize I’ve been staring and cover my eyes.

“Oh, my god. Sorry. I didn’t know you’d be here, let alone be here andnaked,” I say.

“Hello, Piper.”

“Hi. Yeah. I’m going to go. You’re… there. And I’m not supposed to be here when your dick is almost on display. Totally unprofessional.”

“I have a towel.”

“That thing is like a sock.”

“I appreciate the flattery.”

I peek between my fingers and find him smirking at me. I huff and lower my hands, staring over his shoulder and not at his body laid out like some Greek god in waiting.

“I was here to see Lexi, but clearly she’s busy.”

“Ice,” he says, pointing to the door to his left.

“Did she say how long she’d be gone?”

“No.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Hamstring.”

“Why are you shirtless?”

“Because my whole body hurts and I’m trying to make it feel better.”

“Did the hamstring injury happen in the game on Monday?”

“I love the Twenty Questions game.” He throws an arm over his face, and I can tell he’s exasperated with me. Then again, he’s always exasperated with everyone. “It’s been acting up for a week. Shitty way to start the season.”

I hum in agreement, like I know what it’s like to be a hockey player with sore muscles. He lifts his leg and grips the back of his thigh, grunting out a noise that sounds like a tractor starting.

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