Page 49 of The Nanny Goal

I find her elbow pads next.

“You can go get dressed.”

I glance down at her little legs, clad only in black yoga pants. “Shin guards…”

She grabs them from me. “If you try to dress me, I’m taking these very expensive skates and going to the nearest public arena.”

A knock at the door saves us both from testing that boundary.

“Arty, are you in—” One of our rookies, Malik Zondi, steps inside. His dark brown face lights up with a bright white smile. “Emery?”

“Hey, buddy!” She steps past me and almost throws herself at him—What the fuck?—ready to give him an enthusiastic hug, when she stops at the last second when she realizes he’s in a red no-contact jersey. “What happened?”

He laughs and pulls her into his arms.

My jealous reaction is immediate, visceral and intense.

I’ve never so clearly understood the English idiom for seeing red before. It’s not only the jersey, but the air shimmering around them as they embrace as well.

I clap Zondi on his shoulder that I know is still tender—hence the no-contact jersey and him staying home from the road trip to work with the trainers—and I push them apart.

“How do you two know each other?” I ask as I bodily move Emery back to the counter where I was getting her ready for the ice.

Zondi ignores the distance I put between them and leans in, giving Emery a look I recognize.

It’s a look I gave her two years ago.

There’s no fucking way.

“We spent a week together at Rusty’s cottage last summer,” he says, and the pit of my stomach burns.

“With like, half your team,” Emery adds, rolling her eyes at him. “And I wasRusty’sguest.”

Zondi winks. “Yeah, but that wasn’t serious. How doyouknow our Emery?”

Now there’s blood rushing through my ears so loud I can’t think, let alone find the words in English to convey that it doesn’t fucking matter what happenedlastsummer.

Emery is Rusty’s ex-girlfriend that Zondi saw in the stands two nights ago. The one he has exchanged messages with.

Emery.

My Emery.

“We go way back,” I snap at the same time as she cheerily tells him, “I’m his temporary babysitter.”

I give him my back and grab the jersey off the counter that I’d set aside for her. It’s one of our practice jerseys. Not one of mine, it’s a regular jersey cut, but the equipment guys put my name on it anyway. And Emery notices that just before I put it over her head, muffling her protest.

Once her head pops free, she glares at me.

“This is the second Alexei Artyomov jersey I’ve put on against my better judgement this week,” she mutters, her chin extra pointy.

The urge to take her face in my hands and kiss her so hard she bites me is nearly overwhelming.

“I’m going to start getting them tailored into chef coats,” she adds. “Maybe Inessa wants to paint in them, too?”

And that’s the dump of ice water my possessive instincts needed.

“Be my guest,” I snap. “I’ll be on the ice in ten minutes.”

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