Page 6 of On Thin Ice

Oscar “Caveman” Cavanaugh grinned and reached out, knocking his fist against Miller’s in an easy show of camaraderie.

Miller smirked, tossing a quick comment back—something that made Stryker shake his head, eyes bright with amusement. And then, without a moment of hesitation, he reached out and squeezed the back of Miller’s neck, jostling him playfully before letting go. Just a quick, friendly touch. Nothing anyone else would think twice about.

ButIdid, because I wouldneverdo that.

Not to a teammate, not to a friend, not to anyone unless I absolutely had to.

And yet Stryker moved like it was nothing. Like he had never once second-guessed himself, never worried how someone might perceive him.

Never wondered if the way he stood, the way he spoke, the way he touched would betray him.

God, I hated how easy it was for this guy.

Hated that he could be exactly who he was without apology.

And yet, as much as I hated him, I stilllooked.

Still fucking noticed every fucking thing about him.

The broad shoulders. The thick, muscular frame. The sharp cut of his jaw, half hidden behind soft, pale scruff he didn’t normally wear, and the wild mess of blond hair that practically begged to be wrapped around my fist as I?—

No.

No.

I cemented my mind against the thought, against the sick twist of guilt in my gut that came every time I let myself want him.

Let myself obsess over him.

Over the summer, I’d spent hours tracking down interviews, replaying hockey clips, and scrolling through his social media accounts until my phone battery forced me to take a break.

And now I knew things about the guy that I had no business knowing. Things I told myself were just part of doing my job—learning about my new teammate and understanding his style.

And all that studying, that obsessing? It had surprised me.

For all the fans Stryker had, there were many folks who dismissed him as nothing more than a pretty face with fast reflexes. They saw his sometimes rambling book reviews, the way he bounced from thought to thought, the near-constant movement of his hands when he spoke, and decided he was just another dumb jock.

But they weren’t looking closely enough.

If they had, they would have seen the way his eyes sharpened in interviews when the conversation shifted away from his personal life to the sport he’d devoted his entire life to. Or the way he sidestepped reporters with humor whenever they tried to pin him down on a topic that wasn’t strictly about hockey. His critics never gave him credit for his meticulous breakdowns of defensive systems in post-game interviews or the way he remembered tiny details about the fans he interacted with.

I could see it happening here, too.

The way he held court, his charm seeming to mask something lingering just beneath the surface.

Outwardly, he moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly who he was and precisely what people expected him to be.

But there was something that seemed almost calculated about his interactions, about the way he made each of his teammates feel like the center of his attention while revealing virtually nothing of himself.

I recognized it because I’d spent years perfecting the same skill. But while I hid in the shadows, Stryker somehow managed to hide in plain sight.

And fuck if I didn’t find that sexy, too.

As if my thoughts had summoned him, he swiveled his head to look my way, his grin widening when our eyes connected. Patting Miller on the shoulder, he broke away and strode across the room, his right hand extended in greeting. “Ethan Harrison, Stryker Bell. So great to finally meet you.”

I hesitated just long enough for his confident smile to falter before reaching out to grasp his hand. There was an edge of challenge in the way his fingers tightened that instantly put me on the defensive, sparks of adrenaline firing through my veins.

“Likewise. Welcome to the team,” I answered, trying to keep my tone neutral even as my pulse quickened at the contact.

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