Page 65 of Conrad

Nothing. Not even a muscle moved in his jaw.

“I mean, I get that—you were nearly pancaked. So yeah, just breathe.”

“Thanks, doc.”

But he didn’t follow with a smile, soouch.

“I used to have them, and my therapist said to focus on something?—”

He held up a hand.

Right.

She turned on the car, then upped the heat. Watched the game.

The Ice Hawks clearly scored, because their sticks went into the air and they huddled up, hitting one of the players on the helmet in congratulations.

“We’re ahead.”

“Mm-hmm,” he said, and she glanced over. His eyes were open, watching the game, wearing almost a fierce expression.

And she was right back in her father’s study, hearing Conrad’s low—pained?—voice.“What date?”

She’d barely stopped herself from crying the entire wretched ride home.

Especially since after he walked out, she spotted his full glass of whiskey on a side table, untouched, soway to jump to conclusions, Pep. And not that she would care—but . . .

Maybe he hadn’t been trying to wheedle into her world, earn her father’s favor.

But she didn’t know how to say that. Maybe the cold front turning him into a dark and grumpy Roy Kent version of King Con was for the best.

The last thing she needed was to fall for a guy whose world was sports. Conrad was all hockey, all the time, pro or otherwise. He hadn’t even noticed her when she arrived at the rink.

Good thing he’d noticed the toddler, however. “That was brave—what you did.”

He glanced at her. “It required no bravery, Penelope. Just instinct, and maybe a little familiarity with ice and Zambonis. I was in the right place at the right time?—”

“With the right skills.”

“Sliding. Hardly a skill.”

“How did you know that Zamboni wasn’t going to be able to stop?”

He capped the bottle. “Physics. It’s putting down fresh ice, which is slippery, and even going as slow as it was, it was going to slide. Ice, big machinery . . . not hard math.”

A muscle pulled on his jaw, however, as he looked away.

The man had a tell.

“That’s not all. What am I missing here?”

A beat. He sighed. Looked back at the game. “I saw a Zamboni accident, years ago. The machine slid and pinned a guy to the boards. Crushed his leg. He eventually lost it.”

“That’s awful.”

“Yeah, it was. Young guy. Had a kid—one year old. He was in the hospital, then rehab for months.” He shook his head, swallowed. Glanced at her. “Actually, you met his son Jeremy at the gala.”

She frowned, trying to recollect. “The Ice Hawks kid.”

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