Page 20 of Power Play with My Brother's Irish Friends

Coach had given her a small space that barely held the desk, a single filing cabinet, and three chairs. A cardboard box sat in the corner, the edge of a picture frame poking out the top. I recognized her and Austin, though the city skyline behind them remained unfamiliar.

“Any concerns?” She kept her distance, but I felt her gaze on me and raised my head to meet her eyes. The slate gray transformed to molten silver in an instant, reminding me of how she’d looked up at me last night in the throes of passion.

“I’m sorry for what happened last night.” The words rushed out of me. “I know my behavior needs to stop. That. Last night.” I ducked my head. “It won’t happen again.”

“I appreciate that, Duncan.” She cut my name into two sharp syllables that I expected to hold censure but were wrapped up in gentleness. “We all got a little carried away.” A bright smile illuminated her eyes. “Considering it didn’t end in a bar brawl, I think we can call it a success.”

“Really?” I tipped my head, watching her expression closely.

“Of course.” Her arms locked over her stomach again, and she perched on the edge of the desk. “We’ll keep it between us. How’s that sound? Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation.”

“I thought that was exactly what we were doing.” I held up a hand. “Not what I meant. Changing my reputation. Making me more presentable to the US populace.”

“Well said.” She stood and paced, her steps quick and short in the small office. “I’m not trying to change you, Duncan. You understand that, right? People love a morally gray character in books, and a bad boy in real life. But we have to be careful how we curate your image going forward.”

“I understand.” And I did. I came from a different country, and I had to assimilate to what that meant. “I’m on board with whatever you need me to do. Just keep me in the game. I’m grateful for your help.” I meant it. Coach would not keep putting up with my antics. I had to change, to do whatever it took to keep skates on my feet and a stick in my hands. I lived for hockey, had since I put on my first pair of skates. Losing it was like losing my identity. At thirty-one years old, my days on a professional team were drawing to a close. I’d already outskated the careers of all the men I started with. No way I’d let myself get thrown out of the game on a technicality.

“Stick with me.” She thumbed her chest. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I’m counting on it.” I tucked my gloves under my left elbow and clamped them against my ribs.

“We’ll get started soon, but I wanted to check with you this morning to make sure we were still on the same page.” A strand of dark hair escaped her braid and trailed across her cheek.

I remembered the feel of it between my hands, the way the silky strands haloed around her head on the couch.

“To be perfectly clear, our relationship will remain platonic. We work together. Nothing more.” Her words snapped me from my reverie.

I had no choice but to agree. “Absolutely.” I held out a hand.

Small, delicate fingers snagged on the roughened calluses that dimpled my palms. The touch sparked deep inside me, fighting against the cage where I stored my feelings, slamming a battering ram against the bars in a desperate attempt to gain freedom. My fingers curled around hers, and her breathing hitched. We remained locked in that hold far longer than a handshake, my head and my heart battling for dominance. The urge to kiss her bombarded me, to feel her lips on mine and enjoy the way she melted with a touch.

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