Page 146 of Evil Hearts

“You’re welcome, Fifi.”

“And tonight, we welcome the one and only… Pine Ridge Luuuuumberjaaaaaacks!”

It’s just a silly exhibition match for charity, part of Puck Con’s kick-off event. Even so, half of the hardcore fans from Pine Ridge drove all the way down to Hershey, PA, to watch our little minor league team kick butt. At least, I hope that’s what’s going to happen. The Devil Birds look like they’re ready for blood. It doesn’t help that their team is full of shifters. Pine Ridge’s teamis 90% human—although most of the world thinks it’s 100% human. Very few people can see supernatural creatures.

“Fro-Fro-Frobisher!!”

That’s me. I skate out and love that I see a wall of plaid and inflatable axes waving wildly. The Pine Ridge Lumberjacks have the best fans. A cry of “Timber!” rings in the icy arena.

“Yeeeesss, it’s Frozen Frobisher, everyone! Bryce Frobisher, number eleven, the enforcer who stands just over seven feet tall and weighs just under 300 pounds, hasmiraculouslymaintained his spot on the team for eight seasons!”

“And those Devil Birds better look out, because the Lumberjacks have won eighty percent of their games this season, and they’re hot favorites for the Calder Cup this year!”

“Well, not if the Hershey Bears or the Devil Birds have anything to say about it, Bob.”

I smile as the announcers prattle on while the teams do their introductory lap, waving and smiling at the thousands of hockey fans jammed in for Puck Con.

As I swerve on the fresh ice, my thick, silvery-white fur and yeti metabolism making the chilly air seem like a spring breeze, I’m almost blinded by a camera flash.

“What the—” I swallow my irritation. The world sees me as a big, hairy dude with white, shaggy hair and a beard that would make the entire population of Valhalla jealous, and that’s what the camera captures. It’s not that I mind having my photo snapped. I’m slated for some fan photos and headshots later.

No, the camera flash blinded me, but that’s not the real issue, either. It’s the woman behind the lens.

I think I just saw Fia Carvalho—also known as Miss Valentine or Miss February.

My taut limbs unravel like boiled spaghetti. She can’t be here. She went from a sexy bikini model and pin-up to a seriousphotographer. I follow all of her social media accounts. I’m a huge fan of her work—and her.

I have to be mistaken. There’s no way that beautiful Brazilian bombshell would be at something like Puck Con.

“Frobisher! Get in the game, dude!”

King Silverbow, my arrogant young Orc teammate, skates past me and bangs his stick angrily on the ice.

I snap to it with a growl, my lower jaw protruding as I let the primal side of my nature come out. Something that rips through walls of ice, scales snow mountains, hunts with bare hands, and knows the feel of blood in my fur.

Oh, yes. I’m a civilized monster—except when I’m on the ice. Then, my ancient lineage comes out to play, and I make it my job to stomp on anyone who hurts my pack like a snow leopard seizing a wild goat.

Normally, everything around me fades out when I’m on the ice, like when I’m home, hunting in the mountains. I normally hear cheers as white noise. I zero in on the other players’ pulses; the sounds of thudding hearts and heavy breathing guide me towards my “prey.” When plays are done and goals are scored, I tune back into the world, and the white noise becomes distinct once more.

This time, my senses narrow further. I am aware of one voice, one heartbeat, one lightning flash, a single moment playing over and over.

I’ve never found a mate in Pine Ridge, even though I moved there a long time ago—a long time for humans, not for my kind, who can live for centuries. I think I suddenly know why.

Her scent. Her voice, cheering. Her heartbeat racing, speeding up every time I go past…

The one I want as my mate isn’t in Pine Ridge.

She’s here. It’s Miss Valentine.

Chapter Two

After the goodwillexhibition game (which ended in a tie because of time constraints), I need to go back to my RV to quickly load my shots into my laptop so I have the maximum space allowed for the next events, which will be some of the players’ headshots, and then a fan meet and greet.

I know every other shot is of Bryce Frobisher, a ruthless giant on the ice. My heart flutters at the memory of snagging a close-up of his pale, sweating face under his shaggy mop of white hair as he pulled off his helmet.

He was like a frozen Viking, all beard and massive jaw, an adorably crooked smile when he saw me capturing yet another shot of him.

He handed me his towel with such a timid little gesture, as if uncertain that I would want it.

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